“Business?” Mr. Bennet’s eyebrows rose as he noticed the money scattered on the bench. “I was not aware that my daughter had entered your ladyship’s employment.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile at her father’s dry tone. “Lady Catherine wished to compensate me for nursing Mr. Darcy. I was explaining that my services were not rendered for payment.”
“Ah, I see.” Mr. Bennet’s gaze moved between them. “Well, Lady Catherine, since your business is concluded, perhaps you would allow me to escort you to your carriage? Unless you wish to meet the rest of my family, who should be returning shortly.”
“That will not be necessary,” Lady Catherine replied stiffly. “I have a considerable journey ahead.”
As Mr. Bennet led Lady Catherine back toward the house, she paused to deliver a final warning over her shoulder. “Remember what I have said, Miss Bennet. Some battles cannot be won, regardless of how cleverly one fights.”
Elizabeth remained in the garden, shaken by the confrontation. Lady Catherine’s threats carried genuine weight, particularly regarding Jane’s future happiness. The woman’s influence inLondon society was considerable, especially among the circles the Bingleys sought to enter.
Mrs. Hill walked toward her with a folded note. “From Netherfield, miss. The messenger said it requires no answer.”
“Thank you, Hill.” Elizabeth accepted the note. It was written with a neat, feminine hand, but whose?
She broke the seal and read the shaky, nearly illegible initials at the end, which readF. D.
Taking a steadying breath, Elizabeth returned to the garden bench. Petals drifted over the scattered banknotes fluttering in the breeze. Smoothing the note against her skirts, she read:
Miss Elizabeth, I write to express my deepest gratitude for your care during my illness, and my sincere regret for any distress my fevered words may have caused you.
Please know that while fever may have loosened my tongue, it did not invent my sentiments.
What was spoken in delirium was merely the unguarded truth of my heart.
I have instructed Bingley to return your book of flower meanings, which I hope reached you safely. Miss Jane Bennet left a pink rose pressed within its pages—I believe she chose it for its meaning. I hope you will understand that I share her perception.
With utmost respect and admiration,
F. D.
Elizabeth reread the letter, trying to make sense of Darcy’s words. They were too formal. He regretted the distress of his fevered words. Although he spoke of the sentiments as the truth of his heart, he also returned the book, signifying an end to their conversation.
“I love you. I have loved you for so long,”his voice echoed in her memory, desperate and raw in the candlelit sickroom. But here, in the cold light of recovery and propriety, he spoke only of regret and respect.
No reference to her promise not to leave his side. No invitation to further their acquaintance, only vague and polite terms like respect and admiration.
And the pink rose? The one she’d pinned her vague hopes on? Chosen by her dear sister, Jane, who’d shared her meaning with him. How condescending of him to imply she would attribute more sentiment.
He would return to good society with Lady Catherine’s blessings. The entire incident would be forgotten or never spoken of again. She could not pin hope on words spoken in delirium, nor should she.
Duty, family expectations, and an engagement planned since infancy would always stand between them.
The full weight of her situation settled upon her. She had defended her right to accept Darcy’s proposal to Lady Catherine, only to receive what now seemed like his gentle withdrawal. He regretted his fevered words. He acknowledged feelings he could not act upon. He appreciated her sister’s perception.
Elizabeth’s vision blurred, and she was startled to find tears gathering in her eyes. This was not the indignant weeping she had indulged in after his first proposal at Hunsford, when wounded pride and anger had fueled her tears. This was something quieter, deeper—a recognition of loss she had not been prepared to feel.
During those long nights at his bedside, something had shifted between them. She had glimpsed a Darcy she had never truly seen before—vulnerable, unguarded, capable of tenderness. And she had responded to that vision and hadallowed herself to care for him in ways that went beyond duty or compassion.
The note crumpled in her hand, and she allowed herself a rare moment of complete release. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, unwitnessed by family or servants. For this brief interlude, she need not be strong, witty Elizabeth Bennet, facing adversity with a lifted chin and ready retort.
She was simply a young woman, alone, disappointed by a man she now regarded with a hope she should never have entertained.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A HEATED OFFER
A few daysafter Lady Catherine departed, Darcy managed to dress and walk haltingly down the stairs. He was still weak, but he could not stay abed. Not when he needed to speak to Elizabeth Bennet. The only solution was to take a carriage to Longbourn.
