My dearest Elizabeth,
You left the room before I had the chance to speak—to truly speak—and that pain will linger with me until I can find you again. I fear you believe my silence to be rejection. That is far from the truth. The truth, Elizabeth, is this: I love you. I have loved you through every trial we have faced together, and I will love you still through every hardship that may yet come. I am leaving for Rosings at first light. I go to speak with Lady Catherine and Mr Collins in the hope of creating a future that will protect your family, preserve the boy’s safety, and perhaps give us a chance to begin again. Though I do not know what I will face there, I will face it for you. Whatever may come, I want youto know that my heart is yours. If you will have me, I will return not only with answers—but with renewed hope.
Ever yours,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
When he finished, Darcy folded the letter carefully, sealed it with wax, and left it with Mr Bennet.
“Give this to her,” he said quietly. “When she returns.”
Mr Bennet nodded and clasped his shoulder with unexpected warmth.
Darcy left Longbourn with a heavy but determined heart.
Elizabeth came downstairs after several hours. The house was quiet, and it was late. She had seen the gentlemen leave from her window and her heart ached that Darcy had not so much as bid her farewell. Then again, she had fled from his presence. On her way down the stairs, she encountered a maid. “Is my father in his study?” she asked.
The girl nodded, and Elizabeth made her way there, her slippers brushing softly against the floor of the corridor.
She opened the door and found her father seated alone, reading. He looked up and smiled faintly.
“You have returned, I see.”
“Yes.” Her voice was faint. “Has everything been resolved?”
Mr Bennet did not speak immediately. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded letter. He extended it to her wordlessly.
Elizabeth took it with trembling fingers, her eyes scanning the name on the seal before she broke it open.
As she read, tears welled in her eyes, not from sorrow this time—but from overwhelming relief and something far deeper. Hope bloomed quietly within her chest. He still loved her. And he was coming back.
Darcy bid farewell to the occupants of Netherfield immediately before retiring for the night. He promised his sister he would return as soon as possible. The next morning, he departed after imparting a few final instructions and reassurances. Georgiana clung to him for a long moment before letting go. She did not need to speak; the trust in her eyes was enough. Richard clapped him on the back.
“You will succeed, Darce,” he said with a grin. “I pray you have a quick journey.”
By the time Darcy climbed into his carriage, the sun had risen fully over the wintry fields, glinting off the last frost that clung to the hedgerows.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The carriage rolled to a stop before the grand façade of Rosings Park, its stone exterior as imposing as ever, though to Darcy’s eyes, it seemed colder than he remembered. The loss of Anne had drained something from the house, as though its very heart had been carved out when the young mistress was taken. Dismissing the footman, Darcy stepped out and ascended the stone steps. He was announced promptly, and Lady Catherine received him in the same drawing room where he had once endured lectures on propriety and rank.
She was seated stiffly in her high-backed chair, wrapped in a dark shawl, her hair touched more heavily with grey than the last time he saw her. Though her posture remained straight, her face betrayed her grief—deep lines etched in her cheeks and beneath her eyes, which now regarded him with the wary gaze of one who had grown accustomed to disappointment.
“Darcy,” she said quietly. “You did not send word.”
“I thought it best to come at once, Aunt,” he replied as he sat across from her. “There is something of the gravest importance I must tell you.”
Lady Catherine nodded once. “Then speak it.”
He hesitated for only a breath before diving into the account. “I believe—Richard and I—have finally uncovered what became of Anne.”
Her hands gripped the arms of her chair, but she remained silent, her brows drawn tightly.
“Just days ago, we saw a writing box that belonged to Anne. It contained letters from George Wickham, expressing…affection and sympathy. It appears his last visit to Rosings left Anne with child. In the recovered letters, he pressed her to elope. She initially refused, but when concealment was no longer possible—when she could no longer hide the child and your plans to hire a companion came to light—she relented.” He continued, explaining his discovery in Hertfordshire and all that had transpired since.
Lady Catherine’s eyes grew bright with unshed tears, but her mouth remained firm. “I knew she had changed in those last months. There were arguments…silences… I thought she was simply weary of my company. Foolish woman that I am.”
Darcy softened his voice. “You are not to blame. Wickham is an expert manipulator. Anne loved you, Aunt.”
