Darcy walked from the ball filled with a mixture of emotions: a growing elation at the moments he and Elizabeth had shared, pure joy for Charles and Jane’s engagement, and supreme annoyance with the youngest Bennet daughter.
He half-hoped the silly girl were lost and cold—it would serve her right for her selfishness! However, given her recent sickness and the impact a relapse would have on the family, he did not really wish such ill-will upon Lydia. He just regretted the time lost—time he could be spending with Elizabeth, time they could all be celebrating Charles and Jane.
He had no doubt they would find the girl. He would not be surprised to learn from the grooms in the stable that she had already been found by the men Mr. Bennet had sent out from Longbourn.
There was but one road into Meryton from Longbourn, and Lydia did not strike Darcy as the type of girl to set out across country fields when there was a road at her disposal. This was, of course, in stark contrast to Elizabeth. Darcy thought that Elizabeth’s aversion to a settled path was symbolic of more than her attitude towards walking, and it was one of the qualities he found most furiously endearing.
“I do appreciate your help,” Mr. Bennet said as they walked towards the stables. “By the look of felicitation upon everyone’s face when I entered, I gather Jane has accepted your hand?” He said to Bingley.
“She has,” Bingley replied with a wide smile. “I find that, even in the midst of this most worrisome situation, I cannot stop smiling. Please, forgive me.”
“Any man that can smile so upon their engagement will never receive a rebuke from me,” Mr. Bennet said with a small laugh. “May it continue through your whole lives together.”
Darcy felt suddenly uncomfortable; the inferences about Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s marriage were evident. Darcy was far from accustomed to hearing such personal revelations.
“And you, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet continued. “I very much appreciate your presence tonight. Though I am a bit confused by your eagerness to assist in this family matter.”
“A gentleman always rises to help when a lady is in trouble,” Darcy answered, glad the darkness hid his blush. Mr. Bennet was an observant man; if anyone could have guessed his intentions towards Elizabeth, her father would be among the first. Though it seemed Elizabeth’s feelings may have begun to shift towards him, he did not wish to discuss future plans with her father until the daughter had made her affections known.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Mr. Bennet said, in a tone that betrayed some scepticism. “I regret that my daughter has put herself in any sort of trouble. I am sure we will find her, safe and sound, but I do appreciate your efforts.”
Though Mr. Bennet’s words conveyed a certainty for Lydia, Darcy heard an undercurrent of deep worry and concern. Mr. Bennet loved his daughters dearly, that much was evident, and the idea that any of them coming to harm was troubling. Darcy respected Mr. Bennet’s love and loyalty for his family—Darcy had known more than one gentleman bereft of a son and heir who had punished his wife and daughter for the loss.
“You there,” Bingley called to a passing groom. “Retrieve my and Mr. Darcy’s horses at once.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, bowing quickly before scurrying off to do Charles’ bidding.
Another groom, whom Mr. Bennet must have asked to wait, handed Mr. Bennet the reins to a dappled gelding. The horse had the look of a patient, plodding animal—the perfect mount for a bookish country gentleman. Bingley, the avid sportsman, would never have kept such an animal in his stables. The horses now being led to the men were obvious strong and fast. Darcy took the lead of a deep chestnut mare and let the horse affectionately nuzzle his hand.
“Right, then,” Bingley said, turning to the other two men. “I say we split up to search more ground. Mr. Bennet, you said your men are already searching?”
“Yes…” Mr. Bennet started to reply, but Darcy’s attention was drawn to a scene playing out in the row of carriages.
A couple was getting into a phaeton, but the woman was obviously impaired. The manner in which she stumbled and flailed her limbs clearly indicated that she was well into her drink. Darcy drew his lips together in disapproval. The red coat of her companion clearly marked him as an officer of the militia, but there was something in the man’s bearing that caught Darcy’s attention.
Squinting into the distance, he drew in a sharp breath: the officer whom he observed was none other than Wickham! And he knew for certain that Wickham was unmarried, meaning it was vastly inappropriate to have a drunken woman in his carriage.
Darcy turned his focus to the woman, watching closely as Wickham finally succeeded in settling her onto the seat. She was a shapely woman, with dark hair and a loud laugh—even from a distance, Darcy could hear her. Wickham whipped the horses into motion, and as the phaeton lurched into motion, a sudden realisation came over him.
The woman in the carriage—could that have been Lydia?
Darcy did not know the girl well, certainly not well enough to make out her features in the dark and across a short distance. But there was something about the curve of her nose and tint of her hair that reminded him strongly of Elizabeth, and he thought he remembered Lydia sharing those features with her elder sister. He was by no means certain of the identity of the woman in Wickham’s charge, but he knew Wickham well enough to warrant that whomever the woman was, she probably needed sparing.
Darcy swung into his saddle, startling the mare so that she gave a short whinny and danced. He was going after the disreputable officer. If the woman he had with him was there by her own choice—well, it was a mistake he was willing to make. But the merest chance that it could be Lydia, or another young girl about to be ruined, spurred him into action.
“Charles,” he said, calming the horse beneath him. “I’ll be back! I may have useful information when I return.”
He did not wish to relay his suspicions yet. It would be most unkind to further worry Mr. Bennet needlessly. The men could begin their search without him: they would be easy to locate if his pursuit of Wickham proved fruitless. He carefully led the horse out of the way of the milling grooms, and kicked the animal into a gallop.
“Wait, Darcy, where are you going?” He heard Bingley cry after him, but he did not slow nor turn back around.
Coming to the street, Darcy was uncertain which direction Wickham had gone. He had delayed his chase just long enough for the phaeton to disappear into the night. He swore under his breath and chose, at random, to go right. He would learn soon enough whether his quarry had gone this way and if they hadn’t…
Well, he was much faster on horseback than a simple carriage and pony could ever be. He would find them soon enough.