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He released her suddenly, turning his back.

The violence of his own reaction seemed to shock him as much as it did her.

Elizabeth stumbled back, her heart racing.

Every instinct urged her to flee - he was stronger than her, and in his current state…

But as she turned to run, his voice stopped her. It was eerily calm now, controlled.

“May I offer my congratulations?” The words were perfectly proper, yet they cut deeper than his grip had. “I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

When she looked back, he had turned to face her. Tears glistened on his cheeks, but his voice remained steady, the control in it almost frightening.

“Thank you.” The words were barely a whisper. She could manage nothing more.

“Good day, Miss Bennet.” He mounted his horse in one fluid motion and rode away at a punishing pace, leaving his hat forgotten on the ground where it had fallen.

Elizabeth stood frozen, staring after him long after he had disappeared from view. The forgotten hat at her feet seemed to mock her with its presence. When she finally turned away, she noticed her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She pressed them against her skirts, willing them to be still.

The walk back to Longbourn took far longer than usual.

She wandered the paths she had known since childhood, touching familiar trees, pausing by the stream where she had played as a girl.

Anything to delay her return to the house - to Mr Collins, to her mother’s preparations, to the future that awaited her.

When she finally approached the house, Jane was waiting in the garden. One look at Elizabeth’s face told her everything she needed to know.

“Lizzy,” she said softly, reaching for her sister’s hands. She drew back slightly when Elizabeth winced. “Your arm…”

“It’s nothing.” Elizabeth pulled her sleeve down to cover the marks that were already beginning to darken against her pale skin. Her arm throbbed, a physical reminder of his desperation. “I just… I need a moment, Jane.”

Jane led her to the small bench hidden behind the rose bushes - their childhood refuge from their mother’s nerves and Lydia’s tantrums. “Was it…?” She didn’t need to finish the question.

Elizabeth nodded, unable to meet her sister’s eyes. “He came back from London. I didn’t expect…” Her voice caught. “Oh Jane, what am I to do?”

“What you must,” Jane replied gently, though her own eyes glistened with tears. She squeezed Elizabeth’s uninjured hand. “Come, let me help you compose yourself before Mama sees you. She’s been in quite a state about the flowers for tomorrow, and Mr Collins is still waiting to speak with you.”

Elizabeth allowed Jane to straighten her hair and adjust her bonnet, grateful for these last precious moments of sisterly intimacy. Tomorrow everything will change.

* * *

Wednesday 18th of March 1812

Netherfield, Darcy’s Chamber - Darcy

The day of Elizabeth’s wedding dawned with a cruel serenity that mocked Darcy’s torment.

He stood at his window at Netherfield, a half-empty decanter of port on the table behind him.

The morning was still and cold, without even a breath of wind to stir the trees.

Below, servants moved silently about their tasks, or perhaps he simply could not hear them through the pounding in his head.

The world seemed frozen, as if nature itself stood in horror of what the day would bring.

His valet, Fletcher, had laid out his finest morning coat, though Darcy had barely glanced at it. What did it matter how he dressed to watch the woman he loved marry another man? Yet he would go. He had to go. He had to see it with his own eyes, or he would never believe it had truly happened.

The memory of yesterday’s encounter haunted him.

She had begged him to return to London, and he had refused.

The fear in her eyes when he gripped her arm too tightly - if he had witnessed another man handling her so roughly, he would have called him out without hesitation.

He had never imagined himself capable of such behaviour.

To act like a common rake, like Wickham…

Darcy’s hand clenched around his empty glass.

No, he would not think of that. He had stopped himself before crossing that final line, but the shame of causing her pain burned within him.

He would never forgive himself for making her look at him with such fear.

The bruises he had left on her arm would be hidden beneath her wedding dress today, but he would know they were there - his last mark upon her.

He knew he would regret attending the wedding for years to come - watching the woman he loved pledge herself to another man, knowing she would be bound to him in law, and in all else besides.

The thought made bile rise in his throat.

Yet staying away would be worse. If he did not witness it himself, some part of him would always hope that something had prevented it.

Then to see them later at Rosings Park, Elizabeth as Mrs Collins, forced to make polite conversation while his aunt looked on with satisfaction…

Darcy reached for the decanter again. “It would be too much,” he whispered hoarsely. “It is all too much.” But he would endure it. He had to.

A knock at the door interrupted his dark thoughts. “Enter,” he called, not turning from the window.

“Sir,” Fletcher’s voice was carefully neutral, “Mr Bingley asks if you’ll be ready soon. The carriages are being prepared.”

Darcy nodded stiffly. He would go. He would watch.

He would bear witness to his own failure - his eternal punishment for letting pride blind him until it was too late.

Perhaps it was fitting that he should suffer thus, watching another man claim the happiness he might have had, if only he had acted sooner.

“Very good, Fletcher. You may help me dress now.”

Fletcher moved forward silently, years of experience letting him read his master’s mood.

He helped Darcy into his clothes with practised efficiency, not commenting on the slight tremor in his master’s hands or the empty decanter on the table.

When Darcy fumbled with his cravat for the third time, Fletcher stepped in.

“Allow me, sir.” His steady hands made quick work of the complicated knot. “Perhaps some coffee before we leave?”

Darcy caught his valet’s concerned reflection in the mirror. How many mornings had Fletcher dressed him lately, pretending not to notice the port on his breath? “No, Fletcher. But thank you.”

He was Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. He would maintain his dignity today, even as his heart shattered. He owed Elizabeth that much at least.

* * *

Netherfield, Georgiana’s Chamber - Georgiana

At Netherfield, Georgiana paced her room anxiously.

She had never seen her brother like this before.

Fitzwilliam had always been her rock, her steady guardian, but this morning…

She had caught the scent of port on his breath when he passed her in the hallway, though they had only just risen.

The wild look in his eyes frightened her more than his drinking - it was as if he were a stranger wearing her brother’s face .

Her greatest fear - and perhaps her secret hope - was that he might try to stop the wedding.

Part of her desperately wished he would succeed, that somehow he might save Elizabeth from this marriage.

But another part of her trembled at the thought of what such an action might cost him, cost them all.

She loved Elizabeth dearly already, but watching her brother’s descent into this dark mood terrified her.

Whatever happened today, she prayed she would never again see this wild, desperate version of her beloved brother.

Something had happened in London - some plan of her brother’s had failed.

She had overheard heated conversations about Aunt Catherine, though she didn’t know the details.

What she did know was that when Fitzwilliam had arrived two days ago, his usual composed demeanour had cracked entirely.

She had watched his silence deepen, like clouds thickening before the rain.

Now, with the wedding approaching, that storm seemed ready to break.

Last night, she pleaded with him to return to London. “Please, brother,” she had begged, “why torture yourself by watching? Nothing good can come of it.”

His laugh was harsh, unfamiliar. “I must see it with my own eyes, Georgiana. Otherwise…” He had turned away from her then, his shoulders rigid. “Otherwise, I will always wonder. Always hope.”

She had never felt so helpless. Her brother, who had always been her protector, her voice of reason, could not now be reasoned with himself. When she had tried one last time to dissuade him, he had simply walked away, the decanter of port in his hand.

Now, sitting in Netherfield’s breakfast room, Georgiana realised Miss Bingley’s voice had been droning on for several minutes.

The words washed over her without meaning as she stared unseeing at her untouched plate.

It was only when the steady stream of chatter suddenly ceased that she noticed Miss Bingley watching her expectantly, clearly waiting for some response .

Georgiana straightened in her chair, grasping for the safest possible reply. “I completely agree with you,” she managed, hoping her momentary inattention hadn’t been too obvious.

Miss Bingley smiled broadly. “I knew you would agree with me. And I am sure that after dear Jane has spent a season in town, she will come to think as we do.”

“Indeed, how could she think otherwise?” Mrs Hurst’s affected laugh grated on Georgiana’s nerves.

A servant’s quiet announcement that the carriages were ready came as a blessed relief. Mr Hurst led his wife and sister-in-law from the room, while Georgiana followed more slowly with Mrs Annesley. In the hall, they found Mr Bingley consulting his watch with obvious anxiety.

Of Fitzwilliam, there was no sign. Georgiana’s eyes met Doctor Russell’s concerned gaze. He stepped closer, speaking low enough that only she could hear.

“Your brother went out riding earlier,” he murmured. “With any luck, he’ll stay away.” His gentle tone couldn’t quite mask his worry. “Come along, Miss Darcy. We mustn’t keep the others waiting.”

* * *

Longbourn Woods - Darcy

Darcy urged his horse forward through the morning mist, telling himself he merely needed to clear his head.

Yet there was nothing coincidental about finding himself at the exact spot where he had confronted Elizabeth yesterday.

The memory of her fear, her pain, made him grip the reins too tightly.

His horse shifted restlessly beneath him .

He dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth.

Perhaps she would be walking here again, seeking escape as she had yesterday.

His eyes searched the path ahead, though his aching head told him he was a fool to hope.

The morning air, usually so refreshing, only seemed to sharpen the effects of last night’s port.

He was almost in sight of Longbourn when footsteps crunched on the gravel behind him. His heart leaped traitorously.

“Elizabeth?” The name escaped his lips before he could stop it, hope warring with desperation in his voice.

In his port-addled mind, he could see it all so clearly: Elizabeth, fleeing from the house, from Collins, her wedding dress gathered in her hands as she ran.

She would pause at this very spot, turning for one last look at her childhood home.

Then, gathering her courage, she would turn away from that life forever.

She wouldn’t be looking for him - her only thought would be escape from the fate that awaited her at Longbourn church.

But he would be here, ready to offer her another choice, a better future…

She would hear him call her name, and for the first time, she would answer with “Fitzwilliam.” He could almost hear her voice, breathless with hope and relief.

She would see him standing there, hesitating for just a moment - one precious moment of uncertainty - before rushing into his arms. They would flee Hertfordshire together, find a church, any church.

By nightfall she would be his wife, and this nightmare would be nothing but a distant memory.

The sweet fantasy shattered at the sound of a familiar, mocking voice.

“Mr Darcy!” The words cut through the morning mist like a blade.