Chapter VIII

L ydia Bennet knew what she wanted in life. Her sisters and father might scoff at the notion, but Lydia was unconcerned by their disbelief. Jane and Lizzy put much stock in romance, and Lydia could not deny the allure of finding a man to worship her and give her anything she wanted. Mary focused on morality and other dreary subjects of personal worth, and while, again, Lydia could see some use in such things, they were only secondary to the truly important things in life.

As her mother had asserted since Lydia was a child, her goal in life was to marry. Certainly, Lydia wished for a handsome man desperately in love with her, one who would give into her every whim—what woman would not want such pleasures? More important than that was to find a good man, one who would give her a home and children, and make her life complete.

That was why the upcoming time in Brighton was so important to Lydia, for who better to make her a good husband than a handsome officer? The lives they led were so interesting that Lydia wished to have a part in them, to see far-off lands and experience what she could not in dreary old England.

Now, Lydia was not stupid, for militia officers were not men who experienced such things. Their task was to defend England's shores, and while there were good men among them, none could give her the adventure she craved along with the status and children that would result from such a union. In Brighton, Lydia could choose among legions of handsome officers, for there must be regulars among them. Then it would be a simple matter of recommending herself to one of them, ensuring the man wished to experience the same as she did, and acting to bring her plans to fruition.

These militia officers, she thought as she laughed and flirted with Denny, were merely a stop on a road, though one that carried its own benefits. By working her wiles on them, she honed her craft, making the chances of capturing a colonel of the regulars all that much greater. Denny was a good sort, handsome, kind, and obliging, but he did not seem to possess the ambition that Lydia possessed herself. None of the officers of the regiment did, for they were downy-cheeked boys, content with their current lots. Lydia wanted more.

When Denny begged to be excused, Lydia allowed him to go willingly, knowing she would meet him again and soon. There did not appear to be any other officers on the street that day, so denied her quarry, Lydia thought to return home where she could bask in the importance of being the only Bennet daughter invited to accompany the colonel's wife to their summer encampment.

"I do not see Lizzy or Jane," said Kitty, casting about looking for their sisters. "Do you suppose they returned to Longbourn?"

Lydia held in her snort of disdain, though only by the slimmest of margins. Elizabeth, and to a lesser extent Jane thought Lydia needed a minder; she doubted they would return home without her for anything other than a catastrophe.

"No," said she aloud. "I suspect they are still in the shops."

"What of Mary?" asked Kitty.

This time Lydia released her bit of contempt. "Likely still in the bookshop poring over dusty old manuscripts warning us all to become Puritans."

Kitty, though she was not as openly derisive of Mary, also did not share her interests, and nodded. "Then we should look for Lizzy and Jane."

Agreeing, Lydia stepped forward with her sister, looking for any sign of their elders. A sight soon disrupted her thoughts, for she saw Wickham on the side of the street arguing with a man beside a carriage.

If there was one man for whom Lydia might give over all thought of adventure, it was George Wickham, for Lydia had never seen such a handsome man. For some time, she had toyed with the idea of making herself indispensable to him. Then he had seen dowdy Mary King and lusted after her ten thousand pounds, enough to send him running to Liverpool when Mary's uncle had taken her away. For his affront, Lydia had determined to think of him no more, for one did not forgive such trespasses.

Now, however, he was before her again, his handsome mien reminding her why she had considered him the best of the officers. His actions were still unforgivable, and Lydia had no notion he would fit her idea of a proper husband, but he was still so very handsome! Perhaps a little idle flirting would not go amiss.

At that moment, the man with whom he had been talking gave him a sullen nod and turned away, while Wickham went in the opposite direction—toward Lydia and Kitty. Grateful for this bit of good fortune, Lydia hailed him, plastering her most beguiling smile on her face.

"Mr. Wickham!" called she, though it came out as more of a squeal than she would have liked. "I thought it was you I had seen."

"Miss Lydia," said the man, his response curt, unlike his usual gentlemanly conduct.

"It is good to see you returned." Lydia sidled close to him and batted her lashes as she knew he liked, adding: "We are so desolate without your presence. How fortunate it is to see you again."

Far from Lydia's expectation, Mr. Wickham did not fall at her feet to worship her. Nor did he even seem pleased to see her; instead, he appeared annoyed that she had interrupted whatever he was doing.

"I am not here to stay, Miss Lydia." His tone was also condescending, which set Lydia's teeth to grinding. "If you will excuse me, I must be about my business."

"You cannot take a moment to speak to old friends?" pouted Lydia.

"It is the present with which I must concern myself," rejoined Mr. Wickham.

Lydia raked him with contempt. "You are not so gentlemanly after all. Perhaps it is the lack of scarlet in your dress."

The muscles of Mr. Wickham's jaw bunched, but he said not a word further, turning and stalking away. As he retreated, Lydia watched him, frowning, noting that he gazed about him in the attitude of one who was searching for something. Curious, Lydia eyed as he receded into the distance, wondering what he was about.

"That was odd," said Kitty. "Mr. Wickham has never so much as scowled in my presence."

"It is," mused Lydia.

Something was happening here, something she did not understand. While it may be better to leave well enough alone, Lydia did not like it when men such as Mr. Wickham dismissed her without consideration. Lydia meant to discover what he was about.

It was not long thereafter when the complaints began.

Strange though it was, Elizabeth thought she had begun to understand Miss de Bourgh. In Kent, she had seemed colorless and insipid, uninterested in anything that Elizabeth, a more active person, considered essential about the mortal condition. She was, in many respects, painfully na?ve about many things, a state Elizabeth contributed to the suffocating influence of her mother. Yet in those brief moments after their flight from Mr. Wickham's clutches, she had seen another side of Anne de Bourgh, one she had not thought existed. It was, she thought with some perturbation of mind, not different from how her initial impression of Mr. Darcy had been.

As with Mr. Darcy, it appeared some of those initial estimations were proving to be the truth. A few further minutes in Miss de Bourgh's company proved her disposition to be cross, as Elizabeth had determined in Kent, her expectation that others would wait on her hand and foot. The roads of Meryton were too dusty and nothing like Westerham, its people unaware of her position in society, and the streets too narrow or too busy. Then, as they approached the road leading from town, came the crowning glory of her sudden need to complain.

"Where is your carriage, Elizabeth?"

"My sisters and I walked to Meryton this morning," replied Elizabeth, not paying much attention, intent as she was on ensuring that Mr. Wickham did not observe them leaving the town.

"Walked?" exclaimed Anne. A glance at her showed her completely aghast at the very notion.

"Yes," replied Elizabeth, wondering at her behavior. "We often walk into Meryton when the weather is fine; this morning it provided a distraction from certain goings-on at my home."

At once Elizabeth thought of those events and she wondered if taking Anne to Longbourn was at all wise. Lydia would surely make a mockery of their family before their judgmental guest, and whatever positive impression she left standing, Kitty would dispense with. There was truly no other choice unless Elizabeth led her to Lucas lodge instead. Given the characters of the master and mistress of that estate, she could not say the situation there would be any better.

"I apologize, Elizabeth," said Anne, drawing Elizabeth from her thoughts, "but I had thought you proposed returning to Longbourn in a carriage. I could never walk so far."

"Longbourn is not even a mile from Meryton," said Elizabeth, her patience beginning to fray at the edges. "If you wish to escape from Mr. Wickham, you must walk there, for that is how we came to Meryton this morning."

"That is unacceptable," declared Miss de Bourgh.

"Then what do you propose I do?" asked Elizabeth, hurrying Anne along. "Send to my father for his carriage? By the time I do that, Mr. Wickham will discover us and prevent your escape."

"I have never walked so far in my life," said Anne, sounding dubious.

"That is because you have never tried," said Elizabeth. "I walk every day, and usually far more than a mile. If you set yourself to it, you could walk that far and more. Walking is beneficial exercise, after all."

Elizabeth did not miss the flat glare Anne directed at her. "Are you suggesting that I am indolent or incapable?"

"Not at all," said Elizabeth, though she thought that was exactly what Anne was, though through no fault of her own. "All I suggest is that at present, there is little choice but to walk, for no other means of going where we wish to go is available to us."

While she grumbled, Anne did not hesitate, following Elizabeth and matching her pace for the moment. As unaccustomed to exercise as she was, Elizabeth considered the possibility that her strength might flag during their journey. Should that happen, she might run on ahead and arrange for the wagon to retrieve her. Then again, Anne would no doubt protest that her dignity would not survive a brief ride on such an unfashionable conveyance.

At that moment, Elizabeth saw a familiar face, as Jane approached, her direction suggesting she had been speaking with some ladies of the neighborhood.

"Lizzy!" said she in greeting, taking in Anne's presence with no little curiosity. "Good day, Miss," added she to Anne. "I was not aware you had found an acquaintance in Meryton, Lizzy."

"There is no time to explain," replied Elizabeth, feeling the urgency of the situation. "Anne, this is my eldest sister, Jane Bennet. Jane, Anne de Bourgh, the daughter of Mr. Collins's patroness."

Jane gasped as she caught the reference, though her manners never slipped. She curtseyed and regarded Anne with some alarm. "If you will pardon me, I never expected to find one known to Mr. Collins in Meryton."

"Nor did Elizabeth, I should say," said Anne, her wry gaze finding Elizabeth.

"I will own it without disguise." Elizabeth motioned for her sister to join them and set the pace leading out of town, the edge of which they had reached. "With Anne's permission, we will tell you as we walk, for we must leave Meryton and reach Longbourn as soon as we may."

"Your sister appears trustworthy," said Anne. "If you suggest we inform her, I have no objection."

Elizabeth smiled at her new friend, though a little bemused at the way Anne had changed from pleasant, to demanding, to now trusting in so short a time. "There is no one I would trust more, Anne."

"Then let us be away," said Anne. "I wish to put as much distance between myself and Mr. Wickham as I can contrive."

"Mr. Wickham?" gasped Jane again.

"Yes, Mr. Wickham," replied Elizabeth. "Come Jane, and I shall share accounts that will convince you there is evil in the world."

It was an old jest between them, born of Jane's propensity to look for the best in others. Jane was not deficient, for she was capable of seeing evil tendencies, but she almost always trusted upon first acquaintance. It might be a danger in one so exquisite, but Jane was unmoved by pretty words, her angelic ways not allowing her to contemplate any action against her moral compass.

As they had finally reached the road to the north, the ladies stepped forward spritely, reaching the trees beyond the town in a matter of moments. As they passed from the sight of any potential watchers in Meryton, Elizabeth heaved a sigh of relief, hopeful they had evaded Mr. Wickham. With no notion of where Anne had gone, perhaps he would grow frustrated and depart, understanding his schemes had no chance of being realized. Then they could take thought for how to alert Mr. Darcy or Lady Catherine as to her daughter's location at Longbourn.

Unfortunately for Elizabeth, their escape was not the clean break she had hoped, for someone observed as they left the town behind.

"I must own, Darcy, that I am rather shocked by your aunt."

Darcy turned a grin at his close friend. "As I recall, you made that observation already, Bingley."

Bingley considered his response, his amusement showing Darcy that he had not forgotten it. "That is what I find so curious. Every minute that passes us by, I find myself astonished anew."

Darcy wished Lady Catherine could astonish him, for at least it would amuse him while they waited for word. At the moment, they could speak freely, for the lady had departed the room a moment earlier. In time she would return, then the frustration would begin anew, for she had never found a silence she did not wish to fill with the sound of her voice.

"Do you speak of Lady Catherine so secretively?" asked Fitzwilliam as he approached them. "For shame."

Then he winked and added: "Please, include me, for I should like to hear your observations."

"We were just speaking about how Aunt Catherine has astonished my friend, Fitzwilliam," supplied Darcy.

"‘Shocked,' Darcy," corrected Bingley. "Do try to be accurate in accounting for my comments to you."

"There are a hundred different adjectives to describe our aunt," said Fitzwilliam. "I must suppose that to one who is not familiar with her ways, there are even more. What, in particular, has ‘ shocked ' you about how Lady Catherine has behaved?"

"That is difficult to pinpoint, Fitzwilliam," replied Bingley. "There are so many levels from which to choose that I hardly think I can focus on just one."

"She is rather ridiculous, is she not?" said Fitzwilliam. "You should be glad we are not at your house, or she might, even now, be instructing you on how to manage it, how to operate your business interests, or any number of other subjects about which she has no knowledge."

Bingley looked to Darcy, some hint of incredulity in his gaze, but Darcy could only shrug. "Lady Catherine loves to be of use, and to her, being of use is giving out useless instructions that betray no knowledge of the subject at hand, or at worst lacking in even basic sense."

"Hmm," mused Bingley. "Then perhaps it is for the best that we are not at my house. Caroline has long wished to make the acquaintance of your highborn relations, but she would not take kindly to such instruction, even if your aunt is the daughter of an earl."

"Trust me, Bingley," said Fitzwilliam with a theatrical shudder, "you would not wish to witness such a thing for it would be even worse than you can imagine. Along with Aunt Catherine's need to insert her overly ample facial feature into your sister's business, considering your descent, she would find it necessary to inform her exactly where she has gone wrong."

Fitzwilliam projected a fair imitation of Aunt Catherine's haughtiness, as he added in a high-pitched voice: "The distinction of rank must be preserved, and how better to do so than to ensure those beneath you understand their inadequacy in every way?"

"And she would ensure you understand she is doing you a favor," added Darcy. "For who would not accept the advice and condescension of a woman of Lady Catherine's pedigree?"

Bingley chuckled, but Darcy could easily hear the nervousness in it. "What of her insistence concerning you and her daughter?"

"Trust me, Bingley," said Fitzwilliam, his lips curling in distaste, "it is a subject of which we all tired many years ago."

"She insists she agreed with my mother many years ago that Anne and I would wed."

"Yes, I remember as much," said Bingley. "If you will pardon me, I do not think such wishes comprise binding agreements."

"That is what my father always said when Lady Catherine raised the subject," said Darcy. "In the last few years of his life, my father could not tolerate Lady Catherine's company, for he would hear nothing of her claims. Given Lady Catherine's character, you can guess her response."

"Then you have chosen a path of lesser resistance?" asked Bingley, trying to understand.

"It is for the best," said Darcy with a curt nod. "When my aunt wishes to pontificate, I endure it and change the subject when I can. She usually feels the need to ensure I understand her position after I go to Rosings, and then she leaves the subject alone after a few days."

"Is she deficient in understanding?" asked Bingley. "Your cousin is old enough now that she must understand that you do not intend to bow to her will."

"A mere mortal might understand," said Fitzwilliam. "But we are speaking of Aunt Catherine."

"Fitzwilliam!"

The loud voice inside the door caught them all by surprise, such that they jumped at the sound as if they were boys discovered in a prank. Lady Catherine stood outlined in the door akimbo, her glare enough to discompose a cow enough to produce naught but sour milk for a month.

"Have you heard anything yet?"

"No word has come, Aunt," said Fitzwilliam, saying nothing of how the searchers were Darcy's men. "Darcy's butler informed us they now range beyond the city, but nothing more than that."

Lady Catherine's eyes blazed in annoyance. "We should depart at once rather than waste time here. They made for Gretna Green—what else do we need to know?"

"Do you wish to travel to the border of Scotland, Lady Catherine?" asked Fitzwilliam mildly. "If we take the wrong road, that is what may happen."

"Compromising Anne thoroughly," added Darcy.

It was the wrong thing to say, for Lady Catherine fixed him with a glare filled to the brim with haughty displeasure. "That is the least of my concerns, Darcy. Anne is already compromised, and the solution is before us. As I informed you when I arrived, I shall publish the engagement and ensure you are married at once."

"Aunt," said Fitzwilliam, his tone flat, signifying his displeasure, "the longer Anne is with Wickham or whoever it is, the greater the possibility of greater damage than simply traveling alone with a man. Would you leave her in his company for days on end, allow him to wheedle himself into her bed? What if I child should result?"

"Do not suggest such things," hissed Lady Catherine. "I have taught Anne better than that."

"I do not cast aspersions on my cousin," insisted Fitzwilliam. "Anyone may relent when the temptation is before them; it is nothing less than human nature. Do you expect Darcy to take someone else's by blow into his house, raise him as his heir if it is a boy?"

"I expect him to do his duty," said Lady Catherine.

"Now is not the time to speak of such distasteful subjects," said Darcy, eager to prevent this argument from proceeding further. "We are proceeding in a way we believe will take us to Wickham in the most expeditious manner. For the moment, please be patient. We will leave before long."

Lady Catherine huffed, but she did not protest any further, instead taking herself again from the room. His senior staff had already taken steps to ensure those under their authority had made themselves scarce, otherwise, he suspected Lady Catherine of berating them in her present state of mind. While Darcy agreed with Fitzwilliam's insistence on remaining for word of Anne's whereabouts, they would need to depart before long if only to maintain their sanity.

"As I said," murmured Bingley sotto voce , "she is nothing like I have ever seen before."

"That is because you have not moved in society enough, Bingley," said Fitzwilliam.

"Pardon me," said Bingley, feigning affront, "but I am not some green recruit in your regiment."

"Perhaps you should join the army," said Fitzwilliam, regarding Bingley critically. "Six months of soldiering and I would make you into a man that no woman could resist."

"But I already am ," said Bingley with a credible show of confusion.

Fitzwilliam howled with laughter, slapping a grinning Bingley's back, while Darcy shook his head.

"I am surrounded by the witless and infirm," said Darcy. "If I remain among you, I am certain you will afflict me with whatever ails you."

"Not at all, Darcy," said Fitzwilliam, shaking away the last of his mirth. "We merely jest to relieve the tension."

Fitzwilliam became utterly serious, the cold, ruthless campaigner that Darcy knew he could be. "When we find Anne and her paramour, there will be gravity enough for us all. If it is Wickham, I mean to ensure that he never preys upon our family again. While I respect your father and understand your reluctance to act against him, this is no longer a Darcy manner alone."

"As yet," replied Darcy, "there is no proof other than your instincts that it is Wickham with Anne."

"No, there is not," agreed Fitzwilliam. "Circumstances may alter what we do when we find them—this I acknowledge. If it is Wickham, however, no pleas of clemency on his part or thoughts of your father's affection for him will stay my hand. If he has attacked our family, he will reap the whirlwind."

Darcy nodded, unable to disagree with his cousin's sentiment. "I concur."

Fitzwilliam nodded, and they fell silent, each considering the situation. It was difficult to say if his cousin was correct, for while Wickham would jump at the chance to secure Rosings for himself, his most recent circumstances were not conducive to him making the attempt. Unless he had resigned his commission and spent the previous weeks persuading Anne to attempt his mad scheme.

Why Anne agreed to it was easier to reconcile, given what Darcy had learned of his aunt's iron control over her daughter. Surely no one could live in prison all their lives, whether the bars were iron or gilded and etched with angels. The more Darcy thought about his cousin, the more he became convinced that she grew tired of Lady Catherine's tyrannical rule. It was a subject he meant to raise with Anne herself.