Page 10 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)
CHAPTER NINE
A GENTLER APPROACH TO THE ERRING
D arcy shifted impatiently on the carriage seat, trying to suppress a feeling very much like anticipation. He told himself that such feelings were impermissible; it was a matter of gentleman’s business he travelled on, and he would remain…businesslike.
No one accompanied him, no nurse or nurserymaid.
He had decided, upon reflection, that he had spoken too hastily.
Elizabeth would have had no reason to doubt whatever lies Wickham had once told her; whatever else she was guilty of, she could not have known the rapacious temperament lurking beneath Wickham’s gentlemanly exterior.
It was not, really, until the last year of his life that his outward appearance had begun matching his true character.
Even so, after everything, Darcy had arranged for Wickham’s burial at Pemberley’s cemetery, beside the parents who had loved him.
All because his own father had also once loved him as well, and wanted so much better a life for him than the one Wickham had wrought of those opportunities granted.
In the end, Darcy could not allow him to be interred in a pauper’s grave.
Love was a peculiar thing.
Elizabeth, unmistakably, loved both the children she cared for—not simply the girl. He had not really understood or expected it, especially after seeing the comparative poverty she lived in. The boy, at least, ought to have been welcomed at Longbourn. But she had not taken the easier path.
Elizabeth loved him, and had been permitted to keep him.
She was at least owed a few explanations of Wickham’s character, since the fellow had apparently given her his false assessment of Darcy’s. He could do that without betraying Georgiana’s long ago near-error.
It had also occurred to him, long after his temper cooled, that he had never explained the life he meant for young Thomas, had never even introduced himself to the child.
Georgiana, he recalled, had been horribly shy; being told that she would have to depart with a stranger, with little warning, would have been deeply distressing.
What he ought to have done was explain to the boy that he was now Darcy’s ward and the kind of life he could soon expect to enjoy, and give him—and Elizabeth—an opportunity to adjust to the idea—trusting that in the love she had for Thomas, she would not teach the child to loathe him.
A course correction was called for. Also, it would give him more time to find the proper nurses and servants, without feeling undue pressure to choose the first available.
He was likewise willing to provide reports on the boy’s progress.
Elizabeth was no longer a young lady under the protection of her father.
He could write to her. She might write him back.
He quelled the feelings that were not, could never be allowed to become anticipation .
It was only sensible, rational, thoughtful, and reasonable. That was all.
How much longer until we reach our destination? He flicked at the window covering, peering out, and recognised features of the landscape which told him they were only a couple of miles from his journey’s end.
That was when he saw her.
Elizabeth was some ways away, tramping through a grassy field, but he would recognise her at twice the distance. She wore a coat but no hat, and her hair, in wild disarray, flowed down over her shoulders, escaping the remnants of a thick braid.
Darcy was required to tamp down on the instant flare of desire at the sight of her in such dishabille; it was followed by a surge of anger. What was she doing out here, unaccompanied, and in such a state?
“Frost!” he yelled at his coachman, beating on the roof. “Halt!” The team slowed, then stopped; he did not wait for the footman to open the door, but leapt from the carriage and took out after her at a near run.
“Miss Bennet!” he called. “Miss Bennet!”
She paused, slowly turning to face him. As he drew closer, he saw her expression. There was a wildness to it he had never before seen. Something had occurred—something awful.
“What is wrong? What has happened?”
“The children,” she said, her voice hoarse. “They are gone. I have been looking for hours. All the men of Longbourn have joined the search, and by now, some from Meryton, but…”
“When were they discovered missing?”
“Bess—their nurserymaid—they were gone when she awakened. Early this morning…she rises very early,” she explained, with a slight incoherence unusual to her.
So accustomed was he to taking charge of every emergency, large or small, that words sprang to his lips, orders for her to return to the safety of her home and allow him to take her place in the search; he only just stopped himself.
“Where has the search been centred?”
“I walked down to the farm, first, and checked all the barns. Cassandra—she loves the horses. I hoped someone had seen them. We spent the past two days visiting everyone they care for; I thought perhaps they might have tried to take shelter with someone they know. I let them stay up late—I should have known, after the tantrums thrown when I informed them—they were too serene, too—” She broke off on a choked sob, and he realised she was holding onto her poise with the slenderest of threads.
Guilt filled him. This was his fault. But there was no time for it now.
“Where did you think to search next? Where are you headed?”
“The Appleton farm is through this field, and over the stile. I thought to ask Mr Appleton to check his barns, anywhere the children might hide.”
“Is there anyone at your home now, should they return?”
She appeared struck by this thought. “Perhaps not. The sergeant went with the men from Longbourn to search the woods, and Mrs Sergeant and Bess went into Meryton to sound the alarm. Hopefully they will have others out searching, but I am unsure whether they have returned.”
He nodded, thinking. “I would ask you to go back to your home, in case they do.”
She began an immediate protest, but he interrupted it.
“I recall this area quite well, I think, but I cannot know it nearly so intimately as you do. It would be best to organise the searchers—and you would be the best person to know in what places the children are most likely to hide. Frost and I can go out on horseback—after I complete your errand to the Appleton farm. Also, perhaps you could discover what belongings they took with them—one never knows, such things might provide a clue. Meanwhile, you might draw up lists of potential hideaways and, really, anyone they have ever met. We will be faster riding than you can be on foot, and find your answers that much more quickly. If more men are needed, I can summon them. Your oversight will keep us from neglecting anything of importance.”
“You…you will help search?”
It smarted, that she considered he might do anything except help, but he set it aside. “I will not stop until they are found.”
She slumped a little. “Very well. That is…that is a sensible plan. I have been frantic. Thank you. I will meet you at the cottage.”
Exasperated, he asked, “You will not trust me to drive you home?”
“Oh,” she said, palpably surprised. “I-I thank you. I did not expect it.”
Astonished, he escorted her back to his carriage.
It was not simply that she thoroughly disliked him, although it was obvious she did.
It was that she thought he was a mannerless boor who could not be expected to behave as a gentleman ought.
She had not believed he would help search; she assumed he would leave her to walk a couple of miles alone, uncaring of her comfort or safety.
It was appalling. What the devil had Wickham told her, and why had she believed him?
He was not the one who had set aside all the rules of society and God for the sake of ‘love’. The memory of it tried to grip him with the old bitterness, but the emotion he had nurtured for so long would not hold up to the reality of her. He ought to have known it, realised it at once.
She perched on the seat across from him, hugging herself, every bit of her attention fixed upon the view beyond his carriage window—searching for any sign of her lost children with a mother’s anxiety.
She was more lovely than she had been at twenty—and the devil only knew she had been beautiful then; yet, she had surrendered any life she might have had, for the sake of both those children.
Perhaps she had never had any other choice, but her concern for them was neither shallow nor counterfeit.
This was love, real and true.
With a sigh, he relinquished the last remnants of a resentment that had, if he were honest with himself, begun to dissolve the first time he had set eyes on her again after seven endless years.