Page 69

After the silence had stretched too long, Colonel Fitzwilliam rose and crossed to the hearth, one hand braced against the mantle.

He did not look at her as he said, with a weariness that went deeper than fatigue, “You must remain at Pemberley, Miss Bennet. I beg you. Until he wakes, until he is well enough to see for himself that you have come.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked to Elizabeth at once, but Elizabeth had already nodded. Her voice, when it came, was hushed. “We will stay. Of course we will.”

Rooms were prepared without further discussion, and the Gardiners and Elizabeth were shown to the guest wing—the older, quieter part of the house, seldom used save for parties or passing acquaintances.

The room into which Elizabeth had been shown was handsome—more than handsome, truly—but it was not hers.

It bore none of the quiet intimacy of the western suite where she had once nursed her husband through fever, nor the golden light that had once gilded the curls of a sleeping child.

The furniture here was more ornate, the ceilings higher, the colours paler.

The guest wing, though elegant, lacked the deep familiarity that had made Pemberley feel less like a grand estate and more like a home.

And how strange, how jarring, to be here now—not as mistress, not as wife, but merely as a visitor under supervision.

She moved to the tall sash window, drawing back the sheer curtain to gaze out upon the slope that fell gently toward the eastern gardens.

From this angle, she could just make out the shimmer of the little brook that wound its way through the park— grander now, in summer’s full bloom, though it was the same stream where she had once stood with Darcy, watching the water glint beneath the willows while he cradled their infant son against his shoulder.

That memory felt like sunlight pressed between pages—intact, but untouchable.

The floor beneath her was stone-tiled and partially covered by a fine Turkish rug.

Everything was exquisite, from the inlaid walnut writing desk to the watercolour of the Derbyshire hills hanging above the hearth.

A little vase of late roses sat on the table by the bed—some thoughtful servant’s touch.

But it might have been a museum. It was all too still .

She had never dwelt in this part of the house.

Of course, she had toured its rooms as mistress, ensuring every detail was in order for guests.

But she had never lived here—not as she had in the west. That wing had become her true domain, the quiet heart of their shared life: the echo of his tread in the halls, the scent of his shaving soap in the dressing room, the books he left open in the library, always with a ribbon or a pressed flower to mark his place.

Pemberley had been theirs—not merely a home, but a memory laid out in rooms and corridors, in thresholds crossed and seasons endured together.

And now, she could not even cross the threshold.

“Improper,” the Gardiners had gently insisted. “Not while he is confined to bed, my dear. The servants would talk. We must be cautious, for his sake as well as yours.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had been no less unyielding. “He asks for you every time he wakes,” he had admitted, tired and exasperated. “But until the fever abates, he must not be disturbed. He barely knows where he is.”

Elizabeth had offered no argument—at least, not aloud.

Yet every instinct had urged her to defy them.

No one knew those rooms as she did. She had spent a hundred mornings there: reading aloud at his bedside, weeping in silence, laughing when he had strength to jest. She had loved him there—fiercely, wholly, without reservation.

But she had held her tongue.

And so she now sat in the library, properly chaperoned, politely removed, and inwardly desolate.

Her aunt had attempted, with quiet perseverance, to distract her—offering tea, gentle conversation, even a drive through the golden haze of August fields.

But Elizabeth had scarcely responded, her gaze too often fixed upon the west-facing windows.

At length, Mrs. Gardiner had been called away, and Elizabeth remained—still, silent, a forgotten volume resting open upon her lap.

Though her eyes moved across the printed lines, her thoughts wandered elsewhere—to the still chamber beyond the west wing, to the man she loved.

In her mind, he drifted between fever and fitful rest, the curls at his brow dampened by some other hand.

How she longed to be there, to offer comfort, to press cool linen to his temple and whisper that she had come.

She knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that he needed her.

Just as she resolved once more to protest her exile, the door opened, and the butler entered, a sealed packet in his hand.

“An express for Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing slightly. “It arrived by special messenger not ten minutes past.”

Elizabeth reached for it at once. Her pulse quickened as she recognised Jane’s delicate hand upon the direction. She broke the seal, unfolding the note within .

My dearest Lizzy,

These were given to me only this morning. Mrs. Hill had the maids deep-clean Papa’s office, and they discovered a letter that had slipped behind the escritoire—addressed to Mr. Bingley, and clearly urgent. We waited for him to arrive so it might be placed in his hands directly.

To our surprise, Mr. Bingley brought another with him. He said it had just arrived with the post, having been misdirected to Herefordshire and only now returned to us. I fear the direction was poorly written—Mr. Bingley joked that he must have addressed it himself.

Upon reading them, we knew you ought to see them without delay. I send them now under my hand. I cannot say what you will feel when you read them. Only that you are not alone.

—J.

Two other pages, folded and travel-worn, slipped free of the note and nearly fluttered to the carpet. Elizabeth caught them and brought them quickly to the desk.

The first was short—urgent, direct, composed with clipped precision.

Though the hand was unfamiliar, the voice within was unmistakably Colonel Fitzwilliam’s.

The date made her breath catch—it had been written the very day Mr. Darcy was meant to arrive at Netherfield.

There could have been no knowledge yet of how grave the injury would become.

But even then, the Colonel had written—on instinct, driven by something deeper than duty: the sense that she must be reached.

And since propriety forbade a direct address, he had turned to Bingley—the only conduit that might carry such news to her in time.

She set it aside and opened the second. The lines were uneven, the hand unsteady. Though formal, the script bore signs of illness: a tremor in the stroke, the occasional hesitation. This one had come from Darcy himself.

It told of his slow emergence from fever, of seven days insensible, taking nothing but sips coaxed between clenched teeth. The swelling had lessened only by degrees, and the fever had broken at last on the fifth night. He had opened his eyes. He had spoken. And then—he had begun to ask.

Why had no one come? Had the express been lost? Had she received it?

Elizabeth’s eyes burned. Of course he had written—through pain, through fever, through the disoriented haze of illness. She remembered Jane’s note: the letter had been misdirected to Herefordshire.

It did not surprise her. His hand must have been uncertain. But what a thing—to love someone enough to write through pain .

As she sat staring at the letters, the silence shifted—not peace, but anticipation. The sense that one last thread had yet to unravel.

The door opened once more. Mrs. Reynolds entered first, her expression subdued. Behind her stood Colonel Fitzwilliam, who looked graver than the night before, though the resolve in his bearing was unmistakable.

“I hope we do not intrude,” the Colonel said quietly. “But something has come to light that you ought to hear.”

Mrs. Reynolds stepped forward, her voice low but steady.

“Miss Bennet, we received a letter this morning from Mrs. Hargrove, the housekeeper at Darcy House. It seems one of the maids, while tending the master’s study, found a curious amount of ash in the hearth.

The fire had not been lit in weeks—nor should it have been. ”

Elizabeth straightened, her hands still resting on the desk.

“In the ashes,” Mrs. Reynolds continued, “she discovered fragments of burnt paper. Most were too charred to identify. But one bore a name—‘Charles Bingley’—still visible.”

Elizabeth’s voice was quiet but sharp. “Who could have done it?”

The Colonel’s reply came at once. “Lady Catherine.”

“She arrived just after the attack,” he added grimly. “Claimed she wished only to ensure the household was in order. No one questioned her access—she was family, and you were still missing. But she had no business in the study. She lit a fire where none had been before.”

Elizabeth drew a breath, slowly. “Then she meant for him to remain in ignorance. She severed every path between us.”

Silence fell, broken only by the crackling hearth behind them.

After a pause, Mrs. Reynolds cleared her throat. “There was another letter, miss. Not from London, but from here.”

Elizabeth looked up, brows lifted slightly.

“It arrived just a day or two before the master returned,” Mrs. Reynolds explained. “With Mr. Darcy so unwell, and Mr. Ellis unsure whether to forward it on to London, it was kept safely with the personal post until he might review it himself.”

Elizabeth gave a dry huff of breath—almost a laugh, though without amusement. “Naturally. If that one had gone missing as well, it would have been the cherry on top of an already lavish cake. ”

Mrs. Reynolds blinked at her tone, uncertain whether to smile.

The Colonel took the letter from her and opened it silently. Elizabeth said nothing; she already knew its contents. She had stood beside Bingley when he penned it—had seen him wrestle with what to say, how much hope to reveal.

At last, she murmured, “I waited. I kept hoping. But now I wonder if I did not have the easier burden. He was hurt. He needed me. And she burned his letter. How could he not conclude that everything I said—that all I told him at Rosings, at Gracechurch Street—was nothing but a lie?”

The Colonel folded the page. “He may have questioned,” he said carefully. “But he never truly believed you had forsaken him. If he had, Miss Bennet, he would not have come.”

Elizabeth turned toward him, her eyes searching his face.

“He left London against every warning,” the Colonel went on. “The physicians urged delay. He could scarcely stand. But he insisted. He believed—he needed to believe—that if you had once loved him, as you had said… you would come.”

His voice gentled. “He did not travel for pride. He came for hope.”

Elizabeth said nothing, but something in her face changed. Not quite relief—but a softening. A loosening of breath.

Then came a knock at the door. A maid entered, curtseying. “Dr. Wentworth is come, ma’am, to examine the patient.”

Mrs. Reynolds and the Colonel withdrew quietly, leaving Elizabeth alone with the letters—and with silence no longer empty, but expectant.