Page 55 of These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)

Chapter fifty-five

D arcy spent most of the following day in seemingly useless pursuits. His cousin had departed early, with his protesting captive and four armed footmen. Richard had also carried with him a letter from Elizabeth for her aunt and uncle in London, and Darcy had included a note of his own regarding his intentions toward both of their nieces. All had judged the Gardiners the most sensible individuals to be found when discussing plans for Lydia’s likely future without a husband, as well as Elizabeth’s engagement to a man presumed to be deceased.

Darcy had decided against riding to Rush Hill to apprise Duncan of Jefferson’s suicide. Instead, he sent a note asking the magistrate to come to Pemberley at his earliest convenience so that Elizabeth’s testimony might be heard, for her words were the only remaining evidence of the faulty account books. Another carriage was dispatched to collect Mrs Annesley, dying brother or no, for he would have the woman present to offer her confession when the magistrate arrived.

Next, he spoke with his head stable groom, inquiring how the stolen horses might have been taken and not accounted for until—according to Georgiana—two or three days had gone by. The answer, that Jefferson had personally ordered the use of the horses, left him more puzzled than before.

He had nearly settled with himself that Jefferson had been employed by the yet un-named relation of his, but the stolen horse had been ridden by the very rogue who had helped to capture him, and set him aboard a Portuguese vessel. Had Jefferson, in fact, taken money from both parties? Or perhaps had the mercenaries switched their allegiances? If that were the case—Darcy felt a prickling along the back of his neck—were there yet more individuals in the shadows?

On his way back from the stables, he decided to detour through the pleasure gardens for some time to think. He found it far more peaceful to be out of doors, and the recently returned master of an estate ought to at least appear to take some interest in its management. He spent some while in close contemplation of the tiny beginnings of the rose buds, the promising lavender, the proud spears of lilies. He nodded at the gardener at his work, noting how the man’s gaze lingered on him slightly longer than was usual. It seemed he was to remain a spectacle for some while.

Desiring a few more moments of privacy before he returned to the house, he bent his steps toward the garden maze. He knew its paths intimately, and was well along the direct route out again when he heard quiet sobs. He paused, turning about to discern the direction.

It sounded for all the world like Elizabeth, and his heart beat more quickly. Had he caused her some grief? Did she regret coming to be with him? All manner of doubts raced through his mind, and he hurried to find her out.

His steps carried him round two or three corners, and he drew up in surprise when he found not Elizabeth, but Lydia Wickham among the hedges. She was doubled over as far as her growing belly would allow, her fingers curled round her face and her body trembling with high, keening gasps. Her bonnet lay beside her, granting him a full view of tousled hair and reddened cheeks.

“Mrs Wickham! Have you lost your way in the maze?”

She scrambled to her feet, a task that required some effort, and he was not quite prompt enough to assist her. She gathered her elaborate bonnet and used it to brush self-consciously at her skirts. “No,” she mumbled, looking anywhere but at him. “I know my way out.”

“Are you unwell? May I bring something for your present relief?”

She shook her head, biting her lips together. A tear streaked down her cheek, and she brushed it quickly away, then was required to do the same on the opposite cheek.

“Mrs Wickham, I can see you are in distress. You must allow me to accompany you back to the house.”

She turned away from him, a hand touching her mouth, and her shoulders began to shake once more. Darcy felt utterly helpless. He strayed a few steps in either direction, thinking perhaps that Elizabeth would soon happen upon them, but she was not near at hand, and he did not dare leave the girl crying in the maze. “Mrs Wickham, I—”

“Will you stop calling me that?” she lashed out over her shoulder. “Everywhere I go, it’s ‘Mrs Wickham’ this, ‘Mrs Wickham’ that. Doesn’t anyone know I’m as good as a widow?”

He blew out a steadying breath. “The appellation is one of respect, madam. Even widows retain their husband’s name, but your husband is not deceased.”

“Well, he deserves to be!” the girl shot back. This angry statement was followed by a stifled shriek, and she clapped her hand again over her mouth. She remained turned away from him, but her posture seemed to crumple before his very eyes. “How could he do this to me?” she wailed.

Darcy cast another desperate glance around, hoping against hope that Elizabeth might come to search for her sister. “Madam,” he fumbled, hoping he might say something soothing to the girl, “it will avail us little to wish ill upon another. Mr Wickham may, indeed, pay for his crimes, but you are in no danger for your own future. I assure you, when Miss Bennet and I are wed—”

“I don’t want your ‘assurances’! I don’t want your money or your fine manners or your pity! I only ever wanted him !” Lydia gave up trying to hide her face in her hands, and turned to bury herself within the hedge as her bonnet tumbled to the ground.

Darcy groaned silently. What was he to do about such a statement? If the girl still wanted that worthless cad, she was clearly without sense. Had Wickham not sufficiently proved himself undeserving of any lady’s regard?

“Madam, please allow me to escort you to the house. I will ask Miss Elizabeth to attend you.”

“Elizabeth! She knows nothing of it. I cannot talk to her, and Georgiana is just as bad. Leave me be, Mr Darcy.”

“Forgive me, madam, but how can you not think the company of the other ladies might give you comfort? Has not your sister ever brought relief in these months?”

“Oh! She did, but she is too happy, now you have come back. Please, go away!”

Darcy cast his eyes to the heavens and tried to count three long breaths to control his tongue. “Miss Elizabeth is not a stranger to grief, madam. Nor, for that matter, is my own sister.”

Her only response was to clutch the branches and try to wedge herself more deeply into the maze row. “Certainly,” he made another hesitant effort, “if it is a confidante you desire, either of them would prove wise and understanding.”

“You are not listening!” Lydia spun around at last, facing him with streaked visage and blurry eyes. “They got what they wanted! The impossible happened for them, and you came back. What of me? My husband was found at last, and now he is to be hanged!” She wrapped one arm protectively over her stomach and braced the other upon it to shield her face again. “He never even asked about me!” she gasped.

Darcy closed his eyes and swallowed. Misguided as the girl’s affections were, she was clearly still attached, or believed herself attached, to her husband. He knew something of unrequited love and lost hope. In those dark months after Elizabeth’s refusal, he had felt that none could ever care for him. He had wished to vanish from all humanity, desiring that none could see him to pity him… but then she had come back into his life, for an exquisite few days. Never would he forget the soul-wrenching ache of finding her once again, only to be torn from her for what he thought might be forever!

“Madam,” his voice faltered, but his words tumbled almost effortlessly from his lips, “you must not allow your worth to be determined by another’s affections, or lack thereof.”

Lydia’s sobs quieted at his words, but she did not lift her head. “It is all a waste,” she muttered. “I wasted myself on him.”

“Love is never wasted,” he offered. He felt deceitful, somehow, even acknowledging the feeling she held for that rascal as love, but in her eyes, that was what it was. She had given of herself, and Wickham had left her nothing in return. “Love is invested, not spent,” he mused quietly. “It has wrought some good in my own life, even when it was not returned.”

Her head had lifted and she was staring at him. “That is the silliest thing I ever heard. What good is love without being returned? It is thrown on the ground and trampled, that’s what it is.”

“Cannot both parties benefit from the expression of love? Even if it is not willingly received, it might not be considered a waste. Mr Wickham had the opportunity to employ your gift wisely, and we do not know that your affections have not had some positive influence upon him. He did—” Darcy almost choked on his next words— “offer his services to the benefit of another. Perhaps his motives were not… entirely mercenary.”

Lydia shook her head. “He will never change.” She sniffed. “I know that. I shall have the child of a worthless man, and he shall be long dead by the time his son is born. He will never know—” Another helpless cry interrupted her words, and she covered her face with both hands now. “Please,” she begged, “there is nothing anyone can do. Just leave me alone!”

“I am afraid I cannot do that, for you are dear to one who is dear to me. You must learn, madam, that love never leaves another to suffer alone. Nor does it tolerate false reticence for the sake of self-pity. I must see you comforted and attended, and I cannot allow you to make a martyr of your feelings. Perhaps the future is not what you would have wished it to be, but you cannot isolate yourself from those who would comfort you.”

Lydia’s mouth had dropped open in shock. “If that is not the most pompous, audacious speech I ever heard! I cannot think how Lizzy tolerates your arrogance, Mr Darcy.”

“She scolds me on that topic with regularity, I assure you.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and for just a moment, he could imagine Elizabeth standing there, great with child and arguing with him in the hedges. Her younger sister had something of the same clever spark, the same unruly curls, the same hot-headed boldness. Little wonder that Lydia Wickham had not meekly surrendered her feelings and accepted her fate.

“Mrs Wickham,” he added, more gently now, “I pray you to come rest yourself. You will not face the future alone, and you discredit those who care for you when you give way to despair.”

She glanced down, sighed, and then nodded. “Very well, Mr Darcy.”

She allowed him to take her by the elbow, which was well, for her steps faltered somewhat, and more than once she tried to take them along a wrong turn. She spoke not another word, but the tears dissipated with the fortitude of youth as they neared the house.

“I think I can manage now, Mr Darcy,” she shook him off as they neared the last bend.

“You will not retire without speaking to Miss Elizabeth or Georgiana?” he enquired.

“If they are available,” she promised half-heartedly. “I was trying to catch cold out there, you know, but perhaps it is just as well I did not.”

“Indeed,” he smiled faintly and allowed her to out-pace him toward the house. He had fallen a step or two behind her when she turned abruptly.

“Oh! My bonnet! I believe I dropped it. Oh, I shall have to return for it, but I think it would take me an age to find it again.”

“Have no fear, Mrs Wickham, I can retrace our steps in a matter of moments.”

He turned back, both relieved that she was safely entering the house, and grateful that he needn’t keep up conversation with her any longer. She certainly had the Bennet disposition! If only her passion had been tempered with grace and education, as had her elder sister’s….

He smiled as he walked, this thought leading him to the rather diverting question of Elizabeth’s own innate passion. By all appearances, the young Mrs Wickham had leapt eagerly into the arms of connubial felicity. Perhaps her sister would share some of that same enthusiasm—at the proper time, of course.

Another turn to the left, and one to the right… and then darkness descended over him.

Darcy cried out in terror. Strong hands wrenched his arms behind him, then he was falling forward, down on his face.

He could not breathe, was too panicked for several seconds even to fight back. It was all happening again! The rope was pinching his hands together, a knee was shoved into the centre of his back. The sack over his head tightened, and then someone was pulling him roughly to his feet. He cried out again, only to be struck in the back of the head. “Walk!” a voice ordered.

Darcy’s knees failed. It was just as well, for if he did walk, he would be bound to go in the direction his latest captor desired. If he fell, even if he were beaten for it, he would still be in his own garden, however long it took for someone to discover him.

He was being hoisted to his feet again, then the hands abruptly fell away, and he dropped to his stomach, helpless to brace himself. There were sounds of an altercation, and he could make out one or two oaths in an Irish brogue. He could spare no thought for what was taking place over his head. He spun about, shaking his head and trying to rip the sack, free his hands—anything!

A body fell somewhere to his left. There was the sound of crunching hedges, another Irish curse, and then soft, glorious hands were at his chest. “William! William, can you hear me?”

He arched up toward Elizabeth’s voice. He was still breathing in wild shrieks, still writhing furiously, but her sweet fingers were reaching up to pull the tight sack from his face. “William, please, I cannot—oh, hold him, Mr O’Donnell!”

Darcy was still struggling, but a firm weight lifted him from behind. In an instant, his hands were free. He stilled, just long enough for Elizabeth to find the knot securing the sack over his head, and she ripped it from his face.

He collapsed on her shoulder, gasping and shaking like a child. Her shawl was wet—was it his tears? He crushed her to him, trembling and heaving.

Elizabeth’s arms were about him, her hands stroking over his back, into his hair. “You are safe, William! They are gone. You are safe, I am here,” she repeated.

Still, he did not loosen his grip. His body racked with panicked spasms as he drank in great draughts of fresh, free air. Elizabeth had given up on speech, and merely crooned nonsense into his ear. He pressed his eyes against her neck and held her for dear life.