His mouth twitched, attempting to smile, but he fought it, for he could not be sure. When last he saw her, she had thought unspeakably ill of him. Well, not unspeakably—she had articulated her dislike rather eloquently in fact. He laughed aloud then clamped his lips together in consternation. Was he to break into song next? His conjectures were tenuous at best, his giddiness unwarranted.
The thought of Elizabeth now defending his honour was outside of sublime, yet he could not imagine what might have affected such a change of heart. Surely not his letter, as bitter and remorseless as he knew it had been. Reason compelled him to doubt, yet“…the most exquisite eyes.”Who else could it be? Longing increased his pace to one just shy of a run as he raced home to retrieve the letter that had lain ignored in his desk drawer for weeks. Fool that he was, he had eschewed reading Bingley’s mentions of Elizabeth; now he was desperate for any news that might substantiate his hopes.
Godfrey attempted to address him as he burst through the front door, but Darcy barked an impatient ‘Later!’and dived inside his study, slamming the door shut behind him.
He rifled through three drawers before he found it. With great trepidation, he lowered himself into his chair and began, meticulously, to re-read it.
Bingley extended another invitation to Netherfield, said something of a fishing party, touched briefly on his sister’s increase and his venture in Nova Scotia. Darcy sat up straighter. Bingley wrote that Elizabeth encouraged his suit, Elizabeth was as engaging as ever, Elizabeth still enjoyed walking. Then there was something of a picnic, a mention of Bingley’s boots… and in a scrawled postscript at the foot of the page, his salvation.
P.S. Almost forgot. I have a message for you from Miss Elizabeth. Your quarrel in Kent troubles her. She asked that I tell you she is sorry. Tried to assure her it was unnecessary, but she insisted.
Early evening found Darcy bathed in the last mellow rays of sunlight at the library window, looking out across the gardens. All arrangementsfor travel had been set in motion. He could not avoid a meeting with Myers on Thursday, but he would wait no longer than that. Friday would see him in Hertfordshire.
Anticipation thrummed in his chest. He had no idea what reception he might expect from Elizabeth, but her message of apology had taught him to hope as he had scarcely ever allowed himself to hope before. He was not fool enough to think she meant to apologise for refusing him, but she had forgiven him, and that was enough to have liberated every passionate feeling he had battled these long weeks to repress. He felt nigh on delirious with happiness and restless with impatience to see her.
Long evening shadows crept across the gardens, and the library ebbed into darkness. His lips curled into a slow smile as he basked in the warmth of her long-coveted and fierce loyalty, for he was now certain it had been Elizabeth at the theatre. He could just imagine the arch of her eyebrow as she engaged Wrenshaw, the small, dangerous smile as she set her trap, the flash of her eyes as she cut him down, and the dazzling smile that obliterated all affront and left her opponent dumbfounded. It made him wild to hold her, to tell her how he adored the liveliness of her mind. How he had survived this long without her was suddenly impossible to comprehend.
It galled him to think of the weeks he had wasted wallowing in despair. He longed to know all he had missed and tortured himself envisaging every smile and witticism he had not seen. As the sun dipped below the horizon and he was plunged into gloom, that longing materialised into a recollection. Bingley had sent two letters. Without a moment’s hesitation, he strode to his study, anxious for any and all news of Elizabeth he could find.
This letter took longer to locate, but he eventually found it at the back of a drawer beneath the household ledger. He moved closer to the only lit candle in the room, broke the seal and began to read. And as he read, all the blood drained from his face, all breath left him. His world cracked, began to crumble, and then shattered into dust. His heart, he was quite sure, stopped dead in his chest.
She was gone.
Netherfield
25thMay
Darcy,
Pray, come?—
There has been an attaa dreadful incident.Something has happened that has caused me suchcaused me much anguish
I beg you to come. Your acquaintance Wickham has attacked Miss Elizabeth.
He had been pestering her for some time. She disliked his attentions. It was even necessary for me to intervene on one occasion. Would that I had done more! I shall never forgive myself for not preventing this. I saw him grab her and I swear I ran, but I could not reach her in time, and he hit her so damned hard. Dear God, she just crumpled! I cannot bear to think on it, yet I see it over and again. He was ape-drunk. I held her in my arms all the way to Longbourn, but she never awoke. Her family’s distress is difficult to behold for had I but done moreto?—
I can write no more, ’tis too distressing. Pray come, Darcy. I need you, my friend.
Bingley
For a long time, nothing moved. Not the air. Not him. Not his heart.
Then, as though mired in treacle, he reached for the stack of papers containing his correspondence from Colonel Forster. With his vision blackening at the edges, he unfolded the uppermost letter, though he knew very well what it said.
“Condition very grave. Recovery increasingly unlikely.”
He lifted Bingley’s letter and re-read that also.
“She never awoke.”
He let both letters slide from his grasp and watched them flutter innocuously to the ground.
Until that moment, Darcy had never known the true meaning of despair. The pain of Elizabeth’s rejection was rendered insignificant in comparison to the devastating grief that overpowered him. He grunted as though he had received a blow to the gut. Nausea engulfedhim. He sucked in a desperate, ragged breath, then his anguish tore from him in a single, hoarse cry that resounded like a death knell around the chamber.
Everything was lost. Elizabeth was gone.
There came a knock at the door—unearthly loud. He did not think he gave any instruction to enter, but the door opened nonetheless. Godfrey stepped cautiously around it, his candle casting horrible deathly shadows across his face. “Mr Darcy—sir, forgive me, but I heard a shout. Is aught amiss?”
