When he finished, he read it again. His hands tightened on the pages. Never had he so despised a man he had merely met once. That Fiennes should treat anyone, but especially Elizabeth, in such a manner was abhorrent. The fiend had clawed his way from obscurity only to use his cunning for cruelty. It sickened him. To twist intelligence into instruments of torment—to prey upon a young girl’s innocence and a father’s trust—such depravity defied comprehension. Rage threatened to rise, yet he forced it down; the man was beyond all punishment now, and anger could not mend what she had endured. In Fiennes he beheld the corruption of everything honour was meant to protect, and it strengthened his resolve that Elizabeth should never again be subject to any man’s pride—even his own.
Understanding dawned, and many small observations from the past weeks fell into place. “Suzanne,” he murmured. “LadyWestland’s first husband.” Everything was suddenly clear—Elizabeth’s fear, her reticence, her mistrust. She had not loved Fiennes but loathed him. He had, as the letter said, terrorised her. That she had escaped so soon was a miracle; yet the scars remained, and now, in her own trembling words, he saw why she had recoiled from him at every unwitting offence. Shame touched him as he recalled his own missteps, his proud impatience, the moments when he might have frightened where he meant only to admire.
Yet one passage shone like a beacon amidst her pain.I love you.The simple words steadied him. “I love you, too, Elizabeth,” he whispered, tracing the line with his thumb, as though by touching it he might somehow ease her sorrow.
He had thought himself a man of understanding, yet her words had revealed how little he had truly comprehended of a woman’s endurance. That she could emerge from such suffering with gentleness still intact humbled him. It was not pity he felt, but reverence, and a fierce determination to prove himself worthy of the love she had so tentatively offered.
What would she do now? She had written of facing her demons. Would she permit him to stand beside her, or would his presence hinder her recovery? Slowly, he read the letter a third time. She had absolved him of all obligation—of duty, of honour—and told him she understood if he could not wait.
Patience had never been his virtue; his nature was one of action, decision, command. But for her, he would learn restraint. If waiting was the only service he might render, he would wait as steadfastly as any soldier at his post.
But there could be no question of leaving her. For years he had sought a woman of her worth, only to be blessed at last with the chance to win her heart.I will not throw away what Providence has granted,he vowed.She isworth waiting for.
Had he not done so already?
Still lost in thought, Darcy folded the letter and placed it carefully in his breast pocket. Mounting with the aid of a nearby stump, he turned Thor back towards Netherfield. The sun stood high now; the morning frost had melted to dew, beading on the grass and leaving the air cool and fresh. His boots were damp and his legs were cold, though he hardly noticed, so intent was he focused on his thoughts. On reaching Netherfield, he gave the reins to the waiting groom with orders for Thor’s care, then went into the house to his chambers.
He had always believed love a quiet, rational affection, governed by honour and choice. Now he knew it to be something nobler and far more perilous—a force that demanded surrender as much as strength.
A sense of calm resolve settled upon him, and once his valet had withdrawn, Darcy crossed to his writing desk, drew forth a sheet of paper, and began to compose his reply.
Netherfield Park, Hertfordshire
27 November 1811
Dearest Elizabeth,
I will wait for you, my love, for as long as it takes. Though it pains me to do so, I sense that your progress would be swifter were I not present to cloud your thoughts. When my obligations to Bingley are fulfilled, I shall return to my home and await your word. Our love is worth waiting for—dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.
Yours, with sincere affection,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
He sanded and sealed the missive before summoning his man. “See that this is delivered to Mrs Fiennes—and to no other,” he said firmly. How he longed to place the note in her hands himself. Yet love compelled him to act in her best interest, and he feared he might not withstand the temptation to fall at her feet were he to deliver it in person.
And so, as the servant departed, he crossed to the window. She had taught him, without intending it, the rarest of lessons—that true devotion seeks not possession but peace for the one beloved. Though he could not see it, he knew Longbourn lay hidden amongst the distant trees. His heart would remain there with her until she either returned it or accepted it fully.
Chapter Thirty-Four
28 November 1811
Netherfield Park
Darcy
“LadyWestland,MrDarcy.”The butler’s announcement roused him from his newspaper. He was alone in the parlour. Bingley had gone to London to make arrangements for his marriage, and the Hursts, with Miss Bingley, had accompanied him. Whether they would return with their brother remained uncertain. Darcy rather hoped they would not. Though their absence prevented the reception of female guests at Netherfield, the house would be the more tolerable for it.
He rose and bowed as Lady Westland entered, his usual reserve easing into a genuine smile. “You find me alone, Lady Westland,” he said warmly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“If you are worried about conventions, leave off. I am both engaged and a widow, and besides, it would be terribly awkward to marry my sister’s nephew, for I should then become her niece by marriage!” Lady Westland shuddered in mock dismay before recovering her cheer. “I have come to bid you farewell, for I am off to town. Mr Blythe has invited Arthur and me to join him for the festive season.” She paused, her gaze sharp. “Elizabeth will come along.”
His eyes widened in surprise, and he sank back into his chair. Lady Westland, likely perceiving his agitation, took a seat opposite. “Will you not tell me what has happened?” she asked softly. “Elizabeth is my dearest friend.”
“My business is my own, and I would not betrayherconfidence.” The words were firm, yet the ache beneath them would not be suppressed.Why did not Elizabeth tell me herself?He knew the answer already.’Tis likely she could not manage the visit and maintain her resolve to seek healing. Still, the thought stung. There was no reason for him to remain at Netherfield now. He had taken comfort in knowing that though they lacked a formal understanding, Elizabeth was but three miles away.
“I pray you will have an enjoyable winter.” He forced a calm manner, unwilling that she should read his feelings.
“I would like to help if I may.” Lady Westland leaned forward, earnest concern in her eyes. “As I said, Elizabeth is my dearest friend. I wish for her to be happy.”
