Page 21

Chapter Twenty-One

D arcy stood rigidly by the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he struggled to maintain his composure. The shock of Lydia Bennet’s confession reverberated through him like the aftershocks of an earthquake. That Wickham had seduced yet another innocent girl was sadly unsurprising; that the consequences had escalated to pregnancy and eventually death was beyond even Darcy’s worst expectations of his former friend’s depravity.

He watched the Bennet family tableau with the uncomfortable sense of being both intruder and participant. Mr. Bennet’s face had aged a decade in the span of minutes, the habitually sardonic lift of his eyebrow replaced by deep furrows of concern. Jane, on the settee, was white as a sheet and looked near to fainting, her knuckles white as she gripped her hands together. Elizabeth knelt before her youngest sister, her back straight despite the burden of revelations that would have crushed a lesser woman. And Lydia herself, typically so boisterous and carefree, sat hunched and diminished, her youth suddenly painfully apparent.

“Lydia,” Mr. Bennet prompted gently, “we need to understand precisely what occurred in the woods. Colonel Forster and the magistrate are investigating Wickham’s death, and we must know the truth before they discover it themselves.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam shifted slightly at the mention of his military counterpart. Darcy caught his cousin’s eye, reading in it the same concern that had plagued him since the discovery of Wickham’s body: how to protect the Bennet family from scandal while ensuring justice was properly served.

Lydia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, a childish gesture that contrasted sharply with the adult nature of her predicament. “I arranged to meet him by passing him a note,” she began, her voice steadier now. “I told him I had important matters to discuss regarding our future together, and that if he did not meet me before the banns were called, I would stand up in church and object.”

Darcy could well imagine Wickham’s reaction to such a summons. The man had always possessed an uncanny ability to charm the unwary, coupled with a complete disregard for the consequences of his actions. He had likely anticipated another easy conquest from Lydia, not a confrontation about paternity and responsibility.

“He was already there when I arrived, leaning against the old oak where we had often...” Lydia faltered, perhaps finally developing some sense of propriety, though rather too late to be of use. “He seemed annoyed that I had summoned him, said he had better things to do than listen to a silly girl’s prattle.”

“And you told him about the child?” Elizabeth asked, her voice gentle despite the gravity of the situation.

Lydia nodded, twisting her handkerchief between restless fingers. “I thought... I truly believed that once he knew, he would do the honourable thing. Despite his engagement to you, Lizzy, I believed there was genuine affection between us.” She gave a bitter laugh that sounded wrong coming from one so young. “I was such a fool.”

Darcy found his gaze drawn to Elizabeth’s profile, noting the slight tightening of her jaw at the mention of Wickham’s attentions toward her. How close she had come to suffering a fate similar to Lydia’s, or worse. The thought sent a chill through him, followed by a wave of profound gratitude that she had escaped such a destiny.

“When I told him I was with child,” Lydia continued, “his face changed. All the charm, all the warmth disappeared in an instant. He called me... names I cannot repeat.” She glanced at her father, who nodded for her to continue, his expression grim but supportive. “He said it could not possibly be his, that I must have been with others.”

Darcy clenched his jaw, recognising Wickham’s familiar pattern. The man had always refused to accept responsibility for his actions, preferring to shift blame to others rather than face consequences.

“I told him that was a lie,” Lydia said, her voice rising indignantly. “I told him he was the only one, that he had taken my virtue with promises of marriage, and now he must honour those promises. That is when he...” She raised a hand to her throat, as though feeling phantom pressure there. “That is when he put his hands around my neck.”

Elizabeth gasped softly, her hand reaching instinctively for Lydia’s. Even Jane, still recuperating on the settee, pushed herself up straighter, though her face was pale with horror.

“He began to squeeze,” Lydia whispered. “His eyes were so cold, so unlike the warm gaze I had grown to love. He said no one would believe a flirt like me over an officer and a gentleman, that he would deny everything, and if I persisted in trying to trap him, he would make certain I never spoke another word to anyone.”

Darcy struggled to reconcile the smiling, charming boy he had known in childhood with the monster Lydia described. Yet even as his mind rebelled against the image, he knew it to be true. Had he not witnessed Wickham’s slow corruption over the years? Had he not seen the callous disregard for others, the willingness to use and discard people once they no longer served his purposes?

“I could not breathe,” Lydia continued, her words emerging in a rush now, as though she feared losing courage if she slowed. “I clawed at his hands, but he was so much stronger than I. Black spots appeared before my eyes, and I thought I might die there in the woods, with no one to help me, no one to know what had become of me.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward. “The knife, Miss Lydia. You mentioned you had brought it for protection. How did you come to have it on your person?”

Lydia glanced at the colonel, seeming to register his presence fully for the first time. “I took it from the kitchen that morning. The silver cabinet wasn't locked and it was the biggest, sharpest knife I could find. I... I had begun to fear Wickham might not be as honourable as I had believed. Some of the things he said when we were alone together, the way he spoke of other women he had known... I thought perhaps having some means of protection would be wise.”

Darcy nodded slightly, acknowledging a moment of foresight that seemed at odds with Lydia’s typically impulsive nature. Fear, it seemed, had lent her wisdom, if only briefly.

“I had tucked the knife into the sleeve of my coat,” Lydia explained. “While he was... choking me, I managed to slide it out. I did not intend to stab him, truly I did not. I only wanted to frighten him into releasing me.”

Mr. Bennet reached out to touch his daughter’s shoulder, a gesture of support that Darcy found unexpectedly moving. Despite the man’s habitual irony and emotional distance, this crisis had revealed a deeper wellspring of paternal care.

“When he saw the knife,” Lydia said, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper, “he laughed. Actually laughed, as though I were a child playing at being dangerous. He said, ‘What do you think you will do with that, little girl? Cut my heart out? I would have to possess one first.’”

Darcy exchanged a brief glance with Elizabeth, seeing in her expressive eyes the same recognition that had struck him: this sounded precisely like Wickham, the cold mockery beneath the charming exterior finally revealed.

“He reached for the knife,” Lydia continued, “still keeping one hand around my throat. We struggled. The knife was between us, and then...” She closed her eyes, reliving the moment. “There was a root protruding from the ground. I stepped back and his toe caught on it. He stumbled, still holding my wrist, and as he fell, he pulled me forward towards him. The knife...” Her voice broke. “The knife went into his chest. There was so much blood, so quickly.”

Darcy could picture the scene with horrible clarity: the struggle, the fall, the look of shock that must have crossed Wickham’s face as the blade pierced his flesh. A stupid, senseless end to a life that had held such promise in youth, before ambition and resentment had twisted it beyond recognition.

“He released my throat,” Lydia whispered. “His eyes were wide with surprise. He said my name, just once, and then he began to make a terrible gurgling sound and stumbled away from me, falling into the ditch. I pulled the knife out, thinking somehow that might help, but more blood came pouring forth. I tried to stop it with my hands, but nothing worked. And then he went still, his eyes staring up at the sky but seeing nothing.”

The room had fallen completely silent, even Jane’s soft breathing barely audible as they all absorbed the horror of Wickham’s final moments. Darcy felt a complex mixture of emotions: disgust at Wickham’s actions, pity for his ignominious end, and overwhelming concern for the impact this would have on the Bennet family, particularly Elizabeth.

“I panicked,” Lydia admitted, the tears flowing freely again. “I knew I should call for help, but who would believe it was an accident? I had brought the knife, I had arranged the meeting. I had threatened him with the blade. Even though I never meant to kill him, who would take the word of a ruined girl over that of a respected officer?”

“So you ran,” Elizabeth supplied softly, no judgment in her tone.

Lydia nodded miserably. “I ran all the way back to Longbourn. I came in through the French doors into the dining room, the way I had sneaked out, and went straight to my room. I hid the dress at the bottom of the wardrobe and washed myself as best I could. I told Mama I had a headache and stayed abed the rest of the day.” She looked up, her expression suddenly fierce despite her tears. “I did not mean to kill him! You must believe me, it was an accident!”

“We believe you, child,” Mr. Bennet said quietly. “But accident or no, a man is dead by your hand. That is a serious matter.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. “If I may, sir. In my military experience, I have witnessed similar cases where lives were taken in self-defence. Miss Lydia was being strangled; her actions, while regrettable, were clearly in defence of her life.”

Darcy nodded in agreement with his cousin’s assessment. “Wickham was attempting to silence her permanently. Surely no court would convict her, given the circumstances.”

“Perhaps not,” Mr. Bennet conceded, “but the scandal would destroy her nonetheless. And not just her.” He glanced meaningfully at his other daughters. “The entire family would be tainted by association.”

The truth of this statement hung heavily in the air. Darcy was acutely aware of how society treated families touched by scandal, how quickly doors closed and invitations ceased. The Bennets, with five unmarried daughters, could not afford such social ostracism.

“And there is the matter of the child,” Jane added softly from her place on the settee. “Any public revelation would make Lydia’s condition known as well.”

Lydia placed a protective hand over her still-flat stomach, her expression suddenly vulnerable in a way that touched even Darcy’s reserved heart. Whatever her foolishness, whatever poor choices she had made, she was still little more than a child herself, now responsible for another life.

“I was so frightened,” Lydia confessed, her voice trembling. “Not just of being discovered, but of facing the future alone. That is why I sought out the midwife, to procure the herbs. I thought perhaps I could... solve one problem at least.” She looked up at her father, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “The worst part is that despite everything, a part of me still loves him. Is that not absurd? He tried to kill me, he denied his own child, and yet I cannot stop myself from mourning him.”

Darcy turned away slightly, unable to bear the raw emotion in the girl’s face. Love, even misplaced, possessed a terrible power. Had he not experienced something similar with Elizabeth? Though she had rejected him harshly at Hunsford, his feelings had persisted, transforming and even deepening rather than diminishing with time.

“It is not absurd, Lydia,” Elizabeth said gently. “The heart does not always follow reason. You loved the man you believed him to be, not the man he revealed himself to be at the end.”

Darcy found himself studying Elizabeth’s profile as she comforted her sister, struck anew by the depth of her compassion and understanding. Even in this moment of family crisis, she found the words to ease her sister’s pain, to make sense of the senseless.

The sound of a door closing somewhere in the house and Mary’s piano falling silent reminded them all that the world continued beyond this room, oblivious to the shocking revelations contained within. Sooner or later, they would need to face that world, to decide how to proceed with the knowledge they now possessed.

Darcy had witnessed many shocking scenes in his life: the aftermath of duels in his university days, the ravages of unpaid debts among the aristocracy, even the painful spectacle of his own sister’s near-ruin at Wickham’s hands. Yet nothing had quite prepared him for the tableau before him now: a respectable country family confronting murder, pregnancy, and disgrace all at once, while from below stairs came the incongruous sounds of everyday life continuing unabated.

The silence that followed Lydia’s confession stretched taut as a violin string, each person lost in private contemplation of the horror they had just uncovered. Through the walls, Darcy could hear Mrs. Bennet’s shrill voice directing a servant about some trivial household matter, punctuated by Mary’s resumed piano practice, the simple melody of a country dance forming a bizarrely cheerful counterpoint to the grave mood in the study.

How strange that life could fracture so completely for those in this room while continuing without interruption for others just a few steps away. Darcy found himself studying each face in turn, reading the varied responses to Lydia’s devastating revelation.

Mr. Bennet stood by the mantelpiece, one hand braced against it as though the solid oak might provide some stability in a world suddenly turned upside down. His expression was that of a man confronting not just a family crisis but the bitter fruits of his own neglect. Darcy recognised the look well; he had worn it himself after Wickham’s attempt on Georgiana, that haunting question of whether more attentive guardianship might have prevented disaster.

Elizabeth remained kneeling beside Lydia, her hand still clasping her sister’s, her back straight despite the burden now placed upon her family. Darcy could see the extraordinary strength in her bearing, the unwavering support she offered despite what must be her own shock and distress. Her capacity for compassion, even toward a sister whose foolishness had brought them all to this precipice, stirred something profound within him.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had risen and moved discreetly to the window, his military training evident in the way he positioned himself to observe both the room and the approach to the house. Always the strategist, Darcy thought with fleeting fondness, already planning defensive measures before the enemy had even been identified.

Jane had recovered slightly from the shock of Lydia’s revelations, her natural colour slowly returning. Of all the Bennet sisters, she bore the strongest resemblance to Lydia in her features, though their temperaments could scarcely be more different. Now, as she absorbed her youngest sister’s confession, her normally serene face reflected not judgment but sorrow and concern.

“Lydia,” she said softly, breaking the silence at last, “you should have come to us when you first suspected your condition. No matter the circumstances, we would have helped you.”

Lydia lifted her tear-stained face. “I was afraid,” she admitted, her voice small. “Afraid of disappointing you all, of ruining everything for everyone. Mama is always saying how one daughter well married will help the others, and I thought... I thought if anyone knew I was ruined, it would destroy all our chances. Perhaps if you had been at home, Jane, but you were still in London and I… I couldn't tell anyone here.”

And then soon after her sisters had come home, Wickham had made his move and compromised Elizabeth, Darcy realised. If Lydia had thought of confiding in Jane before, she certainly would not have done after that, probably fearing Jane would take Elizabeth's side against Lydia. Wickham could only be compelled to marry one of the Bennet sisters, after all. One of them would still have been ruined.

“So instead you sought to eliminate the evidence entirely,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone not unkind but gravely serious. “With herbs from the midwife that might well have poisoned you along with the child.”

Darcy felt a rush of discomfort at the frankness of this conversation. Such matters were seldom discussed in mixed company, and never in the presence of unmarried ladies. Yet the circumstances were far beyond conventional propriety now, and he recognised the necessity of plain speaking if they were to navigate this crisis.

The legal implications alone were staggering. A young woman of good family had killed a man, albeit accidentally and in self-defence. The scandal would be ruinous, not just to Lydia. All the Bennet girls’ chances for respectable matches, all would be tainted by association with murder and illicit pregnancy.

And yet, concealing a killing, even one committed in self-defence, carried its own legal and moral weight. Colonel Forster and the local magistrate were already investigating Wickham’s death. What if evidence were found linking Lydia to the scene? What if the truth emerged later, after attempts at concealment made the innocent act appear calculated and malicious?

“Have you told anyone else any of this?” Elizabeth asked practically. “Kitty?”

Lydia shook her head. “No. Not even Kitty. She… well, she knew I had sneaked off to meet Wickham a time or two, but she didn’t know… how far things went. And I passed Wickham the note demanding to meet myself, so nobody knows we were going to meet… unless he told one of the other officers?” She looked panicked at the thought.

“If he had, I believe they would already have told Colonel Forster or the magistrate,” Darcy said. “I suspect he would not have. He did not want to take the chance of anyone looking askance at him, and admitting that he was meeting privately with the younger sister of his betrothed would look off at best. Nor has anyone mentioned a note from you being found, Lydia, and I think the magistrate would have asked Mr. Bennet if it had?” He looked at Mr. Bennet, who shook his head.

“I imagine Wickham destroyed it, then,” Darcy went on. “It seems likely. It would be potentially incriminating for him to have it, after all, since he was betrothed to Elizabeth. He probably burned it, not wanting to chance it accidentally falling into the wrong hands.”

“So nobody knows, apart from those of us who are here?” Elizabeth said.

“The fewer who know, the better,” Colonel Fitzwilliam advised quietly from his post by the window. “Each person aware of the truth presents another opportunity for accidental disclosure.”

Darcy nodded in agreement with his cousin’s assessment. “Colonel Fitzwilliam speaks from experience. In matters of delicate intelligence, containment is essential.”

Mr. Bennet sighed heavily. “Very well. For now, only those currently in this room shall be privy to the full truth.”

Lydia remained seated, her expression suddenly anxious as she glanced toward the packet of herbs and the cup on her father’s desk. “My herbs,” she said hesitantly. “Please, might I have them back? I paid the midwife three shillings for them, and she said they would... they would solve my problem, if taken promptly.”

Darcy felt a surge of pity for the girl, so young and desperate that she would risk poisoning herself rather than face the consequences of her actions. It was a terrible choice for anyone to face, let alone a child of fifteen.

“Absolutely not.” Elizabeth’s voice was quite calm as she picked up the cup. Darcy watched as she crossed to the window with determined steps, the cup of herbal brew held carefully between her slender fingers. With a decisive motion, she pushed open the casement and poured the dark liquid out into the shrubbery below. The morning sunlight caught in her hair as she turned back to face her youngest sister, her expression compassionate yet resolute in a way that spoke of inner strength Darcy had come to admire deeply.

“It is too late, Lydia,” Elizabeth said gently, setting the empty cup aside. “Did the midwife not tell you? Such herbs only work if taken within two weeks of missing your courses the first time.”

Lydia stared at her sister in mounting horror, her already pale face draining of what little colour remained. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head in denial. “No, she said nothing of the sort. She told me they would... would solve my problem.”

“For three shillings?” Elizabeth asked, her voice softening further. “I suspect she knew perfectly well they would have no effect at this stage, but was happy enough to take your money regardless.”

Darcy observed the interaction with a mixture of admiration and discomfort. Elizabeth handled the delicate matter with remarkable composure, neither condemning her sister nor offering false comfort.

Lydia buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with renewed sobs. “What shall I do? Dear God, what shall become of me now?”