Page 48

She had told him things no one else had ever known—secrets of his own heart, memories of grief and loss that should have been sacred and sealed.

She had spoken of his father's grave, of the burden he had confessed he could not bear, of the wounds he had carried in silence.

Words she had never thought herself capable of uttering, let alone daring to share with him.

And he had listened. God above, he had listened.

He had begged her to let him think—pleaded for time to make sense of the impossible truths she had laid before him.

But now, walking beside him in the soft brightness of an ordinary morning, she could not help but wonder—how much had he understood? How much had he accepted? Had the truth of her words unsettled him as deeply as it had unsettled her to speak them? Or had she lost him forever, by daring too much?

The thought burned within her, silent and searing. And yet she walked on, her chin lifted, her step steady, as though nothing in the world had changed—even though everything had.

They walked on for a while in silence, each step measured, the quiet between them now heavy with questions neither dared voice.

Elizabeth longed to speak—to reach across the widening distance with some word of comfort, or explanation, or even apology.

To ask if his thoughts had turned again to the strange, impossible confession she had laid before him.

But she dared not. The fragile understanding between them felt like spun glass—one wrong word, one too-hurried question, might shatter it beyond repair.

At last, his voice broke the hush—low, hesitant, as if testing the fragile ice beneath them. "Have you shared your..." He faltered, the words catching in his throat. "I am not sure what to call it. "

Elizabeth glanced at him, her gaze steady—but softer now, touched with a sorrow he perhaps could not yet name.

The last time they had spoken, she had laid her soul bare before him, trusting him with truths too intimate to bear lightly.

And still—still—she did not know if he had truly grasped their weight.

"Misfortune," she offered after a moment's thought, her voice even, though a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "That is the word I have settled upon."

For a moment, he seemed taken aback. The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite—as though her simple phrasing had caught him unexpectedly off-guard. It was a word he had not expected—and yet it fit, in a way that was almost too painful to admit.

"Misfortune," he repeated slowly, tasting the word as though it might reveal its own meaning if he spoke it aloud.

He was silent for a moment longer. Then, quieter still, almost as though the question itself were an intrusion he could not help but make, he asked, "And have you shared this with anyone else? "

Elizabeth turned her face forward again, the soft breeze lifting the ribbons of her bonnet, carrying away the moment’s breathless intimacy.

"No," she said simply, though the word carried the full weight of everything she had risked in telling him.

She hesitated, then added, her voice soft but sure, "No one but you. "

She saw the slight flicker in his eyes—a quickening of breath, perhaps—but she pressed on, speaking the truth he deserved.

"Only Mary guessed something was not right," Elizabeth amended, shaking her head slowly.

"But that was not by intention so much as circumstance.

Like you, she noticed the changes in me and inquired.

Mary has a talent for quiet observation—much like your own, but I have not shared the details with her. Only you."

His brow furrowed at this, and Elizabeth watched the way his gaze shifted—thoughtful, restless, as though racing ahead of his words. "Not Miss Bennet?" he asked at last, his voice thick with something unreadable—regret, perhaps. Confusion, perhaps. Perhaps both.

A small smile touched Elizabeth’s lips, but it was a bittersweet thing. "No," she said gently. "Though she is my dearest friend and sister, Jane’s view of the world is far too generous."

She hesitated, her voice softening. "I fear it would only burden her. She would not rest until she shared it with my parents, and—" Elizabeth allowed herself a brief, rueful glance. "—well, you have met them."

The corner of Darcy's mouth lifted faintly, a ghost of a smile that never quite reached his eyes. He nodded slowly, absorbing the quiet, painful truth of her words .

"I want to believe you," he said at last, his voice low, roughened with the effort of honesty.

And he did. God help him—he did.

Every instinct, every careful shield he had spent a lifetime erecting, cried out against it. But something deeper—older, more essential—the part of him that had first been drawn to her spark at Meryton, that had been reshaped by her courage at Hunsford, that part already believed.

There was something naked in his tone—a longing that struggled against the habits of silence and self-protection.

Elizabeth met his gaze without flinching. Her expression did not change, but something within her quieted—not because the ache had lessened, but because for one fleeting moment, she was seen. Truly seen.

He nodded once—silent, almost unwilling, as if the only thing more unbearable than belief would be walking away. And for a few steps, they walked on in peace. Not certainty. Not resolution. But something like stillness. Like breath.

Only then—as though the very tenderness of it had made it too fragile to bear—did he turn his face forward again, schooling his features back into careful control.

"But you are still unsure," Elizabeth said quietly.

How did she see him so clearly? Even now. Even after everything.

Elizabeth smiled then—lightly, teasingly—but with an undercurrent of something deeper, something that pulled at him with a force he scarcely understood.

"Come now, Mr. Darcy," she said, her voice low but unmistakably kind. "If you say you want to believe me, then surely you must allow that I know you well enough to guess your thoughts."

And there it was again—the unbearable tenderness of her. The trust she offered, not demanded. The grace she extended, even in the face of his hesitation.

It nearly broke him.

For a fleeting moment, something flickered across his face—something dangerously close to hope. His eyes softened; the lines of tension about his mouth eased.

He nodded once—a silent, reverent acknowledgment—as though to deny her would have cost him more than he could bear .

They walked on for a time in silence—but it was a different silence now. Not heavy with uncertainty, but softened by something unspoken and fragile. Not certainty. Not resolution. But something that felt, just for a moment, like peace.

And then—slowly, carefully—he turned his face forward again, and the mask of composure slipped gently back into place.

The moment passed. As such moments must.

They walked on a few paces in silence, neither willing to break it too soon. But when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more measured—as though seeking firmer ground beneath his feet.

"Richard told me," he said, not looking at her, "about your conversation the next day. About you... knowing of Isabel García."

Elizabeth turned slightly, her expression unreadable—though a quiet flicker passed behind her eyes.

A gust of wind lifted a curl from beneath her bonnet, and she tucked it absently behind her ear.

The gesture was nothing—simple, unconscious.

And yet Darcy felt it settle in him with unexpected weight, as though he had seen it before—not in memory, but in some half-remembered dream.

It was the kind of movement that did not announce itself, but lingered in the corners of thought long after waking. He could not name the feeling. He only knew that in that moment, she felt familiar to him in a way that unsettled everything he thought he understood.

Elizabeth, sensing his gaze, glanced up. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Not guarded. Not uncertain. Simply true.

"You know now," she said, "that I am not the only one."

She offered no explanation. No plea. Only the smallest thread of understanding, extended gently between them—as if she, too, had dreamed of being believed.

Darcy was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was low—reflective, not distant.

"He said..." He paused, frowning slightly, as if still weighing the words. "He said he was as confused by it as I am."

The admission came without edge or challenge—only a quiet confession of bewilderment. Not doubt. Not denial. Just the weight of something he could not yet name .

Elizabeth nodded slowly, her gaze drifting toward the blossoming trees ahead—as if the future she had once known lay somewhere just beyond their reach, shimmering in the morning light.

They walked a few steps in silence, the only sound the quiet crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the restless murmur of the spring breeze.

"I was confused for a long time," Elizabeth said at last, her voice low and even.

There was a pause—not hesitant, but thoughtful. Then, so quietly he might have missed it—spoken not to evoke a reaction, but because it was simply true:

"And lonely."

The word slipped into the air between them, unadorned and weightless—and yet it landed with a quiet force, as if it had been waiting to be named all along.

Darcy said nothing at first. The word lingered between them—unrushed, unchallenged. Not an accusation. Not a cry for comfort. Just a truth. He had not thought of it. Not fully. Not like this.

He had seen her quiet resolve, her composure. But not this. And now that he had, he could not look away from it. His breath caught—almost imperceptibly.

When he spoke, his voice was lower than before. Quieter. More certain.

"You should not have had to carry it alone."

That was all. But it was everything.

They walked in silence, but something had shifted. Darcy’s hands were clasped behind his back—his steps slow, uneven, as though the question rising in him weighed more than he was ready to carry.

At last, without looking at her, he spoke—his voice low, not strained, but careful.

"You never said..." A pause. "How long?"

Elizabeth turned toward him slightly, her expression softening—not with pity, but something steadier. Invitation. She did not answer. She did not rush him. She only waited.

Darcy’s gaze dropped to the path between them. His brow furrowed, not with disbelief—but with the effort of imagining a life he could not remember, yet suddenly longed to understand.

"How long were we—" He stopped, swallowed, and tried again. "How long were we married? "

The words felt strange in his mouth, like something spoken aloud for the first time. He lifted his gaze, just slightly. "And what happened?"

The questions sat between them, quiet and enormous. Not accusations. Just the start of wanting to know.

Elizabeth’s breath caught. She turned toward him, ready to answer—

—just as the sound of brisk footsteps broke through the stillness, bright and uncontainable.

Jane and Mr. Bingley came rushing up the path, their steps quick with excitement, their faces lit with unmistakable joy. They did not mean to interrupt—but happiness, when it blooms that fully, forgets how to wait.

"We have news!" Jane called, laughter dancing in her voice. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining.

"She has accepted me!" Bingley announced, nearly breathless with delight. "Miss Bennet—Jane—is to be my wife!"

For a beat, no one moved. Elizabeth blinked—not out of confusion, but from the sheer suddenness of it, the sharp turn from intimacy to celebration.

Then her smile broke, wide and bright and entirely unfeigned.

She rushed to her sister, embracing her with a joy that bubbled up from somewhere so deep it startled her.

"Oh Jane, dearest Jane," she whispered, her voice thick with feeling. "I am so, so happy for you."

And she was. Wholly, fiercely, without hesitation.

Only when the embrace eased did she glance back—and find that Mr. Darcy had already stepped away. A single pace. No more than that. But enough.

His expression was once more composed. Courteous. Unreadable. Elizabeth felt the loss of that closeness not as pain, but as absence—like warmth retreating from the edge of a fire.

Their small party, once divided in thought, now moved together again—the sounds of light laughter, of wedding talk, of futures newly spoken.

Elizabeth walked beside Jane, her arm linked with her sister’s, listening to the rhythm of their voices and the hope that danced between them.

She did not speak often—but she smiled, and it was real.

Her happiness for Jane was not lessened by the ache that lingered just behind it.

It simply lived beside it, quiet and steady .

She stole one last glance at Mr. Darcy. He walked behind Bingley, his gaze cast ahead—shoulders straight, expression composed. But something in his silence felt different now. Not closed. Not distant. Only waiting.

And that, Elizabeth thought, was enough. Not a promise. Not a certainty. But enough to carry her forward into the days ahead.