Page 9 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
He advanced with noise to alert her to his presence. When she looked up, he could see tears streaming down her face and red-rimmed eyes that spoke of prolonged weeping.
“Miss Bennet?” he said, removing his hat. “Forgive the intrusion, but you appear distressed. Is there anything I might do to assist you?”
Lydia Bennet stared at him, her expression shifting from surprise to embarrassment. She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve and attempted to compose herself.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I… I am quite well, thank you. I was just taking the air, you, see? My aunt and I went to the butchers and she was caught up in conversation, so I thought…”
Darcy reached into his pocket and withdrew a clean handkerchief, offering it to her. “Perhaps this might be of some use.”
She accepted it with gratitude. “You’re kind, sir. I did not expect to encounter anyone here. The churchyard is never busy other than on Sundays.”
“Sometimes solitude is what we seek when troubled,” Darcy observed. “But sometimes company can provide comfort as well.”
“I fear my troubles aren’t remedied by company or kind words.”
“Perhaps not remedied,” Darcy agreed, “but sometimes sharing a burden makes it easier to bear. I have a younger sister near your age, and I have learnt that grief often weighs heaviest on the young.”
“Grief,” Lydia repeated, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “Yes, that is what it is. Though I suspect I’ve no right to grieve as I do.”
Darcy recognised the guilt and self-recrimination that accompanied profound loss. He had tormented himself with similar regrets after his own father’s death.
“Grief has no rules about who deserves to feel what,” he said. “Your father’s death was a great loss, I am sure. Such pain is natural.”
Lydia’s composure crumbled at his words. “But I was so horrid to him,” she sobbed. “So demanding and selfish. I took him for granted every single day, and now he’s gone and I can never tell him how sorry I am.”
The words pierced him. How many sleepless nights had he spent torturing himself with similar regrets? It was this, the familiar feeling he had when he heard her speak that made him sit beside her and engage. This was not the proper thing to do, he knew it, but he could not walk away. Not when someone was caught in the same spiral of grief and guilt.
“I suspect your father knew you loved him, regardless of any immature behaviour,” he said.
“Do you think so?” Lydia asked, hope flickering in her tear-stained eyes.
“I am certain of it,” Darcy replied. “And I believe he’d want you to forgive yourself for being what you were—a young person learning how to navigate the world.”
She sat in silence for a moment, absorbing his words. Then she rose from the bench, smoothing her skirts with shaking hands. “I should return to my aunt. She will worry where I have gone.”
“Allow me to escort you,” Darcy offered.
“Thank you,” Lydia said, managing a watery smile. “You’ve been kind.”
They walked a short distance from the churchyard to the main road. Nobody looked at them oddly, which came as somewhat of a relief.
Outside of the butcher’s shop, Lydia peered into the window.
“She is not here. She must have gone in search of me,” she said.
“What shall we do?” Darcy asked.
The young woman stepped from one foot onto the other.
“My sister went to the circulating library, perhaps I can find her there and she and I can search for my aunt,” she suggested.
Sister? He stood straighter, instantly wondering which sister.
“I see,” he said. “Well, I will walk with you. It is not proper for you to be unaccompanied.”
“Nor is it proper to be walking with a gentleman,” she pointed out.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. I am certain circumstances permit it.”
