Page 64

The next morning dawned clear and mild, the kind of golden summer light that ought to have lifted any lingering melancholy from the heart.

But Elizabeth woke with a heaviness that no warmth or brightness could dispel.

She was dressed and gazing out the window when a soft knock sounded, and Mrs. Gardiner entered with her usual gentle grace.

Elizabeth turned, expectant but uncertain.

"Lizzy," her aunt said with quiet purpose, drawing the chair near the window. "I have spoken with your uncle. We think you should come with us."

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed, her hands tightening slightly around the shawl draped across her lap.

Mrs. Gardiner continued, her tone warm but firm.

"There is something—some shadow on your spirit you have not named in full, though you’ve shared more than I ever expected.

We may not fully understand it, but we know it is real.

And we believe, whatever the source, that time away may be of some good to you. "

Elizabeth tried to speak, but her throat constricted.

"We do not say you must go to Pemberley," Mrs. Gardiner added gently. "That will be decided once we reach Derbyshire. But you told Colonel Fitzwilliam that Pemberley was where it all began—where you and Mr. Darcy truly came to know each other. That seems to me to mean something."

At that moment, Mary entered the room with a quiet knock and a basket of travel sewing. She paused as she caught the mood, then set her bundle on the small table and took a seat near her sister.

"Aunt Gardiner is right," Mary said, surprising them both. "If there is even a chance that you might find what you seek—or who you seek—you ought to go. And if it leads to nothing... you will be with family."

Elizabeth turned to look at her sister, tears rising unbidden.

Mrs. Gardiner leaned forward and took Elizabeth's hand. "Come with us. We shall not press you further. But I believe you will regret staying more than you will ever regret going."

Elizabeth swallowed hard, then nodded slowly. "Very well. I will come."

The house was already bustling with the energy of farewells.

The Gardiner children had been left in the care of the Bennets and were now running about with Lydia, full of excitement over the promise of games and picnics.

Mrs. Bennet called last-minute instructions from the drawing room, while Hill directed the footmen to the carriage with the ease of a general.

Elizabeth stood at the bottom of the stairs, dressed for travel, as her sisters came to bid her farewell.

Jane was all kindness and hope, embracing her tightly and whispering that all would be well.

Lydia, too occupied with teasing the children, gave only a distracted hug.

Kitty, who had been quieter of late, took her hand and said, with uncharacteristic sincerity, "Write to us, Lizzy.

Tell us if you see something beautiful."

Mary stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting last. She did not speak at once, only reached out and embraced Elizabeth firmly. When she pulled back, her expression was earnest. "You are braver than I," she said simply. "Do not forget that."

Mr. Bennet emerged from his library just in time to give his daughter a quick embrace and a dry smile. "I suppose I must surrender you to your aunt’s care. Try not to fall into a river or startle any horses. Your mother would never forgive me."

Mrs. Bennet, fluttering about with unnecessary instructions for the journey, waved them off with loud affection. "Do remember to write if you meet anyone of consequence. Especially at inns—one never knows!"

As the Gardiner coach pulled into the drive, Mr. Bingley arrived on horseback, having ridden over to bid farewell.

His sisters, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, had declined to accompany him, preferring instead to remain at Netherfield and make observations about Lizzy’s peculiar behavior from a safe distance.

"Miss Elizabeth," Mr. Bingley said, doffing his hat and taking her hand in farewell, "I wish you a pleasant journey. I am certain this little adventure will bring you some peace."

Elizabeth smiled, grateful for his kindness, though she could not help the pang that followed. Where was his friend? What excuse could account for so long a silence?

Elizabeth climbed into the coach and settled beside her aunt, her uncle opposite.

As the wheels began to turn, she looked back once—at Jane and Mary standing on the steps, at her father with one hand raised in quiet farewell.

Her heart tightened, but she smiled and waved, holding fast to the composure she had practiced for days. The journey had begun.

With every mile, the world grew quieter. The house, the voices, the steady weight of waiting—all fell behind as the countryside opened before them in slow, unhurried measure. Elizabeth rested her head against the window, the rhythm of the carriage offering no comfort but at least some steadiness .

It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay—Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc.

, are sufficiently known. And yet, for Elizabeth, each passing mile seemed to carry a weight the original path had not borne.

The same roads, the same names, but altered by all she carried with her.

A small part of Derbyshire was all her present concern.

To the little town of Lambton—the scene of her aunt’s former residence, and where a few acquaintances still lingered—they bent their steps, having seen all the principal wonders of the countryside.

Pemberley, she knew, lay within a few miles—but no mention was made of visiting it.

Mrs. Gardiner had promised, and true to her nature, she would not press Elizabeth to do what her heart could no longer bear with ease.

And yet, Elizabeth could feel its nearness like a tide swelling at the edges of her thoughts—persistent, quiet, and inescapable.

He might know I am coming this way, she told herself. She had spoken of Lambton once—casually, almost cautiously—when the Colonel had asked where she might travel. And if he had told Fitzwilliam… if Fitzwilliam cared…

But four weeks of silence had begun to erode even the most reasonable hopes.

She tried to quiet her mind as the carriage rolled through Lambton’s familiar lanes, but the rhythm brought no peace. She had dreamt of this journey before—once with wonder, once with love. But now, she crossed each mile with a heart worn thin by doubt.

The inn was just as Elizabeth remembered it—modest, clean, and comfortably unremarkable. She stepped down from the carriage with a strange sense of dislocation, as though time had folded in upon itself and placed her back in a scene she knew too well, but could no longer enter the same way.

As the trunks were being brought in, she lingered near the doorway, her gaze fixed on the narrow road that curved northward through the hills. Pemberley lay just beyond them. Nearer now than it had been in her thoughts for weeks.

Two serving girls passed near the inn yard, arms full of linen. One murmured, just low enough to miss—almost.

“They say something’s wrong at the great house.”

Elizabeth turned at once, her voice sharper than she intended. “Pardon—did you say something wrong at the great house, Pemberley? ”

The maid startled, dipping a quick curtsey. “Oh—only talk, miss. Likely nothin’. Just—some say the master’s not been heard from in a while.”

Mrs. Gardiner had come up beside her. “Heard from?” she repeated gently. “Has something happened?”

The girl hesitated. “I only know what Cook said her cousin told her—he works the stables there. Mr. Darcy writes every week, like clockwork. But it's been—near on four weeks now. Not a word.”

Elizabeth’s voice was quiet but steady. “Was he expected home?”

The girl shook her head. “Not quite yet—though soon, I think. But last week, the steward sent a letter to London about some urgent matter. No reply came.”

The innkeeper, having drawn closer, lowered his voice. “A letter did arrive—eventually. But not from Mr. Darcy. From his cousin. It said there had been... an accident.”

Mrs. Gardiner’s brow furrowed. “An accident?”

“That’s all we’ve heard,” the innkeeper replied grimly. “Some say it was an illness. Others a fall. But most think—” He paused. “Well, the talk is he may not have survived.”

Elizabeth’s hand reached for the doorframe. Her fingers tightened against the wood until her knuckles paled.

Mrs. Gardiner stepped nearer. “Lizzy—”

But Elizabeth shook her head, her voice low and certain. “No. If he were gone… I would know. I would feel it.”

Her voice trembled, but the conviction in it was unmistakable. She did not weep. Not yet.

Mrs. Gardiner exchanged a glance with her husband, then gently placed a hand at Elizabeth’s back. “Come inside, my love. You must rest.”

Elizabeth allowed herself to be led. But her thoughts did not follow.

They remained fixed on the house beyond the hills—on the silence that had lasted too long, on letters that had ceased, and whispers that said what her heart would not believe.