"Of course. Is something amiss?"
The older woman's expression held some sympathy as she spoke. "I could not help but notice Mr Darcy seemed rather withdrawn this morning. I thought you should know. Today is the day the memorial will be unveiled."
"Memorial? For the two miners who died in the mine collapse?"
Mrs Reynolds nodded, moving further into the room. Her voice was kind as she continued, "The nearby village commissioned a memorial stone to honour them. The unveiling ceremony is this afternoon. Due to an inexplicable reason, Mr Darcy only received notice of it earlier this morning."
Understanding crashed over Elizabeth like a wave. "He did not mention it to me."
"He would not, ma'am." Mrs Reynolds's tone carried gentle reproof, though whether directed at Fitzwilliam or at Elizabeth was unclear. "Mr Darcy has never been one to share his burdens with others. He considers it his duty to bear such things alone, without troubling anyone else with his difficulties."
"But we are married—"
"Indeed, ma'am. Which is precisely why I thought you should know. The guilt he carries over those deaths weighs heavily upon him, despite everyone assuring him he was not at fault. And now, with his memory so fractured from the injury..."
"He likely does not even remember the men who died," She finished quietly, the full weight of his distress becoming clear.
"Precisely. He will attend the memorial because duty demands it. But he will do so alone, bearing that burden as he believes he must bear all such weights. Unless someone convinces him otherwise."
The implicit suggestion was unmistakable. Elizabeth felt it settle over her like a challenge. She should have noticed. In addition to that, she should have insisted on being allowed to share whatever difficulty he faced.
"Where is he now?"
"In his study, I believe. Making preparations to depart within the hour."
Elizabeth did not wait for further information. She made her way swiftly through the corridors, her mind racing. It was clear that her husband wished to manage his emotions on his own, but they were married now, and she was never one to mind her own business. Marriage was a partnership. How could they succeed at it if he insisted on facing every difficulty in isolation?
She found him at his desk, dressed for travelling and reviewing what appeared to be notes for a speech. His hand stilled on the paper as she entered, and something defensive flickered across his features.
"Elizabeth. I thought you were occupied with household matters."
"Mrs Reynolds told me about the memorial." She closed the door behind her, moving to stand before his desk. "You should have mentioned it."
“It’s a duty I must fulfil, nothing more."
"Is that what you truly believe? That your burdens are yours alone to carry? We are married, Fitzwilliam. Yesterday you asked for my help reviewing tenant correspondence, and you trusted my judgment on estate matters. Why can you not trust me with this?"
He set aside his notes with careful precision. "Two men died in a mine I own. I cannot even remember their faces, cannot recall anything about them beyond what others have told me. That shame is mine to bear."
"Then let me help you bear it." She drew closer to the desk. "I want to come with you to the memorial."
"There is no need—"
"I insist."
He looked up at her then, truly looked at her, and she saw the war playing out in his eyes. A desire to maintain his solitary burden fighting against what looked almost like relief at the prospect of not facing it alone.
"It will not be pleasant," he said finally in a low voice. "The families will be there. They will expect me to say something meaningful about men I cannot remember. I will have to stand there knowing I should recognise their widows, their children, and feeling nothing but this terrible guilt that I do not."
"Then I will stand beside you." Elizabeth's voice was firm. "And if you falter, I will be there. You need not face this alone."
For a long moment, he said nothing and simply studied her as though searching for something in her expression. Then, so quietly she almost missed it: "Thank you."
The gratitude in his eyes was unmistakable—a flicker of vulnerability quickly controlled but which rang true. He rose from his desk, collecting his notes and the speech he had prepared. "We should depart shortly. The ceremony begins at two."
The journey to the village passed in near silence. Fitzwilliam sat rigid beside her in the carriage, his jaw set, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Elizabeth wanted to offer comfort, to say something that might ease his visible distress, but the words felt inadequate before they even formed. Instead, she simply remained present, allowing him to know through her proximity that he was not alone.
The village church was small but well-maintained, its stone walls weathered by time and elements. A crowd had already gathered in the churchyard when they arrived—miners still in their work clothes, their families dressed in sombre Sunday best, local gentry, the vicar in his vestments. Elizabeth saw how Fitzwilliam's shoulders tensed as they approached, how his expression became a careful mask of composure that could not quite hide the strain beneath.
