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CHAPTER TEN

T he wait was torture. Elizabeth feared Mr Darcy might forget about his search and return to business or friends or simply decide her plight was not worth the effort, for she had, after all, brought this upon herself.

Then she reminded herself that Mr Darcy was a better man, and that he appeared genuinely determined to find Mr Wickham.

Even so, doubt snuck in at the edges over and over.

Walking provided her no joy, for every leaf and hill near Longbourn reminded her of walks with Mr Wickham or rides to meet him.

The entire landscape seemed tainted, and while she would like to have begged Aunt Gardiner to allow her to visit her in town, she feared the rumours might have reached London, and being there would be all the worse.

Jane was consumed by wedding plans and her trousseau, and said she could not understand why Elizabeth refused to attend fittings and shopping excursions in Meryton for her own.

Elizabeth could no longer stand the secrecy and confessed to her family about the gambling and Wickham’s demands, and that she had refused to marry him.

Jane sat in shocked silence while Mama screamed, “A broken engagement? Lizzy, how could you do this?”

“How could I go through with it? Mama, he is of terrible character.”

“But you were to be married!”

“Would you see me married to a reprobate?” Elizabeth looked to her father. “Papa?”

“He would have taken too much. You will find another young man, to be sure.”

She had to tell the rest of the story, and though she dreaded it, she shared all, including his touching her in ways he ought not to have done.

When she was finished, Jane, still silent, was staring out the window, body rigid, her youngest sisters were whispering God knew what, and her mother began to sob.

Her father’s face was grim. “Lizzy, my dear, you did nothing that bears resemblance to his accusations?”

Those words would haunt her forever. That he believed them at all pained her more than the ending of her engagement. More than having told Mr Darcy of the rumours.

“No, Papa,” she had said, swallowing a lump in her throat. “How— You surely do not believe me capable of such a thing?”

He tented his fingers and leant his chin on the tips. “My dear, of young ladies and gentlemen, I believe anything, especially where relations of these kinds are involved. The blood runs hot in one’s youth. I deem it possible, though improbable.”

Elizabeth sank into desolation. Even her own father did not believe her.

Her beloved father was betraying her now?

Hot tears threatened but she refused to give way.

She did not wish for him to see her fall apart.

He did not deserve to know her true feelings or thoughts.

Not on this. Perhaps not on anything ever again.

What she needed now was faith and protection, not love in spite of belief of a poor character.

Especially in spite of something she did not do!

“What now?” wailed her mother. “What will become of us now?”

Elizabeth looked to her father, but he offered nothing more than a shrug.

“And I…I asked Mr Darcy for help.”

She could not bear to look at anyone but her father.

“Why him?”

“Because…they have a shared history. I know no details, but Mr Darcy was determined to set things right and is searching for Mr Wickham as we speak.”

“Mr Darcy?” Mama said with disgust. “Why would he help you? Or anyone, for that matter? He does not seem the sort.”

Elizabeth laced her fingers together, pulling at them to calm herself. “He is a good man, Mama.”

“I find him rude. Everyone does.”

“Not everyone, Mama,” Jane said to the window.

“We have to hope,” said Papa, sounding weary, “that Mr Wickham does not follow through on his threats. And that he does not sue us.” He rose slowly, appearing ancient. “Go to my study, Lizzy, and borrow a book. You need distraction.”

She considered his world of words and rejected it. She then looked at her mother, who ran from the room crying, complaining of her nerves, and then to Jane, who still sat staring out the window.

“Jane?” Elizabeth said, barely above a whisper.

Jane’s eyes met hers, and they were hollow. She knew Jane was thinking of her own engagement, undoubtedly fearing it might come to an end due to Elizabeth’s foolish actions.

“I am sorry,” Elizabeth said, wishing to receive comfort or reassurance rather than offering it, but Jane merely nodded and stared out the window again.

Her heart breaking so painfully she thought it must surely kill her, Elizabeth drifted to the pianoforte. Playing it would be torture, and torture suited the moment. She would let the practice hurt her fingers and her spirit. She would play, hating every moment of it.

She played the rest of the evening, then the next morning, the next afternoon, and the next evening, and the same the next day and the next.

To her surprise, she ceased hating it. She began to enjoy the repetition, the discipline, and the focus it took to practise a tune.

She had begun with tunes she had not known, allowing herself the pain of her errors, of not knowing what came next or how to improve it.

Like a puzzle, the pieces came together and became a tune that was pleasant.

Next, she returned to songs she had butchered in the past, songs she had played for her parents, her sisters, her aunts and uncles, for Charlotte and the Lucases, songs for Mr Darcy, and yes, even Mr Wickham.

Those she played with ferocity until they lost their connexion to him and became, once again, mere songs her mother had insisted would sound pleasing and, in fact, did.

Her family noticed the improvement and commented, and though she nodded in thanks of the compliment, the true joy came from within. She played to fill the hours until Mr Darcy might come back with news of her reprieve or her ruination.

On the fourth day, Jane came to sit with her on the bench and they played a duet.

They hit a wrong note and dissolved into a laugh.

Jane rested her head on Elizabeth’s shoulder and said, “I am sorry, Lizzy. I was selfish. You have been hurt in the most horrid fashion, and I did nothing to provide you solace. I could think only of myself and for that I am mightily sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I would hate myself until the end of my days if I ruined your chance at happiness.”

Elizabeth kissed the top of her dear sister’s head, lifted her fingers into place, and began to play again. Jane joined, and no more was said of the matter. Mr Bingley was joining them for dinner, so she had to imagine that all was well with their engagement.

Elizabeth made one outing to Meryton with Jane, and that was to find new music. The weather had been lovely, and Jane had urged her to take advantage of the break in the rain.

What a strange reversal , Elizabeth thought, for Jane to encourage me to take a walk .

Elizabeth rose to get her pelisse, and only then did she notice Mr Bingley in the parlour.

She realised that a walk had been suggested so she might be their chaperon.

She did not mind, and she, Jane, and Mr Bingley stepped into the bright sunlight.

It had been a similarly lovely day when she had met Mr Wickham, when he had made her swoon with a smile and laugh with the smallest of efforts. Now, were he in front of her, she would be tempted to slap him. Or worse.

At last, they stepped into the bookshop, and Mr Hopkins, the proprietor, bowed to Mr Bingley and said, “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, it has been some time since we have seen you.” The girls nodded, and he said to Elizabeth, “I have been holding a book on the Scottish Highlands I thought you might find intriguing.”

“You are so kind,” she said, stepping forwards. “You remembered I wish to visit there one day!” When he nodded, she said, “Though I cannot imagine others in town clamouring for it, I appreciate your thinking of me.”

He nodded with knowing appreciation, and she smiled the first genuine smile she remembered having in weeks. Weeks! When would Mr Darcy return? “I am here for music sheets.”

“For Miss Mary?” Mr Hopkins asked, moving towards the display with the more serious and complex tunes.

“No, for me.”

Mr Hopkins stopped short. “I do not believe you have ever bought music sheets for yourself.”

“I am working on my accomplishments,” she said, with only a hint of irony.

“Would you like dance tunes? Folk tunes?”

Thinking of their prior discussion, she said, “Anything Scottish?”

“I have these.”

He pulled out a stack, and Elizabeth flipped through the sheets, studying their mood and complexity. Earl Breadalbain’s Reel. Miss Moore’s Rant. Revenge.

Oh yes, Revenge. She continued to look, so as not to appear too obvious, said yes to that and added The Barley Mow and Dusky Night to her purchases. It was an extravagance, but doing something for herself felt nice and, perhaps, a little deserved.

After a bit more time spent in conversation with the proprietor and his wife, whom Jane and Elizabeth adored for her warm smile and hearty laugh, their party walked home.

Just before reaching the lane towards Longbourn, they heard Charlotte Lucas calling out to them.

Elizabeth’s heart sank. She had neglected her friend terribly, not just for these past weeks but for the months since Mr Wickham had entered her life.

“Charlotte!” Jane called out, and their friend hurried towards them.

Elizabeth did not desire for Mr Bingley—though he might know all from Mr Darcy or Jane—to overhear the particulars, so she hurried to meet Charlotte after urging Jane to give her a moment. Jane turned to Mr Bingley with a smile, seeming only too pleased for a moment alone with him.

Elizabeth would speak the truth to Charlotte and speak first. “I have been an abominable friend.”

“No, no Eliza, I would say that?—”