“There you are!”
She startled at Jane’s voice. Her sister approached from the drawing room, concern evident on her face. “Mama said you had gone to Snowhill alone. Are you quite well, Lizzy? You seemed perfectly content this morning, but to venture out so suddenly…is something troubling you?”
“I am well. I merely required some air and solitude to clear my thoughts.”
Jane’s gaze held scepticism that her kind nature prevented her from voicing directly. She knew Elizabeth was concealing something, but she was not the sort to press unless convinced her sister needed rescuing from some danger.
Elizabeth manufactured excuses about fatigue and the day being overwhelming. She pleaded a headache, the universal refuge of women seeking escape from unwanted social obligations, and retreated to her bedchamber before Jane couldask questions that would require either honesty or more little lies.
The excuse served its purpose. Dinner proceeded without her, the family gathering in the dining room whilst she remained sequestered in bed. She had chosen this solitude, manufacturing illness to avoid facing Fitzwilliam and their respective families as guilt gnawed at her conscience.
She was keeping secrets and making choices without consultation. She was deceiving everyone around her but it was for compassionate reasons, was it not?
Or was she justifying actions she knew others would condemn?
She did not know. She only knew that the missive was sent, that Annabelle would receive the encouragement and support she desperately needed, and that the cost of providing that kindness might be higher than Elizabeth had fully anticipated when she first dipped pen in ink.
Chapter Twenty
Elizabeth
Elizabeth’s eyes opened to find morning light filtering through the curtains and Fitzwilliam propped on one elbow beside her, his expression watchful in an affectionate way that suggested he had been observing her for some time.
He leaned down to press his lips to her forehead, a gesture so tender it made her heart ache. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she replied, the instinctive response overriding the tangled truth of her actual state. “I... the headache has passed.”
“You missed dinner. And when I came to bed, you were already asleep. I must confess I was concerned.”
Guilt twisted sharply beneath her ribs, a physical pain that made breathing momentarily difficult. She had feigned sleep last night when he had entered their chambers, while her mind raced with anxiety about the deception she was perpetrating and the secrets she was keeping from the man who was now watching her with such obvious concern.
“I was overtired.” She shifted beneath the covers, creating distance that felt necessary even as it pained her. “The day proved more taxing than I anticipated.”
Worry shadowed his features, belying the lightness he attempted to project. “Then you ought to rest longer. I can have breakfast sent up if you prefer. You need not exert yourself if you are still recovering.”
“No. Thank you, but I should rise. I wish to...” What? Avoid him? Escape before her guilt became visible enough that he could read it in her expression? “I wish to prepare for the day properly.”
Understanding flickered across his countenance, or perhaps disappointment that she was withdrawing again when they had only just begun to close the distance between them. He rose from the bed with the fluid grace she had come to associate with him.
“Very well. I have estate matters requiring attention this morning regardless. I look forward to seeing you at breakfast, then. Or luncheon, if you require more rest.”
The door to the room closed behind him with a soft click that felt final, leaving Elizabeth alone with the guilt that had become her constant companion since posting that letter yesterday afternoon.
She remained motionless, staring at the canopy overhead as her thoughts spun in increasingly anxious circles that offered no resolution. Corresponding with Annabelle had seemed the compassionate choice yesterday. The moral imperative even, extending help to someone facing harsh circumstances, regardless of past wrongs.
But in the cold clarity of morning, with Fitzwilliam’s concern fresh in her memory and his trust so newly won, the decision felt less certain. Less defensible.
She pressed her hands to her face, fighting through rising panic that threatened to subdue her.
Perhaps she ought to tell him everything now and explain the full extent of her correspondence. She could lay out her reasoning, such as the desperation described in Annabelle’s letter.
But she could already imagine his reaction with painful clarity. The hurt that she had acted unilaterally and the reasonable questions about why she felt compelled to help someone who had threatened him so deliberately.
She had no good answers. Only the conviction that mercy mattered and desperate circumstances sometimes drove good people to terrible choices.
And there was no telling that Fitzwilliam would accept that.
This would be the last letter, Elizabeth told herself. She had fulfilled her obligation to an old friendship, but further correspondence would be unwise. It would risk too much for an uncertain benefit.
