The first light of dawn crept through the curtains of Elizabeth's bedchamber, casting a pale glow over the room. She stirred, her eyelids fluttering open as the weight of the previous night's revelations pressed upon her chest like a stone. For a moment, she lay still, the faint chirping of birds outside her window a stark contrast to the turmoil within.
Her thoughts immediately turned to Mr. Darcy. Was he waiting for her in the breakfast room, his steady presence a balm to her frayed nerves? The thought propelled her from the bed, her fingers trembling slightly as she dressed in a rush, her dark curls hastily pinned into place.
As she entered the breakfast room, Elizabeth paused, her brow furrowing. The room was silent, save for the soft ticking of the mantel clock. The scent of coffee and toast lingered in the air, a ghostly reminder of Darcy's presence, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen. She moved to the table, running her fingers along the back of his empty chair, a sinking feeling settling in her stomach.
"Miss Bennet?" a maid curtsied in the doorway. "Mr. Darcy has left for the day. He asked me to convey his apologies for missing breakfast."
"Thank you," Elizabeth murmured, sinking into her seat. The room suddenly felt vast and empty, as if all the warmth had been leeched from the air. She poured herself a cup of tea, the familiar motions doing little to soothe her unease.
As the first bitter sip awakened her senses, her thoughts turned to Jane. The secret she carried pressed heavily upon her, a burden she longed to share with her beloved sister. Should she tell Jane? But what good would it do? Jane had the most to lose if Lydia were not found safely and quickly, was it fair to alarm her over something that may not come to pass.
"Elizabeth?" Jane's soft voice startled her from her reverie. She turned to see her sister standing in the doorway, her golden hair catching the morning light, her expression serene and unworried. Behind her, Georgiana hovered sleepily, her hands clasped neatly before her.
"Good morning," Elizabeth said, forcing a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "I hope I have not kept you waiting."
"Not at all," Jane replied, stepping gracefully into the room. "Georgiana and I have only just come down."
Elizabeth turned towards the table, her movements deliberate as she refreshed her cup of tea. The warmth of the cup in her hands was a small comfort, but it did little to ease the tension coiled in her chest. She took her seat, her gaze flickering between Jane and Georgiana as they settled themselves.
"Did you sleep well, Elizabeth?" Jane asked, her voice helping take the edge off of Elizabeth's anxiety.
"Well enough," Elizabeth replied, her tone light despite the heaviness in her heart. She stirred her tea absently, the spoon clinking softly against the delicate china. "And you, Georgiana? I trust your rest was undisturbed?"
Georgiana nodded, her cheeks tinged with pink. "Yes, very much so. I confess that these past several days have been so busy and exciting that I've never slept better."
Elizabeth smiled, though her thoughts remained elsewhere. She finished her tea, the earthy taste lingering on her tongue, as Jane and Georgiana began to discuss the day's plans.
Elizabeth nodded along, her smile fixed, even as her thoughts churned with the weight of the secret she carried. The facade of normalcy was a fragile thing, and she could only hope it would hold until Darcy returned with news. Until then, she would play her part, her heart heavy but her resolve unbroken.
The carriage rattled along the cobblestone streets, carrying the ladies towards the heart of London's fashionable district. Elizabeth gazed out the window, her mind still preoccupied, while Georgiana and Jane chatted amiably beside her.
As they stepped into the dressmaker's shop, a bell tinkled overhead, announcing their arrival. A petite Frenchwoman with shrewd eyes and nimble fingers, greeted them with a flurry of exclamations and air kisses.
"Ah, Mademoiselle Bennet! Your gown, it is a masterpiece!" She led Jane towards a raised platform, where a creation of ivory silk and delicate lace awaited.
Elizabeth's breath caught as her sister emerged from the fitting room, resplendent in the gown that would soon see her wed. The fabric seemed to float about her, ethereal and luminous, while the cut accentuated her gentle curves and graceful bearing.
"Jane," Elizabeth murmured, her eyes misty. "You look... radiant."
Georgiana clasped her hands together, her face alight with admiration. "Oh, Miss Bennet, you are a vision! Mr. Bingley will be quite speechless when he sees you."
Jane's cheeks flushed with pleasure, a soft smile playing about her lips. Yet, as her gaze met Elizabeth's, a flicker of concern passed over her features. "Lizzy, is everything alright? You seem... distracted today."
Elizabeth forced a bright smile, shaking her head. "It's nothing, Jane. I am simply overwhelmed by your beauty and the joy of this moment."
Jane's brow furrowed, unconvinced, but Georgiana interjected before she could press further.
"Ladies, I have a marvelous idea! Why don't we visit the milliner next door and select some ribbons for our bonnets? It would be such fun to have a matching set for the wedding."
Elizabeth seized upon the suggestion with gratitude, her heart lightening at the prospect of a diversion. "What a lovely thought, Georgiana. I'm sure we could all use a bit of frivolity today."
Meanwhile, in a dimly lit tavern on the outskirts of London, Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam sat across from a grave-faced Lieutenant Denny. The din of clinking glasses and raucous laughter faded into the background as Denny leaned forward, his voice low and urgent.
"I have traced Wickham and Miss Lydia as far as the Inn at Charing Cross. The landlord confirmed it—Wickham paid for a room under a false name, and the young lady with him matches Miss Lydia's description," he said, his fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the scarred tabletop.
Darcy's jaw tightened, his dark eyes fixed on the map in front of him as though he could will the markings to reveal more. "How long ago?"
"They left early yesterday morning; the landlord overheard Wickham mention Glasgow, but I am convinced they remain in the city. If they had headed North I would have caught their trail."
Darcy's jaw tightened, his eyes hard as flint."He is a practiced liar," his voice clipped. "We cannot afford to assume anything. We must find them, and quickly. The longer they remain undiscovered, the greater the risk of scandal."
Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Wickham is a creature of habit. He will seek out old haunts, old associates."
Denny produced a slip of paper from his coat pocket, sliding it across the table. "I've taken the liberty of jotting down a few former men of… questionable character with whom Wickham has had dealings in the past."
Darcy accepted the list, his sharp eyes scanning the names as his lips pressed into a thin, grim line. Without a word, he reached for his pen and added another name to the margin. "There's that innkeeper in Lambton—Thompson. He owed Wickham a favor some years ago." Darcy paused, tapping the table thoughtfully, "and a groom at the Meryton stables,a man called Cartwright. He was the sort Wickham might charm for assistance. Do you know him?"
Denny's brow furrowed, then his expression sharpened with recognition. "Cartwright… yes.. Always a bit too free with his loyalty for the price of a drink. It's entirely possible he could have helped Wickham in some way—or might still." He hesitated, then added, "there is also a Captain Harter, stationed in London now, but I know he and Wickham used to gamble together when we were all in Meryton. If Wickham's short on funds, Harter might be a source—or at least know where Wickham's gone."
Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated at the corner of the table with a measured air, nodded as he neatly copied the names onto his own sheet. His tone was calm, but the sharpness of his gaze betrayed his intent. "Cartwright, Thompson, Harper and everyone else on this list. We'll leave no stone unturned, no debt unpaid."
Darcy's hand tightened on the edge of the table as he considered their next steps. "We must divide our efforts. Fitzwilliam, take the northern route; speak with anyone in Lambton or Pemberley's employ who might still recall his debts or grievances. I'll handle the western trail and search further into his past acquaintances from Cambridge."
He turned sharply to Denny, who straightened under his gaze. "Harter and Cartwright are yours to investigate. Use whatever influence you have to determine whether Wickham sought them out—and whether they might know where Wickham is headed."
The three men rose from the table, a grim determination settled over them. The hunt was on, and they would not rest until Wickham was found.
As they stepped out into the bustling London street, Colonel Fitzwilliam placed a hand on Darcy's shoulder, drawing him aside. His expression was grave, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and determination.
"Darcy, a word, if I may," he said, his tone low and urgent.
Darcy turned to face his cousin, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. "What is it, Fitzwilliam? We haven't a moment to spare."
The colonel's gaze held steady, unflinching in the face of Darcy's agitation. "I understand the depth of your feelings for Miss Elizabeth, but I must caution you. This situation, if not handled with the utmost care, could bring ruin upon your family."
Darcy's eyes flashed with indignation, his voice rising in a barely contained fury. "You would have me abandon her, then? Leave her to face this scandal alone, for the sake of my own reputation?"
Fitzwilliam shook his head, his voice firm but not unkind. "I would have you consider the implications, not just for yourself, but for Georgiana. A scandal of this magnitude, and with this man..." his words trailed off knowing that he has said enough.
The mention of his sister's name seemed to deflate Darcy's anger, replaced by a wave of weariness. He ran a hand over his face, the weight of his responsibilities bearing down upon him.
"I cannot bear the thought of hurting Georgiana," he admitted, his voice raw with emotion. "But neither can I abandon Elizabeth. She is... everything to me."
The colonel's expression softened, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. "I know, Darcy, but we must be practical. Find Wickham, yes, but do so with discretion. Think carefully before you act, for all our sakes."
Darcy nodded, a grim resolve settling over his features. "I will do what I must, Fitzwilliam. But I will not lose her. Not for anything in this world."
With that, the two men parted ways, each determined to play their part in the desperate search for Wickham and Lydia. The fate of more than one family hung in the balance, and time was running short.
Not far from the tavern, the late morning sun filtered through the thin, yellowed curtains of a cramped hotel room, casting a pale glow on the tangle of discarded clothes and Lydia's half-packed trunk. She sat at the small vanity, humming softly to herself, brushing out her golden curls, and admiring the flush on her cheeks. Wickham, meanwhile, paced the room impatiently.
"Oh, George," Lydia chirped, turning to him with a playful smile, "how romantic it is! Eloping to Gretna Green! Just think of the look on Kitty's face when she finds out. How positively wicked of us!"
Wickham barely glanced at her, his focus fixed on the few crumpled banknotes in his hand. He folded and unfolded them, as though willing the sum to grow. "Yes, yes, romantic indeed," he muttered. "But there are practical matters to attend to first, Lydia. Business before pleasure, as they say."
Lydia pouted, spinning in her chair to face him. "What business? We're going to be married! Why should we wait any longer?"
He stopped pacing and fixed her with a sharp look, though his tone remained condescendingly light. "My dear, do you imagine the world runs on romance alone? There are arrangements to make, funds to secure. Gretna Green will still be there tomorrow."
Lydia's pout deepened, but she brightened suddenly. "Oh! May I at least write to Kitty? She'll be so jealous when she finds out where we've gone. How deliciously scandalous it will be!"
Wickham's expression tightened. "A letter?" he repeated, his voice measured. "And what exactly would you tell her?"
Lydia giggled, oblivious to the tension in his tone. "Only that we've run away together! Oh, but I won't say where. It will be such fun to leave them all guessing."
He stepped closer, crouching slightly to meet her eyes. "You didn't tell anyone where we were going, did you? Not a word about London?"
She blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. "No, of course not. Why would I, when you were so severe that it must be a secret."
He studied her face for a moment longer before nodding, his smile returning, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Very well. Write your letter. But keep it vague. You'll want to surprise them in person, I'm sure."
Lydia clapped her hands in delight, immediately fetching pen and paper from the small desk. She hummed as she wrote, occasionally pausing to giggle at her own wit. Wickham stood by the window, watching the street below, his mind racing.
When she finished, she held the letter up triumphantly. "There! I've sealed it and everything. You'll take it to the post for me, won't you, dearest?"
"Of course," he said smoothly, taking the envelope and tucking it into his coat. "I'll see it sent and bring back something to eat. Stay here and be ready for our… next adventure."
Lydia beamed, oblivious to the subtle edge in his voice as he left the room. Once outside, Wickham glanced at the letter, scoffed, and tossed it into the nearest rubbish bin. With a quick glance around, he headed toward a familiar destination.
The game room was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and filled with the low murmur of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Wickham stepped inside, his eyes quickly scanning the room. He spotted a familiar figure at one of the tables, but before he could make his way across the room, a sudden commotion erupted. A passerby collided with him, causing him to stumble into another man deeply engaged in conversation with the bartender.
A voice, tinged with surprise, broke the moment: "Wickham?"
He looked up, his heart racing. Standing before him was his old friend, Denny. The officers's brow furrowed, but his tone remained neutral. "What on earth are you doing here in London?"
Jane, Elizabeth, and Georgiana returned home, tired but in high spirits. After freshening up, they gathered for a light lunch, and soon made their way to the drawing room. Elizabeth tried to immerse herself in a book, but her mind wandered, and she found herself reading the same passage over and over again. Meanwhile, Georgiana and Jane were at the pianoforte, with Jane contentedly listening to a new arrangement Georgiana worked on, offering encouragement as the melody took shape.
As the afternoon wore on and dinner approached, Elizabeth's anxiety grew. Her heart ached with a strange mixture of dread and hope—terrified of Darcy's return, yet more so by the fear that he would return without news. Her thoughts became a jumbled storm, each passing moment bringing her closer to a state of agitation.
Just as the clock seemed to have stopped entirely, the familiar sound of carriage wheels echoed from outside. Elizabeth's heart leapt in her chest. She couldn't breathe as she waited for the door to open.
The sound of hurried footsteps—then the door flew open, and Darcy, Fitzwilliam, and Bingley entered in a rush, their faces taut with unspoken tension. With barely so much as a greeting, they turned immediately toward the library, their expressions serious and unreadable.