Page 67

Mr. Gardiner tapped twice on the panel. The coach slowed, then drew to a halt near the narrow break in the trees.

Elizabeth pressed forward, eyes scanning the curve of the road. “Turn back,” she said, the urgency rising in her voice. “Please—toward the house. ”

Mrs. Gardiner turned, startled. “Elizabeth—”

“I have to know,” she said, already shifting in her seat. “I know they turned us away, but that carriage—it belongs to Pemberley. If he’s in it—”

Mr. Gardiner exchanged a glance with his wife, then nodded. “Very well.”

The carriage turned. As they approached the drive, Elizabeth leaned forward, straining to see.

Her heart pounded. She saw the Pemberley carriage had stopped before the house.

A footman stood ready. Colonel Fitzwilliam had stepped down and was issuing brisk instructions, one hand still resting on the open carriage door.

Elizabeth pressed a hand to the glass. Was Fitzwilliam—her Fitzwilliam—within?

Colonel Fitzwilliam had not slept in thirty-six hours, and it showed. His cravat was askew, his coat dust-streaked, his jaw dark with stubble. He had never been so weary—or so aggravated—with one man.

The moment the wheels crunched onto the Pemberley drive, Darcy had tried to rise.

"Lie back," Richard snapped, pressing him down. "You’ll tear the stitches again."

Darcy grimaced, muttering something indistinct and unprintable.

Richard had swung out of the carriage and barked to the footman, “Send for Mrs. Reynolds. And the physician, if he hasn’t already been called. Tell them—Mr. Darcy is home.”

Mrs. Reynolds was already descending the front steps at a near run, wringing her hands. “Colonel Fitzwilliam! Thank heavens. There were such dreadful rumors—”

“Later,” he said. “He needs a bed, not explanations. Where is the doctor?”

“I sent for him the moment we saw your crest at the rise.”

Richard gave a curt nod. “Good. We need—”

He stopped. A second coach was approaching up the lane—a modest, hired vehicle from Lambton.

Mrs. Reynolds turned sharply. “That’s the same carriage from earlier.” Her eyes narrowed. She snapped her fingers, sending two footmen down the path to intercept it before it reached the steps.

They moved swiftly, halting the vehicle at a respectful distance—close enough to observe, far enough to preserve the master’s privacy .

Inside the halted coach, Elizabeth’s breath caught. “I’m so close,” she murmured. “I just know it.”

“Let me out,” Elizabeth said, fumbling with the latch. “Please.”

Mr. Gardiner touched her wrist. “Lizzy—”

“I must,” she said. “Just let me speak to someone.”

He relented with a nod. “Go carefully.”

She stepped down. The gravel crunched beneath her feet. The air felt too still. The house, too far. But she moved forward all the same.

One footman moved to intercept her. Another turned back toward the Gardiners’ coach.

Elizabeth craned her neck, searching for a glimpse beyond the line of livery and wheels—but the Pemberley carriage blocked her view entirely. Only Colonel Fitzwilliam stood visible, issuing sharp orders.

He was here. He had to be. He would not have let her go without a word—unless he could not.

Richard gave a tight nod to the footman. “Good. We’ll need—” He broke off, glancing toward the drive as the sound of unfamiliar voices reached him—low-pitched and urgent, quite unlike the calm of household staff.

Mrs. Reynolds was already descending the steps again, intercepting a small party. A gentleman and two women—travelers, clearly. Her voice was calm but firm. “I’m sorry. The family is not receiving callers.”

Richard glanced up for a moment. Fleetingly, he took in the visitors, something about the younger woman striking him as familiar. But his thoughts quickly returned to Darcy’s condition.

He crouched beside the open carriage once more. “Rest,” he muttered, smoothing the blanket higher across Darcy’s chest. “No more heroics.”

Darcy didn’t respond, though his brow twitched faintly. He was half-conscious at best—his breathing shallow, skin damp with strain. The journey had taken more than Richard had feared.

“Fool,” he muttered, not without affection. “You had to come, didn’t you?”

A sudden shift in the air. A voice .

“Thomas,” Elizabeth said, clearly.

The young footman blinked at her, startled. “Miss?”

“Thomas Harding,” she continued. “Your father is the groundsman near the orchard. Your mother makes the best gooseberry jam in Derbyshire.”

He gaped. “How did—?”

The second footman shifted. “That’s true.”

Elizabeth turned to him. “Jameson. You met Mary Wilkins at the harvest fair two years ago. You plan to marry her next spring—though your father still doesn’t know.”

Jameson’s mouth fell open. “I—how could you possibly—?”

Mrs. Reynolds stepped forward at last, expression tight. “Miss, the family is not receiving callers.”

Elizabeth didn’t flinch. “I understand. But I am not here as a gossip or a guest. I ask only that you inform Mr. Darcy that Elizabeth Bennet is here.”

Mrs. Reynolds’s brow tightened. “The master is unwell. I cannot disturb him.”

“I do not ask for an audience,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Only that he know I am near. If he cannot speak, let him hear my name.”

A pause. The housekeeper’s eyes flickered.

“If you have a card—”

“I do not,” Elizabeth said. “Only a name. If that is not enough, I will go.”

Mrs. Reynolds hesitated—but before she could answer, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice rang out in a sharp curse.

“Damnation! He’s fainted—again! Help me—gently!”

Elizabeth did not wait. The Colonel’s alarm shattered her restraint. She ran past the footmen, who startled at the shout and made no move to stop her.

Richard glanced up—and stared, stunned, as she flew toward them, skirts lifting in her haste.

He blinked. “Miss Bennet?”

She did not answer. “Is he—?”

“Alive,” Richard managed. “But too weak to— ”

She was already at the carriage door, reaching up to grasp the edge. “Fitzwilliam.”

He lay slumped against the seat cushions, pale and unmoving. Her hand found his—cool, but not lifeless.

Without hesitation, Elizabeth stepped onto the footboard and leaned into the carriage, her fingers trembling as she reached for him.

“You must wake,” she whispered, her face near his. “I came all this way. You cannot leave me now.”