The memorial itself was simple—a stone marker bearing two names: Davis Ayles and Emanuel Conolly. Below, an inscription read:In Memory of Two Faithful Workers, Taken Too Soon. May Their Sacrifice Not Be Forgotten.
The vicar spoke first, offering prayers and words about God's mysterious ways and the comfort of eternal rest. Then he turned expectantly to Fitzwilliam, inviting him to address the assembled mourners.
Elizabeth watched her husband step forward. She saw him gaze at those names as if willing them to spark some flicker of recognition. His throat worked as he swallowed, his hands clasping behind his back—a gesture she had come to recognise as one of extreme discomfort.
"Davis Ayles and Emanuel Conolly," he began, his voice steady despite the visible strain. "I stand here today to honour their memory, however, I confess my injury has stolen from me what I most wish I possessed—the ability to remember them as they deserved to be remembered."
A sympathetic murmur rippled through the crowd.
"What I do remember," he continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled faces, "is the urgency of the rescue efforts. The determination of every man who worked through the night to save their fellows. And I remember making a promise to myself that such a tragedy would never happen again at Pemberley."
He paused, and Elizabeth could see him struggling, could see the weight of guilt and inadequacy pressing down upon him.
"That promise I have kept. The mine has been reinforced with the finest materials and expertise available. New safety measures have been implemented. Every worker now has access to proper equipment and training." He continued. "I cannot restore what was lost. I cannot give these families back their loved ones. But I can ensure that their deaths brought about meaningful change. That Davis Ayles and Emanuel Conolly areremembered not only for how they died, but for how their deaths made Pemberley safer for every man who works there now."
He stepped back, and the vicar resumed the ceremony. Elizabeth barely heard the closing prayers, her attention fixed on Fitzwilliam's rigid posture, the careful control he maintained over his features. She could see how much this cost him—standing before these people and speaking words that felt inadequate.
After the ceremony concluded, several people approached to speak with him. Most of the exchanges were brief—expressions of sympathy for his injury, gratitude for the improvements made to the mine, assurances that no one held him responsible for the tragedy. Elizabeth remained close, offering silent support through her presence.
Then a weathered man in his sixties stepped forward, his face creased with emotion. "Mr Darcy, I'm Mr Crampton. I wanted to thank you for saving my grandson, Thompson Crampton. The lad you pushed clear of that horse and wagon after your own injury at the mine."
Fitzwilliam's expression shifted with something that resembled relief. "How is young Thomas?"
"Right as rain, thanks to you, sir. The physician says if you hadn't acted when you did, the boy would've been trampled for certain. You saved his life even after suffering your own injury. My family is grateful beyond words."
"I am glad he recovered well." Fitzwilliam's voice had softened considerably. "It was instinct, nothing more."
"Instinct or not, you acted without thought for yourself. That's the measure of a man, if you ask me." The older gentleman nodded respectfully before moving away.
Elizabeth watched colour rise in Fitzwilliam's face—not embarrassment exactly, but something more complex. As though he had been reminded that even in the midst of his own struggles, he had managed to do something right.
They made their way back to the carriage eventually, after speaking with the families and accepting their thanks for the memorial and the ongoing support Pemberley provided. Once inside, with the door closed and privacy restored, Fitzwilliam leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes.
"That was harder than I anticipated," he admitted.
Elizabeth reached across the space between them and took his hand. He did not pull away, his fingers curling around hers instinctively.
"You did well. Your speech was appropriate and heartfelt."
"I stared at their names and felt nothing." His voice was rough with self-recrimination. "No recognition, no memory. Just this terrible guilt that I should know them and do not. How can I properly honour men I cannot even remember?"
"You honour them through your actions," Elizabeth said firmly, squeezing his hand. "Through the improvements you made to the mine and your care for their families. Along with continuing to ensure their deaths meant something." She paused, making certain he was listening. "Memory is not the only form of honouring the dead, Fitzwilliam. Sometimes actions speak more clearly than recollection ever could."
He opened his eyes, turning his head to look at her. "You truly believe that?"
"I do." And she meant it with her whole heart. "That man—Mr Crampton—he did not care whether you remembered saving his grandson. What mattered to him was that you acted when it counted. That you risked yourself to save a boy you did not even know. It isn't about memory, but conduct."
Something in his expression eased, the terrible tension in his shoulders loosening by degrees. "Thank you for insisting on coming. I do not think I could have managed it as well alone."
"You could have," Elizabeth said honestly. "But you should not have had to."
As the carriage rolled towards Pemberley, Elizabeth continued to hold his hand. She watched the countryside pass outside the window and felt the warmth of his palm against hers.
"Your actions have brought much satisfaction to those around you. You're a good man, Fitzwilliam Darcy.” She said softly as Pemberley came into view. "That is enough."
He turned to look at her, and in his eyes she saw gratitude mixed with something deeper—a recognition, perhaps, that he had found in her not merely a wife but a true partner. Someone who would stand beside him in difficulty, who would not let him bear every burden alone.
"That is enough," he repeated quietly, testing the words and making sense of them.
