it?”
“No, sir.”
“It is no longer there.” He gestured toward the papers piled neatly in three stacks along the edge of the desk.
Baldwin did not know how to respond. “Was it of a personal nature, sir?”
Darcy thought of his request for information on George Wickham and on Lieutenant Harwood. He could have no one else know about either matter. “It is of a nature I would prefer not to share with everyone.” He looked about confused. “Maybe I misplaced it; I will look again.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy.”
“That will be all, Mr. Baldwin.”
Lydia Bennet Wickham dressed for the day. This Pemberley trip had been a mistake. She had hoped Elizabeth might introduce her to people of fine society. But with the snowstorm the likelihood of
meeting anyone other than those sequestered with her was nearly nonexistent, at least for the next week. True, there was Lord Stafford, but he had an affinity for his cousin Miss Donnel, no matter his many protests to the contrary.
That left only Mr. Worth’s company as a possibility. Of course, Lydia never considered the company of other women to be “fine society”; she needed a man’s attention to feel important. Nigel Worth was pleasant company, and he did pay her compliments, but he was too old for her. However, he held a respectable position in the community. That would be a better situation than what she currently endured.
Lydia did not know where to turn; misery rode on her shoulder. She had made a terrible mistake the day she left Brighton with George Wickham. She had thought to best her sisters to the altar, and had foolishly believed his pretty words. Only afterward had she realized that he had ill-used her—only when Mr. Darcy came to find them did that become crystal clear.
Even then, her pride had kept her from betraying Wickham. And despite a small voice in her head, which said she should follow Mr. Darcy’s advice, she had stubbornly clung to the hope that George Wickham might learn to love her as much as she fancied herself to love him.
Yet, instead of their growing closer after their nuptials, they had begun a campaign to destroy each other. Mr.Wickham openly flirted with every attractive woman he met, and when she complained, he told Lydia if she objected that she could return to Longbourn’s warmth. In retaliation, she had set about attracting his fellow officers’ attentions. Of course, the difference came in the follow-through : She flirted and flattered, but remained true to her marriage vows where Mr.Wickham openly flaunted his conquests—from the lowliest barmaid to his former commanding officer’s wife.
A sigh escaped her as she took a closer look in the mirror’s reflection. She was still young enough to find another if her husband took her threat seriously. Lydia did not wish to declare to the world
that she had failed as a wife, but she knew deep in her soul that she could not spend the rest of her life pretending that Mr.Wickham’s indiscretions did not hurt. A separation would bring scandal, but she could face down the gossips if necessary. “I will survive this,” she whispered to the image staring back at her.
However, a breeze—a gush of cold air—in the room seemed to ask mockingly, Can you?
Lydia jumped to her feet to see what had caused the chilly wind. But try as she might, she could find nothing unusual in her quarters, although she searched behind furniture and inside items.
She did, however, find a box of mementos hidden in the bottom of the wardrobe.When she took out the wooden box, the contents surprised her. The items were a diverse mix of some of her sister’s memories and some that obviously belonged to Mr. Darcy. What amazed her was how soon Elizabeth’s things and Darcy’s things had become their things. Sadly, Lydia doubted that she and George Wickham would ever be so joined. Elizabeth knew a perfect love despite Mr. Darcy’s stiffness—his overwhelming pride. Lydia began to lift items from the box. She
“No, sir.”
“It is no longer there.” He gestured toward the papers piled neatly in three stacks along the edge of the desk.
Baldwin did not know how to respond. “Was it of a personal nature, sir?”
Darcy thought of his request for information on George Wickham and on Lieutenant Harwood. He could have no one else know about either matter. “It is of a nature I would prefer not to share with everyone.” He looked about confused. “Maybe I misplaced it; I will look again.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy.”
“That will be all, Mr. Baldwin.”
Lydia Bennet Wickham dressed for the day. This Pemberley trip had been a mistake. She had hoped Elizabeth might introduce her to people of fine society. But with the snowstorm the likelihood of
meeting anyone other than those sequestered with her was nearly nonexistent, at least for the next week. True, there was Lord Stafford, but he had an affinity for his cousin Miss Donnel, no matter his many protests to the contrary.
That left only Mr. Worth’s company as a possibility. Of course, Lydia never considered the company of other women to be “fine society”; she needed a man’s attention to feel important. Nigel Worth was pleasant company, and he did pay her compliments, but he was too old for her. However, he held a respectable position in the community. That would be a better situation than what she currently endured.
Lydia did not know where to turn; misery rode on her shoulder. She had made a terrible mistake the day she left Brighton with George Wickham. She had thought to best her sisters to the altar, and had foolishly believed his pretty words. Only afterward had she realized that he had ill-used her—only when Mr. Darcy came to find them did that become crystal clear.
Even then, her pride had kept her from betraying Wickham. And despite a small voice in her head, which said she should follow Mr. Darcy’s advice, she had stubbornly clung to the hope that George Wickham might learn to love her as much as she fancied herself to love him.
Yet, instead of their growing closer after their nuptials, they had begun a campaign to destroy each other. Mr.Wickham openly flirted with every attractive woman he met, and when she complained, he told Lydia if she objected that she could return to Longbourn’s warmth. In retaliation, she had set about attracting his fellow officers’ attentions. Of course, the difference came in the follow-through : She flirted and flattered, but remained true to her marriage vows where Mr.Wickham openly flaunted his conquests—from the lowliest barmaid to his former commanding officer’s wife.
A sigh escaped her as she took a closer look in the mirror’s reflection. She was still young enough to find another if her husband took her threat seriously. Lydia did not wish to declare to the world
that she had failed as a wife, but she knew deep in her soul that she could not spend the rest of her life pretending that Mr.Wickham’s indiscretions did not hurt. A separation would bring scandal, but she could face down the gossips if necessary. “I will survive this,” she whispered to the image staring back at her.
However, a breeze—a gush of cold air—in the room seemed to ask mockingly, Can you?
Lydia jumped to her feet to see what had caused the chilly wind. But try as she might, she could find nothing unusual in her quarters, although she searched behind furniture and inside items.
She did, however, find a box of mementos hidden in the bottom of the wardrobe.When she took out the wooden box, the contents surprised her. The items were a diverse mix of some of her sister’s memories and some that obviously belonged to Mr. Darcy. What amazed her was how soon Elizabeth’s things and Darcy’s things had become their things. Sadly, Lydia doubted that she and George Wickham would ever be so joined. Elizabeth knew a perfect love despite Mr. Darcy’s stiffness—his overwhelming pride. Lydia began to lift items from the box. She
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