Page 41

Darcy shifted as though the very air between them had grown heavier.

He had stood rigid through her tale, but now, almost against his will, he sank heavily onto the settee beside her—still distant, still wary, but nearer than he had been.

His hands tightened over his knees, and when he spoke, his voice was rough with tension.

“You say… you dreamed this? That you woke from the past?”

"Not dreamed. Lived, " Elizabeth replied softly, her voice scarcely louder than the clock's relentless ticking. She dared not look directly at him, lest the depth of her own conviction—her desperation—prove too much.

Darcy stared at her, his mind reeling. It was as though the ground itself had shifted beneath him, leaving him untethered.

His fingers curled unconsciously against his knee, the familiar motion anchoring him amidst the tempest her words had summoned.

He fought to keep his countenance impassive, to deny the wild, impossible hope that flickered, unbidden, in the recesses of his mind.

"You expect me to believe," he said at length, each word falling heavy with doubt, "that you have lived this life already—that all of this is repeating? "

"I know it is hard to accept," Elizabeth answered, folding her trembling hands tightly together in her lap, willing them to still.

"Had I not lived it, I would not believe it either.

" She raised her eyes then—steady, pleading, heartbreakingly vulnerable.

" But tell me, Fitzwilliam —how else could I know the words you would speak to me tonight? How else could I know about Georgiana’s secret likes—or about Ramsgate? "

At the mention of that place—of that dark, half-buried wound—he stiffened visibly.

Elizabeth saw it, saw the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders squared, as if he prepared for battle.

She saw it—and her heart twisted painfully within her breast. He was ready to accuse, ready to shield himself once more behind distrust.

But she could not— would not —allow him to retreat so easily. Not now.

Elizabeth rose slightly from her seat, unable to bear the distance between them. Her hand, trembling despite her will, hovered for a moment—as though reaching for him—but she caught herself, curling her fingers tightly against her skirts.

"He is a liar, a scoundrel, a snake with a smile," she said, her voice gaining strength, though her heart pounded violently in her chest. "I would never— could never —be in league with him.

And I have you to thank for that. It was you, Fitzwilliam Darcy, who gave me the knowledge that saved my sister. "

Darcy blinked, startled at the fierce tenderness with which she spoke his name. His name, uttered as if it were a prayer, not an accusation.

"After I rejected your proposal the first time," she pressed on, her voice catching with remembered sorrow, "you wrote to me. You told me everything—about Ramsgate, about Wickham’s debts, his betrayal. That letter changed everything. I remembered it all."

He faltered. His whole frame seemed to sway as though under an invisible blow. Elizabeth saw the crack form in his proud reserve—the small, uncertain shift that told her he no longer stood firm upon familiar ground.

"And because of you," she continued, softer now, "I stopped him this time.

I warned my town—but never spoke a word of Georgiana.

Never would I use that knowledge to hurt you.

" She drew a trembling breath, her voice breaking despite herself.

"I would not blackmail you, Fitzwilliam. I would rather die."

For one breathless instant, it seemed he might reach out—might take her trembling hand in his and steady it. His fingers twitched against his knee, but he held fast, knuckles whitening with the strain .

"You say these things..." he began hoarsely, and then fell silent, staring at her as though she were some spectre he both longed for and feared.

Elizabeth, emboldened by the desperate yearning in his gaze, stepped closer—only half a pace. Still too far to touch him, yet close enough that the air between them seemed almost to hum with the tension.

"I love you," she said simply.

The words fell between them like a stone into deep water, sending out ripples that neither could stop.

Darcy closed his eyes briefly, as if to block out the impossible beauty of her confession. When he opened them again, the turmoil within them was unmistakable. His defences, long-held and fiercely guarded, trembled on the edge of collapse.

"I can prove it more fully," Elizabeth whispered, though a faint flush coloured her cheeks, "though I doubt I should."

Darcy's breath caught, though he masked it quickly. His pride, his caution, cried out to resist—and yet something deeper, something more primal, bade him listen.

"If your heart demands it..." She hesitated, a hand lifting slightly from her side in a helpless, half-formed gesture—not reaching for him, but motioning with the trembling restraint of a woman torn between worlds. "You have a birthmark on your left thigh."

He stiffened sharply, his entire form snapping rigid. Colour surged to his cheeks, and for a moment, the mask of Mr. Darcy—proud, composed—threatened to crumble entirely.

"Wickham has seen me swimming before," he said at last, his voice rough with disbelief. "So might others. It is not conclusive. But for a maiden to speak of it—"

"I know," Elizabeth said quickly, her voice trembling but resolute. "I would not have spoken of it had it been my only proof."

Her chest rose and fell with shallow, rapid breaths as she pressed onward, her eyes never leaving his.

"But, Fitzwilliam..." she began, her voice trembling with the weight of what she was about to say.

"The night after your father was laid to rest—you went to his grave.

" Her words fell softly, a tender caress against the wounded silence. "You thought yourself alone."

Darcy’s face drained of colour. He stared at her as if the very air had been torn from his lungs .

There was a long, painful silence. His chest rose and fell, shallow breaths betraying the storm within him. Elizabeth saw it—the tremor in his knees, the way his entire frame seemed to brace against the weight of the memory she had just dredged up. Her heart ached fiercely.

Oh, how she longed to cross the small distance between them, to lay her hand upon his arm, to steady him as once she had done without hesitation, in another life, in another world.

Her fingers twitched with the yearning to comfort him, but she held herself still, her fists curling painfully into the folds of her gown.

Not yet, her heart whispered. Not yet.

"You spoke to him," Elizabeth continued, scarcely daring to breathe. "You told him you did not know how to live up to the man he wished you to be. That you felt lost... and unworthy."

A sound escaped him—raw, unguarded—but he caught it ruthlessly, his fists clenching over his knees, trembling now without disguise.

Elizabeth's breath caught painfully at the sight.

Oh, how it wounded her—how it cleaved her heart—to see him so undone, to see the proud, noble man she loved struggling against sorrows he had borne alone for too long.

Every instinct within her cried out to offer comfort—to cross the space between them, to place her hand upon his and still its trembling.

But she did not move. She dared not. He was in pain—but also adrift in confusion.

And to reach for him now, uninvited, might drive him further away.

So she stood rooted to the spot, her heart breaking silently, her hands fisting in her gown until the stitches bit cruelly into her palms.

"You carried that burden in silence," she said at last, her voice breaking upon the tender ache of memory. " Until you shared it with me. "

The silence between them deepened—not with suspicion, but with something far more perilous: the slow, inevitable collapse of every shield he had so carefully raised.

Darcy sat frozen, every breath a struggle. No one had known— no one.

And yet here she stood, speaking of it not as gossip, not as invention, but with the quiet reverence of one who had carried that sorrow within her own breast .

He no longer knew what world he stood in. The walls of the parsonage seemed to tilt and sway about him, unmooring him from the only certainties he had trusted. Everything he knew—everything he believed—was slipping through his fingers like water.

Elizabeth's heart pounded painfully against her ribs. Her hands, clasped tightly before her, trembled with the effort to remain still. She had offered everything—her soul, her secret, her love—laid bare before him without shield or artifice.

If he turned from her now, she knew she might never recover from it.

"Please, Fitzwilliam," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, as fragile and fierce as a prayer. "Please believe me—for our son's sake. For James."

He stilled completely, as if the very name had struck him bodily.

"Our son?" he repeated, his voice low and disbelieving, the words almost lost in the shuddering breath he drew.

Elizabeth nodded, her voice trembling but her gaze unwavering, steady as the north star by which she had steered her heart.

"James Fitzwilliam Thomas Darcy," she said, each word spoken with reverence, as if it were a litany. "He is the very image of you... except he has my eyes—which you once told me were your favourite feature."

As she spoke, a delicate blush crept up her cheeks, blooming with an earnest, fragile warmth that broke his heart anew.

Darcy’s expression flickered, as though wonder had stirred within him for one perilous, beautiful moment—but disbelief came hard upon its heels, a shadow across his countenance.

He took a half-step back, shaking his head slowly—like a man staggering beneath a burden too great for his strength, as though trying in vain to shake off the weight of her words.

"It is too much," he said at last, his voice low and strained, every syllable thick with the agony of disbelief. "It is all too much. I... I do not know what to think."

He turned away a half-step, as if to retreat—but still he lingered, battling something fierce within him .

Elizabeth stood trembling, her hands at her sides, aching to reach for him, aching to call him back. She had given him everything—her heart, her history, her future—and now she stood stripped bare before his disbelief.

"I understand," she said softly, though the words almost choked her. Her voice was filled with a quiet, unbearable resignation, and her sadness deepened with every word, each syllable thick with the weight of all she could not say. "I truly do."

Her fingers curled and uncurled helplessly at her sides. Say something, her heart pleaded. Stay.

Darcy lifted his gaze to her one final time, and in that moment Elizabeth thought she saw it—something broken, something yearning, flickering in his eyes.

Without a word, he turned to leave.

Desperation surged within her. No! her soul cried, even as her body remained frozen by fear, by pride, by heartbreak.

As he reached the door, instinct overpowered reason. Elizabeth took a half-step forward, her hand rising of its own volition— reaching for him, longing to catch hold of him before he slipped away forever.

Her fingers brushed the empty air where he had stood a heartbeat before.

"Fitzwilliam..." she breathed, so softly that perhaps only the walls heard her.

He paused.

For one terrible, breathtaking instant, he stood frozen, his back still turned toward her.

Then, very quietly, he said, " I do not know what to think, Elizabeth. "

The sound of her name on his lips—spoken with such raw, broken honesty—struck her like a blow. She pressed her trembling hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud.

And then he was gone.

Elizabeth stood there, arms folding tightly around herself, as if they might keep her from falling to pieces. Her heart was a storm, violent and unceasing, crashing against the fragile vessel of her hope.

Hope remained—but it was a pale, broken thing now, battered and bruised beyond recognition .

She had laid bare her soul, offered up her very heart—and still she stood alone, stripped of every shield, trembling before the silence he had left behind.

And that, she realized, as tears blurred the world before her, was the cruelest fate of all: The waiting. The not knowing.

In the dim light of the fading fire, Elizabeth pressed a trembling hand to her lips, but it could not still the cry of her heart. The little sitting room, once so familiar, seemed now a strange and hollow place, emptied of comfort, emptied of certainty.

Outside, the restless wind battered the windowpane with a low, mournful sigh—as though the very world mourned with her.

She had risked everything. She had dared to love him still.

And perhaps—perhaps—she had lost him all the same.

The thought struck her with a cold, piercing clarity, stealing the last warmth from her blood. She sank into the nearest chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, as if sheer will alone could hold her together.

Somewhere beyond these walls, Fitzwilliam Darcy walked alone into the night—carrying her confession, her heart, her hopes.

And whether he would ever return, she did not know.