“He asked me about it, the naming. I told him William was named after his father, perhaps grandfather to be precise.”
“Ah, yes, Fitzwilliam’s father. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. My brother-in-law, his father, possessed the same remarkable ability to mean well while saying exactly the wrong thing. Lady Anne was forever translating his intentions for those who might otherwise have taken offense.”
The mention of Darcy’s mother created a pang in Elizabeth’s chest. Another relationship lost to circumstance—William would never know his grandmother, who by all accounts had been as kind as she was dignified.
A companionable silence fell between them as both women contemplated the man who connected them. Elizabeth found herself absently reaching for the chain around her neck, her fingers finding the hard outline of the ring beneath her bodice.
Lady Eleanor’s sharp eyes missed nothing. “You gave him back his belongings, I understand.”
“Yes. Everything except…” Elizabeth’s hand stilled at her neckline.
“Except his signet ring,” Lady Eleanor finished for her. “Georgiana mentioned you still have it.”
“I should return it. It’s a family heirloom, passed down through generations of Darcys.”
“Yet you hesitate,” Lady Eleanor observed, her tone gentle rather than accusatory.
“It’s the only proof I have,” Elizabeth admitted softly. “The marriage license was stolen, the registry page mysteriously blank, and the clergyman vanished. Without this ring…”
She trailed off, unable to complete the thought. Without the ring, what tangible evidence remained of her marriage? What proof could she offer that she was more than a fallen woman with an illegitimate child?
“Is that the only reason?” Lady Eleanor pressed gently. “Or is there something else that prevents you from returning it?”
Elizabeth met the older woman’s gaze, finding unexpected understanding there. “I fear he would explain it away,” she confessed. “That he would create some rational explanation for how his signet ring came into my possession that does not involve marriage.”
“And the truth is too precious to risk,” Lady Eleanor finished for her.
“The truth is that he placed it on my finger himself,” Elizabeth said, the memory so vivid it brought unexpected tears to her eyes. “That he looked into my eyes and promised to return to me, to protect me, to honor our marriage. That for one brief, perfect moment, he chose me.”
Lady Eleanor studied her with gentle understanding. “You still love him.”
It wasn’t a question, but Elizabeth found herself responding as if it were. “How can I? The man I married exists only in my memory now.”
“And yet you do not despise him.” Eleanor’s gaze was steady, knowing.
Elizabeth attempted a deflection. “I never said?—”
“My dear,” Eleanor interrupted softly, “you need not tell me what I already perceive. I have watched you these weeks. The wayyour eyes follow him when you think no one sees. The way your temper rises only because your heart is already engaged.”
Elizabeth drew back, her cheeks hot. “You mistake pity for affection.”
“Do I?” Eleanor’s smile was kind, almost maternal. “Then answer me this plainly: if you did not love him, would his blundering words wound you so deeply?”
The room seemed to tilt. Elizabeth, who had faced down pompous clergymen, imperious dowagers, and even Darcy himself, suddenly found herself without defense. She pressed her lips together, struggling for composure.
Eleanor’s kind eyes took her in. “There is no shame in love, Elizabeth. Least of all in loving a man who, for all his faults, clearly adores you—even if he cannot yet remember why.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, suddenly weary of pretense. “Yes,” she whispered. “Though it defies all reason and sense. When he looks at me with confusion, trying to reconcile the pull he feels with what he believes to be true… when he struggles to understand why I affect him so deeply…”
“When he promises to be worthy of your forbearance?” Lady Eleanor suggested.
Elizabeth’s eyes opened in surprise. “Georgiana has been quite thorough in her report.”
“She worries for you both. As do I.”
“Tonight, at the end of our conversation, there was a moment,” Elizabeth said, her voice softening at the memory. “When he admitted his disadvantage, when he acknowledged that I know him better than he knows himself. There was such openness in his expression. Such a willingness to understand.”
“That is the real Fitzwilliam,” Lady Eleanor said. “Beneath the pride and the ceremony, there is a man of profound feeling and integrity.”
