Page 38

There was a pause—brief but weighted. The Colonel’s gaze sharpened, as if he might peer through her very skin to read the cipher beneath.

He lifted a brow, his manner not unkind, but fixed. “You ask a great deal. You ask for trust, and yet you offer nothing in return. I would be remiss in my duty to him if I allowed this… mystery to continue unchecked. ”

“I do not wish to lead him anywhere,” she said quickly. “Only to speak with him. Once. In private. I assure you, that is all I ask.”

“And what is it you intend to say,” he asked, “that cannot be spoken now?”

Elizabeth hesitated, then glanced down the path as if it might deliver her some reprieve.

“Because… if I say it to you, you will not believe me. He may not either,” she added, half to herself.

“But he must hear it all the same. The Parsonage is to take tea at Rosings this evening.

I will remain behind. Might I ask—could you bring him to the parsonage? Just him."

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Miss Bennet… surely you must understand how unusual such a request appears. To seek a private meeting with my cousin—without the presence of your relations—would raise questions, should it be known.” He did not speak cruelly, but there was steel beneath the civility.

She saw it in the stillness of his mouth, the military training in his bearing.

This was not a man easily manipulated—and not one who gave ground lightly.

Elizabeth coloured but held her ground. “Then it must not be known.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “You speak very easily of discretion. But I am not only his cousin—I am his friend. I must ask plainly: what assurances have I that this conversation you seek will not put him at risk? His reputation, his future… even his peace of mind?”

She swallowed. There were no guarantees, only the pounding of her own heart and the wild, desperate hope that Fitzwilliam—the man she had married, the man who once knew her soul—would still hear something in her voice that reached him. That she would not be cast as mad or worse.

“None,” she said softly, “but my word. I mean him no harm, Colonel. Truly.”

There was a pause. He studied her, and she wondered what he saw—a liar? A lunatic? Or simply a woman fraying at the edges of a truth too large to hold alone. When he spoke again, it was not with suspicion, but something quieter. Thought. Concern, perhaps. Or the echo of belief, not yet shaped.

He studied her face, searching for any trace of duplicity. “You ask for privacy where there can be no witness. Were you anyone else, I might suspect a motive less… generous. Do you not see how this could be misconstrued?”

“I do,” she said. “But the alternative—saying nothing—would be worse. There is something he must know. Something that only I can tell him. ”

He remained silent for a long moment, his jaw set, his gaze fixed ahead. Finally, he spoke again, his voice low and even. “You are fortunate that I find you sincere, Miss Bennet. That—and my trust in Darcy’s judgement—are the only reasons I am even considering your request.”

“I am grateful,” she said, her voice full of feeling. “More than I can say.”

“I will speak to him,” he said at last. “But whether he comes—that will be his choice.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “I understand, Colonel, and I thank you—for even agreeing to speak with him. I shall wait at the Parsonage this evening. If he chooses not to come, I will not press the matter again.”

He gave a short nod, but did not immediately reply. They had nearly reached the edge of the grove, the house at Rosings just visible through the thinning trees. Still he hesitated.

At last, with a tone more reserved than before, he said, “Miss Bennet… I would be lying if I claimed this sits easily with me.”

She looked up at him in silence.

“To leave you and Darcy alone—unobserved—it is not simply irregular, it is dangerous. Not in the manner of harm, perhaps, but in the manner of reputation. Yours and his.”

“I know,” she said. “And I am not unaware of what it might look like. But this is no flirtation, no design. It is only something that must be said.”

He studied her face once more, as though to test the truth of it.

Then, with a reluctant sigh, he added, “Very well. But if he agrees to come, I shall wait nearby—outside the Parsonage. Not to intrude, but… to ensure there is no misunderstanding. For his protection, of course.” He hesitated, and then added with a faint frown, “And yours.”

Elizabeth's eyes softened, but she offered only a quiet, grateful nod. “Thank you, Colonel.”

They parted soon after, and as she turned toward the modest path back to Hunsford, her heart beat quick and uncertain. There was no promise—only the possibility of a meeting—and yet, that possibility had never mattered more.

She entered the house with a quiet, distracted step, her thoughts swirling in a storm she could not still.

She had given the Colonel her word that she would speak to Mr. Darcy— if he could be persuaded to come.

But what if he refused? What if, upon hearing of her request, Darcy became suspicious—of her knowledge, of how she knew things about him and his sister that no one else could?

He might view her as a woman who, for reasons unknown, had learned far too much about them.

And if he could not make sense of it, if he could not believe her, what then?

How could she make him understand?

As she ascended the stairs to her room, the weight of her decision seemed to settle heavily upon her chest. She had been so certain—so resolute—that telling him was right, that it was necessary.

Yet now, in the quiet of anticipation, doubt crept in like an unwelcome chill.

Would he think her mad? Would he dismiss her as some irrational, confused woman, or worse, turn from her in fear?

At the threshold of her room, she paused, her hand lingering on the latch.

The solitude that greeted her was complete, almost oppressive.

A small fire crackled low in the hearth, but its warmth did not reach her.

She stood still for a long moment, her mind turning in circles, before she moved slowly to the window.

Night had fully settled, the stars scattered faintly across a deep velvet sky. She pressed her fingers to the sill and gazed out, as if the stillness might offer some balm to her thoughts, some clarity for the uncertain path ahead.

The memories— their memories—rose in her mind with aching vividness.

The home they had shared at Pemberley, the warmth of his arms, the quiet devotion in his eyes.

She remembered his laughter, rare but dear, and the tender way he had spoken her name.

She remembered James— their son—and the small hand that had once grasped hers, the gurgling laugh that had filled their rooms with joy.

That life had been real. It was real. And now, in this strange undoing of time, she alone carried the weight of it.

But none of that had happened yet. Fitzwilliam had not yet proposed to her, and James had not yet been born.

To him, she was still the woman he had first met—the one who knew things she could not possibly know: his favorite song, Georgiana’s favorite composer, the small, unspoken details of his life that only someone close to him could understand.

But she had not been close to him—not yet.

She had no explanation for it, no simple way to make him understand.

How had she allowed herself to slip so? Every moment she spent with him felt so right, as if she had always belonged at his side.

Yet, each time she revealed something he could not possibly expect, every small revelation only deepened the impossibility of their situation.

Fitzwilliam had not come to Rosings with suspicions—he had been surprised to see her, intrigued by the familiarity between them.

In their first meeting, he had even surprised himself with the urgent desire to propose, though he had done so out of pride, and she had hurt him badly.

But now, this time, Elizabeth doubted he would come willingly.

The idea of proposing was probably the furthest thing from his mind, especially now that his suspicions had been awakened.

The little details she knew—things no one else could—had begun to puzzle him.

Why should she know them? Was it simply coincidence, or was there more to her than she had revealed?

This was the question that now haunted him, and as he walked the paths of Rosings, doubts he had never known before gnawed at him.

During their walks, a glimmer of hope had still lingered within her, a quiet belief that perhaps he might yet propose, even if with the same words as before.

She had practiced what she would say, to temper him.

But now, all those preparations were in vain because of the slip of her tongue.

And in the stillness of her room, Elizabeth wondered—if she had not made that mistake, would he have come tonight as he originally intended?

Would the tenderness they had shared, the moments that had drawn them closer, have led him to speak of a future together?

Or had her words—her unintended revelation of their shared past—forever altered his course?

A soft knock at the door broke her reverie.

"Elizabeth?" Charlotte’s voice was hesitant, yet it carried an unmistakable note of concern.

Elizabeth quickly wiped her eyes, forcing herself to compose her expression.

It had been some time since she had allowed Charlotte to be near her, since she had distanced herself from her former friend.

The bond they had once shared had weakened over the months following Elizabeth’s awakening, and now it felt as though a gulf separated them.

Charlotte, however, had tried—ever so patiently—to reach out, though Elizabeth had kept her distance, preoccupied with matters she could scarcely explain.

"I am here, Charlotte," Elizabeth replied, her voice steady but lacking warmth. "I… I have a headache."

There was a pause, the silence hanging between them, and Elizabeth could hear the hesitation in Charlotte's voice when she spoke again. "You’re still not well, are you?"

"I will be fine," Elizabeth said, forcing a small, reassuring smile, though it felt hollow. "Please, I just need rest."

The silence stretched longer this time before Charlotte spoke once more, her voice gentler, laden with concern. "Well, we are off to Rosings for tea," she said, as though trying to offer some distraction. "You’ll have the house to yourself for a while."

Elizabeth nodded, grateful for the solitude that was about to envelop her. "I understand. Please, enjoy your tea. "

Charlotte hesitated for a moment longer, her words softening. "If you need anything, Elizabeth... anything at all..."

Elizabeth gave a small, tired smile, though it did little to lift the heaviness in her chest. "Thank you, Charlotte. I will be fine."

With that, Charlotte finally left, her footsteps growing fainter as she descended the stairs. Alone again, Elizabeth closed the door softly behind her, the weight of her secret pressing down on her once more.

Her thoughts whirled in a haze of uncertainty. She glanced toward the bed, but before she could sit, her eyes were drawn to the clock on the wall. Soon. He would be here soon.

Her breath caught in her chest. Fitzwilliam, she thought, closing her eyes as she silently invoked his name. Please, believe me.