Darcy’s mind writhed in agony, unable to settle upon a single coherent thought. He attempted to speak but stopped when his voice caught.
“Sir, is there anything at all I can do to be of assistance?”
He gave a brief shake of his head. It was all he could do.
The butler hesitated, his eyes darting about the room as though searching for the cause of his master’s distress before reluctantly taking his leave. The door clicked closed. Darcy pressed his fist to his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle the agonised groan that burst forth. His knees threatened to buckle. He sank into the nearest chair and dropped his head into his hands. His eyes closed, and an influx of images assaulted him: her beautiful smile, her dancing eyes, her joyous laugh… His fingers clawed his scalp. His chest constricted.
“Oh, God, not her. I beg you. Not my Elizabeth.”
He knew not for how long he remained there. Only the coolness of the room and the guttering candle recalled him to his surroundings. Ignoring the excruciating hollowness in his chest, he rose to pull the bell cord. At some point, Godfrey arrived. Darcy rasped out his instructions, his dry lips cracking. Godfrey assured him all would be in place by first light and left.
Before quitting the room himself, Darcy penned a brief note and set it out for delivery on the morrow. Then, he drifted through the dark halls to his bedchamber, where he slumped into a different chair and returned his head to his hands. He could see naught in the obsidian abyss of night, but in the deathly hush, he heard the first of his tears drop to the floor with a dull thud. It was followed by many,many more, as he surrendered to his soul-shattering desolation and wept.
Wednesday 10 June 1812, London
Georgiana had been delighted with her brother’s invitation to spend the entire day visiting galleries and museums together, perceiving it as testament to their recent advancement in understanding. She arrived in time for breakfast in anticipation of an agreeable day, only to find him gone and the house in a state of muted alarm.
“Mr Darcy left early this morning for Netherfield,” Godfrey informed her. His expression convinced her there was nothing auspicious about the destination.
“Has something happened to Mr Bingley?”
“Not Bingley, Cuz.”
She started and turned. Her cousin Fitzwilliam was coming through the front door, his expression grim. He held out a letter. “He sent me this.”
Fitzwilliam, it was Elizabeth whom Wickham assaulted. Bingley wrote with news of it weeks ago, but I have only today read his letter. He wrote that she never awoke. She is gone.
Georgiana’s stomach turned over. “Mr Wickham? How could he?”
“Never mind that. It is your brother who concerns me now.”
With the efficiency of one used to command, her cousin soon gleaned from the staff all they knew of Darcy’s mysterious behaviour the previous day. Georgiana was particularly alarmed by Godfrey’s account of her brother’s excessive anguish, for not even when her father passed away had he revealed such an excess of emotion.
It was his journey to Hertfordshire that baffled her cousin. “She has been dead a fortnight. There does not seem any point in going unless he means to…” He frowned but seemed to think better of finishing the thought. Instead, he simply concluded, “I think I must go thither also.”
“Ought I to come?”
“No, I think it best if I go alone.”
Georgiana reached to grip his forearm. “Look after him. This will grieve him deeply.”
“I know,” Fitzwilliam replied gravely. Then he patted her hand. “But try not to worry. He is an obstinate old ox. He will weather it in time.” Promising to send word as soon as he was able, her cousin left in search of the stable master and directions to Netherfield.
Georgiana declined Godfrey’s offer of breakfast but, too agitated to go home directly, requested some tea in the morning room instead. She was distraught for her beloved brother, unable to cease agonising over what he must be suffering. She had privately hoped he might find a way to resolve matters with Miss Bennet, but now, unthinkably, the man with whom she had once fancied herself in love had dashed all such dreams.
Godfrey cleared his throat from the doorway. “Pray, excuse the intrusion, Miss Darcy. A letter has just arrived for Mr Darcy. Given the circumstances, I thought you might like to know it is from Hertfordshire.”
The letter was addressed in an unfamiliar and shockingly untidy hand. Georgiana took it instinctively although there was no question she would open it. That did not prevent her from dwelling on the wretched news it must contain. What all Miss Bennet’s poor family and friends must have endured! What her own family might have suffered had Darcy not intervened last summer.
It did not bear thinking about. She set down her tea and stood to leave. Before quitting the house, she slipped into her brother’s study to put the letter where he would find it upon his return. As she crossed the room, she saw another, lying crumpled and forgotten on the floor, and upon crouching to retrieve it, yet another, tucked beneath his desk.
She had no wish to read either yet could not help but notice, as she folded them away, that one was in the same hand as the unopened letter arrived that morning, and both were sent from Hertfordshire. She shivered, for they evidently bore the news of Miss Bennet’s passing and immediately brought to mind the vision of her brother reading them—and then dropping them in despair. She hastily placed all three letters atop a stack of other correspondence on the desk and left the house to wait impatiently at home for news.
The same day, Hertfordshire
“You!” Fitzwilliam yelled, leaping from the carriage before the horses came to a halt. “Where can I find your commanding officer?”
The soldier turned, his lips already forming a cuss, but upon espying Fitzwilliam’s own scarlet coat and vast array of decorations, instead drew up into a salute and gave a hasty direction to Colonel Forster’s establishment.
