Page 83 of Resilience

“I loathe scoundrels,” Lydia said coldly, thinking twice about allowing him to remain.

“As do I,” he agreed cheerfully. “I have long tired of being one myself.”

She studied him, uncertain whether she believed him, but wishing to. She mused that it was possible that she may be forever hopeless at choosing a husband, especially when she found men interesting even when they openly confessed to being scoundrels.

“I am returning to Barton when this is over,” he continued, his voice softening. His eyes lit up. “To propose to a young lady who promised to wait for me. I mean to deserve her, if I can but escape my present difficulties. We will retire to my estate, and I shall improve it as I ought. We will do it together.”

The carriage jolted, then slowed again; they were approaching Darcy House.

Willoughby glanced out, then sat up. “This is my moment. You have my eternal gratitude, madam.”

He opened the door, slipped out as quickly as he had entered, and was gone. Lost in the crowded street. Only when the carriage entered the crescent in front of Darcy House, did Lydia notice the paper lying upon the seat across from her. A folded letter.

She picked it up slowly, her fingers trembling. Not with fear now, but with something far more dangerous…interest.

“You will speak of this to no one,” she instructed the maid, handing her a shilling. “Our experience today was irregular, but there was no harm done, and no need to alarm my sister.”

“Yes, ma’am,” promised the maid.

Lydia returned to her room with the letter and examined it. It was unsealed, and so she felt only a small pang of guilt when she unfolded it and began to read.

My dear Mr. Willoughby,

You once showed me how insignificant I was in the world of men at a time when I badly needed to see it properly. For that reason alone you deserve an explanation, though you will likely never forgive me.

I have used your name. I own it freely. I allowed Colonel Brandon to believe that you were responsible for my present situation. I knew he would pursue you with all the fervour of a wronged guardian. I did it because I required time…time to escape his watchfulness, and time for Robert to secure the means by which we might leave England together. Our delay was beneficial, for Robert's mother recently became intolerably angry with his brother, and irrevocably made Robert her heir, and now we have the means to go away.

You must understand. Robert Ferrars is the father of my child. He would have been ruined had Brandon known, for his family would cast him off at once. By naming you, I spared him that disgrace long enough for us to make our plans. I know it was wrong…wickedly, selfishly wrong. But desperation blinds me.

By the morrow we shall be gone. Colonel Brandon will no doubt pursue you instead, believing you responsible. I beg you not to suffer for my sake any more than you already have. When we are safely abroad, I will write to the Colonel with the truth. I promise you. And if he catches you, you shall have this letter to exonerate you.

Forgive me, I beg you,

Eliza W.

This lady does not ask for very much, does she? Lydia mused to herself as she folded the letter. Poor Mr Willoughby.

John Willoughby presented himself at Darcy House with an air of practiced composure that did not quite conceal the urgency beneath it.

“I am seeking Mrs Wickham,” he explained to the butler, lowering his voice. “We met by chance in some public place or other yesterday. I believe I lost a letter when I met her. I must have dropped it. It is of no consequence to anyone but myself, but I should be grateful to have it back, if she found it.”

The name Mrs Wickham and the word letter alone was enough. Within minutes, he was shown not into a public room, but into Mr Darcy’s study. Darcy rose at once, his expression guarded; Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated comfortably, narrowed his eyes as he regarded the newcomer.

“Mr Willoughby,” Darcy said coolly, returning to his seat once the men had greeted one another. “You wished to see Mrs Wickham?”

Willoughby bowed. “I did not know her or her residence when we met by chance yesterday. I hoped merely to retrieve a letter that fell from my pocket when I met her, that is, if she indeed found it. I regret the impropriety of my call.”

Fitzwilliam’s brows knit. “Met…where, precisely?”

“It does not sound good, but she is under your protection, so I will be perfectly truthful. I met her in your carriage. At an intersection. I entered to avoid a man who has been pursuing me for nearly three weeks. Your driver did not see me.”

Darcy’s face hardened. “Mrs Wickham was alone?”

“The lady was with her maid. I was persuasive. She allowed me to travel for a few blocks only without screaming. I assure you that I left the carriage as quietly as I entered it.”

Darcy did not hesitate. He rose from his desk and rang the bell. “Ask Mrs Wickham to come here at once.”

Lydia arrived pale but composed, her mourning gown severe against her youth. One glance at Willoughby told her everything.