Page 39

The silence that followed the Collinses' departure, usually a welcome respite, felt different tonight—heavy, charged with a terrible anticipation that seemed to soak into the very walls.

The ticking of the clock mocked her, each deliberate tick a reminder of what was yet to come, each second stretching into an eternity.

Every creak of the parsonage floorboards sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness, setting her pulse skittering with every groan of the old wood.

Unable to remain seated, Elizabeth drifted once again to the window, her palms pressing against the cool sill as her eyes strained toward the winding path. Though reason told her it was yet too soon for any figure to appear, hope overruled all sense, and her heart leapt at every shifting shadow.

It had come to this. She had invited it, even implored it, though every instinct for self-preservation screamed against such folly.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had seen too much. His soldier’s instincts had caught at every slip, every too-knowing glance, every note struck too true.

But it was not the Colonel's scrutiny that weighed upon her now.

No, it was him— Fitzwilliam —who haunted her most.

She must remember to think of him as Mr. Darcy. It was dangerous—reckless—to let his Christian name rise so easily to her mind. That slip, that single betrayal of habit, had set all of this into motion.

She could not forget the flicker of suspicion in his eyes when she let time’s secrets spill unbidden from her tongue, nor the sudden tension in his stance when, in a moment of thoughtless familiarity, she had called him by his Christian name.

That slip had struck between them like a blade, too intimate to be explained, too revealing to be ignored.

The careless intimacy still hung between them now, like a guillotine suspended—silent, inevitable, and waiting only for gravity to do its work.

You are not ready, her heart whispered, cruel and relentless. You are not truly ready for what must be said—or for what it may cost you. For what it may cost you both.

She gripped the windowsill tighter, the edge of the wood biting cruelly into her palms. Pain, at least, was real, tangible—something she could anchor herself against when her mind threatened to break upon fear’s sharp rocks.

She had no choice now. She had set this course, and she must see it through.

If she failed tonight—if he left her, bewildered and mistrustful—it would not be for lack of courage.

She must hold fast. For Mr. Darcy. For herself. For the future they might yet salvage from the wreckage of altered time.

How could she reveal the truth? That she had lived all of this before—that the path he now walked had once led not to happiness, but to heartbreak— his heartbreak—borne of wounded pride and poisoned misunderstandings on both their parts?

That she, in her own vanity and resentment, had believed Wickham’s lies and spurned Mr. Darcy so cruelly that the memory of it still burned hot against her chest, even now?

She had lived those regrets. She had woken from them. And yet, in her desperation to avoid repeating the same cruel mistakes, had she only bred suspicion in their place?

Would it help to tell him what came before?

To confess that he, too, had erred—that his first declaration had been as full of pride as of passion, and had wounded them both so deeply that their future happiness had nearly been lost before it began?

Or would that only drive him further from her, convinced she had peered too deeply, too unnaturally, into the private sorrows he guarded from the world?

Would he see in her honesty a balm—or an intrusion?

Fitzwilliam Darcy was a man of honour, of reason, of deep feeling veiled beneath even deeper pride.

She did not fear his temper—not truly—but his doubt.

His doubt could wound more surely than any anger.

It was not that he would think her dishonest—no, his sense of her character would not bend so easily—but that he might deem her deluded.

Worse still, that he might find her dangerous, a threat to the ordered world he so carefully maintained.

She turned from the window at last, unable to bear the silence a moment longer.

The very walls of the parsonage seemed too narrow to contain the storm gathering within her.

Every step she took across the small sitting room summoned a new possibility, a new terror.

Should she speak of the life they had shared?

Of the son they had lost? Or would such confessions sound so wild, so unnatural, that he would recoil from her altogether?

Colonel Fitzwilliam had been clear—gentle, but unyielding.

"I am trained to observe inconsistencies, Miss Bennet," he had said, his voice grave but not unkind.

"In campaign, small discrepancies may presage great dangers.

When something is off, a commander must know why.

You speak with precision; you play as if rehearsed beside them; you flinch when I speak of danger.

.. and you call my cousin—Fitzwilliam—by his given name, as though it were habit. "

He had said it without accusation, but his meaning had been plain. She had been foolish, flustered, too full of sorrow and old love to guard her tongue. And so she had begged—begged for time, for the chance to explain herself directly to Mr. Darcy.

But would he come?

Perhaps. The Colonel had promised nothing, and yet—there had been something in his eyes, a flicker he could not quite conceal. Reluctant curiosity. A soldier's instinct to uncover the truth. An unsettled need to understand what he could not yet explain.

It might be enough. It must be enough.

But what then? What words could she possibly summon to make him believe?

How could she say it aloud—the truth so wild it bordered on madness—that she had lived these moments before, had awakened with the aching, vivid memory of what had been, and in her desperate attempt to make it right, had already changed so much?

And still might lose everything all the same.

And if he believed her—what then? Would he forgive her trespasses?

Could he look past the strangeness of her words, the impossibility of her confessions, and see only the constancy of her heart?

Would he understand that every slip, every familiarity, every unguarded moment had not sprung from deceit, but from a heart still bound to him?

That every action, every whispered truth, had been born not of manipulation, but of a desperate, undying affection?

She pressed her fingers to her lips, willing her thoughts to still.

It was folly to rehearse now; no speech could prepare her for the reality of his presence.

She would not find the right words until she stood before him—until she could read in his countenance whether there remained hope, or whether the gates had already closed against her.

Rejection, she could not bear. Not now, after having known him as her husband, after having felt the fullness of his regard and the depth of their bond.

The very thought of it pierced her heart with a force more cruel than any she had known.

What she feared was not the harshness of rejection, but the agony of standing before him, only to see him slip from her grasp—not because of any fault in him, but because of the distance that had grown between them in this life, in this moment.

The gates of his heart, once so open, might now be closed forever, and she feared that no plea, no confession could unlock them again.

What made her fear most of all, however, was that this time, the loss would be hers.

In the past, she had known the sting of separation, but this second chance—this fragile thread of hope—held the terrible possibility that she would lose him not through misunderstanding or misfortune, but by her own inability to bridge the chasm between them.

Worse still, she now understood the true weight of what was at stake—not just their love, but the future of James, their son, whose very existence depended on their union.

A sound broke the hush—a knock at the door. Firm. Deliberate.

Her breath caught, sharp and painful in her throat. They had come.

Elizabeth sat upright at once, every nerve taut with expectancy.

The knock came again, louder this time, as if the very hand upon the door demanded she muster her courage at once.

The maid moved to answer, and Elizabeth could feel her pulse quicken—not from fear alone, but from a wild anticipation that left her trembling.

It was a knot of dread and longing, coiling together until she scarce knew which was the more powerful.

She had imagined this moment—had both hoped for it and feared it—but never like this. Never with this crushing weight pressing down upon her chest, stealing her breath even as she longed to see him.

The door swung open.

Colonel Fitzwilliam entered first, his bearing steady, his soldier's gaze sweeping the room as though it were uncertain ground. And behind him—Mr. Darcy.

The air shifted, thick and heavy with all that remained unsaid. Elizabeth found herself frozen, unable to move or even breathe, caught between the past she could not forget and the future that had yet to be written.

Darcy’s face wore the expression she knew too well: the tightly drawn mask of self-command, as though emotion were a luxury he could no longer afford.

His bearing was proud, reserved—every line of him braced as a soldier before a battle, awaiting either triumph or defeat.

How painfully familiar he was to her, and yet how distant.

Once, she had known the man behind that mask; now, she must somehow reach him without shattering him altogether.