Chapter 8
What Silent Love Hath Writ
The ride back to Pemberley might have taken a quarter hour or much longer; Darcy could not say. All that he remembered was mounting Seneca at the block outside the inn, and now here he was being jarred into awareness of his surroundings by the clatter of his horse’s hooves upon the cobblestones of his own stable yard. When he took out his pocket watch as a stable lad led his mount away, his eyes opened wide at the story the hands told. An hour! He looked after his horse, his tail swishing slowly as he was led to the grooming post. Truly, Darcy had only Seneca to thank for his eventual arrival home, for the time and scenery that had passed between those two events were completely lost to him. An hour. With any luck the others would still be working their way through Caroline Bingley’s alfresco and leave him to continue uninterrupted the wrestling within his chest that had begun at the first sight of Elizabeth’s stricken face.
What should he do? The question had consumed him during the entire course of his return. What he could do, he had quickly determined. His resources, his connections, his personal knowledge of Wickham’s tastes and habits urged upon him the conviction that it was he who was best placed to find the missing couple or direct others in the recovery of Lydia Bennet. But what he could do was not the decisive factor in what he should do. Here was the sticking point, for to this juncture his success at choosing shoulds had been worse than lamentable. Indeed, his missteps in this area were the origins of the crisis at hand. With a shudder, the guilt of it struck him anew.
More to the point, in a family matter as delicate as this, the hand of a virtual stranger would be most unwelcome. Well did he know the lengths to which a family might go to protect itself. It had to be the object of Elizabeth’s family to involve as few as possible before the final disposition of their daughter was accomplished, whether in honorable marriage, distant seclusion, or eternal disgrace. Further, the Bennet family certainly had no sort of claim upon him that might prompt them to enlist his aid or justify his offering of it. Presumptuous…interfering…unwelcome! Darcy stripped off his gloves and slapped them against his thigh in high irritation with the frustrating but accurate descriptions of any assistance he might offer or action he might take. It seemed that the only acceptable action was complying with Elizabeth’s plea that he say nothing.
Entering his study, he quickly closed the door and threw himself into his chair. A deep frown sharply slanted his brows as he mentally reviewed the situation. Say nothing! Of course, he would comply with her plea when it came to society in general; but his entire being strained against the inaction that propriety demanded. It was all so absurd! He knew how to begin, where to go, whom to enlist. He had the resources to buy any information he might need in pursuit of an acceptable conclusion to this disaster, and he was, without doubt, sufficiently motivated to accomplish it all as well! The memory of Elizabeth’s inconsolable weeping swept through him once more with painful clarity. Oh, he would never forget the encounter! Even now, her helplessness and misery grieved him so acutely that his entire fortune seemed a small price to relieve her suffering.
“Wickham!” Darcy ground out as he pounded his fist on the desk and bounded from his seat. Running a hand through his hair, he strode about the room. What would be the outcome if he did not involve himself ? Ghastly! It was highly unlikely that a man of Mr. Bennet’s limited resources and country temper would alone succeed in finding his daughter in the stews of London. The pursuit could bankrupt him and take months or longer. Even were he successful, the girl’s reputation and, therefore, her family’s would be torn to shreds. Certainly, no one in Hertfordshire would ever forget the scandal, and the disgrace would cling to the remaining sisters, following them anywhere in England they might go. Scandal! He shook his head. The power and fear that word could evoke! Yet its effects fell so very unevenly across Society. What caused gasps and titters when committed by one — Lady Caroline Lamb’s highly public indiscretions flashed through his mind — was the ruination of whole families in others.
Darcy checked his stride and paused at a window to look out on the neat, orderly gardens of Pemberley. The horror of scandal had kept him silent before. Oh, he had saved Georgiana and jealously guarded the Darcy name, but with that he had been content. He knew Wickham, had known what sort of man he had become, known that if he could so use Georgiana, he could have no compunction about seducing others. Who knew what other young women Wickham had deceived, debauched? But Darcy had been satisfied with fencing his own pasture and had spared no thought for the defense of his neighbor’s. Here was the result! Elizabeth’s family was only the most recent to suffer, but that it was the family of the woman he loved and to whom he owed so much cast his neglect into even darker hues. Darcy took a deep breath. It was certain that the only possible path to resolving the matter for the Bennets was a marriage. A less satisfactory solution would be a respectable but distant retirement for the girl and prison or a foreign military post for Wickham. Either solution would require financial and social resources far beyond those available to Elizabeth’s father or uncle.
And then, Darcy’s breath caught, there was Elizabeth! His mind, his heart flooded with waves of longing that threatened to drown his every rational faculty. The chances for Elizabeth to contract an advantageous marriage had always been slim. Now her prospects were all but nonexistent. The thought of her as another man’s wife had never been anything other than difficult for him to contemplate, but now the prospect of any sort of happiness attending her future was deeply in question. Darcy closed his eyes against the yearnings of the past that would enfold her into his protective care. He must think clearly!
Both she and her sisters — he pulled himself back to the question at hand — both Elizabeth and her sisters would be forced to marry below their station if they married at all, and if respectable men could be found who would overlook the taint upon the family. Unbidden, a picture arose of Elizabeth as the wife of some poor farmer or clerk, toiling daily through a mean existence that drained every ounce of her vivacity. Darcy’s teeth clenched as he leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Groaning, he tried to push the vision away, but it would not quit the center stage of his imagination as he saw her, a shadow of the woman she could have been. It nearly drove him mad! It also decided him. He turned back to the room, his gaze taking it in as if it were all of Pemberley laid before him. No, he would not stand aside from her need! If his fortune could purchase an acceptable solution and give her a chance for happiness, perhaps his prestige carefully applied to the right man — Elizabeth’s uncle came immediately to mind — could override objection to his involvement.
With new energy, Darcy returned to his desk and pulled open his calendar. Running a finger down his schedule, he noted his appointments and then pulled out paper and ink. His steward would be scratching his head at what he would read, but that could not be helped. Sherrill was a good man and would rise to the challenge of the responsibilities Darcy was about to give him. What mattered now was speed. He must be in London as soon as possible, even if it meant little rest or traveling on Sunday. In a hand that reflected his haste, Darcy put his signature to a second letter, this one to be sent ahead of him to the city, and blew lightly upon the wet ink while his mind raced to all that he must accomplish before he could leave. Then, folding it, he made for the door and handed both letters to the first footman he encountered with instructions for their direction. The sound of voices in the main hall alerted him to the return of his guests from their breakfast picnic. He could ill afford the time for engaging in social niceties or foiling Caroline Bingley’s little plots and stratagems. Turning to the stairs, he took them two at a time and, when he had reached his chambers, pulled insistently upon the bell.