However, it was obvious now that Fitzwilliam had never come to bed.
The linens on his side of the bed remained undisturbed, pillows still arranged tidily. It was clear that he had not merely arrived late and departed early before she woke. He had not joined her in their shared chambers throughout the entire night.
Concern twisted within her. Where had he spent the night? Had some crisis with the estate required his attention through the dark hours?
She dressed quickly, choosing not to ring the bell for a maid to assist her with her clothes. She was overcome by a need to find her husband, ensure he was well, and understand what had kept him from bed.
The corridors stretched empty and silent around her, too early yet for most of the household to be stirring but sufficient for the servants who had begun their morning routines in the distant reaches of the great house. Elizabeth followed instinct towards the library, the conservatory, anywhere Fitzwilliam might have retreated when sleep proved impossible.
She found him in the small study off the main corridor, still wearing the previous day’s clothes, his cravat long since discarded and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He sat slumped in a chair near the cold fireplace, staring with a blank, tired expression.
“Fitzwilliam?”
He flinched at her voice but did not turn or acknowledge her presence. For a long moment, he sat motionless, shoulders rigid with tension that radiated across the space between them. When he finally moved, it was to reach for something on the side table. A letter, she realised with mounting horror, its seal already broken.
He extended the pages towards her without meeting her gaze. “Is it true what Lady Catherine claims? Have you been corresponding with Annabelle Sempill?”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet, the world narrowing to those pages in his outstretched hand. She crossed on unsteady legs and accepted the letter. The script was indeed Annabelle, damning in this context.
Each phrase was innocent in isolation. Yet, arranged before someone who lacked context, they formed a narrative of deception.
“Fitzwilliam, I would like to explain—”
“Can you? I find myself curious what explanation might justify secret correspondence with the women who attempted to trap me. What possible reason could prompt my wife to aid fortune hunters whilst concealing such communication from her husband?”
“She was a friend of sorts.” The words tumbled out desperate and inadequate. “Years ago, at finishing school. We were not exactly close but we knew one another. We were friendly. Recently, I received an unexpected letter from her, explaining her circumstances. And I... I responded with compassion. One letter, offering support and promising I would not ignore her desperate situation. There’s nothing beyond that single correspondence.”
He finally looked at her directly, his eyes red-rimmed from sleeplessness and agony. “That is all? Is that what you are choosing to characterise this as? Mere compassion for a former friend?”
“Yes. I know how it appears and I know the timing seems suspicious. But I promise you, on everything I hold sacred, that is the truth.”
He rose abruptly, moving away as if proximity to her had become unbearable. From the agonised look on his face, it was clear that he was struggling with emotions too raw for articulation. She waited, wanting to say more, but also dreading hurting him further.
“I need time. I cannot think clearly whilst you stand there looking at me as though your world is ending. Perhaps it is.Perhaps mine has ended as well. But I need space to determine what I believe, what I can accept and whether trust once broken can ever be truly restored.”
A wave of panic gripped her. “Please, let me explain properly—”
“Not now. I am asking you, begging you even, to leave me alone. Give me time to think without your objections making coherent thought impossible.”
The dismissal stole breath from her lungs. She opened her mouth to protest, to plead for the opportunity to make him understand what truly occurred, but the look on his face stopped her. He was not merely upset or angry. He was shattered, barely holding himself together, and her continued presence was only making his pain worse.
“I am sorry,” she managed through the tears now streaming unchecked down her face. “For the secrecy and for failing to trust you with the truth when I should have.”
“Please just go.”
She fled, her vision blurred by moisture that would not stop no matter how fiercely she blinked. Doors and windows passed in a smear of wood and light as sobs rose in her chest with increasing pressure.
She reached her chambers through sheer instinct, her feet carrying her along familiar paths as her mind remained trapped in that study, replaying Fitzwilliam’s devastated expression.
She collapsed on the floor as the first true wave of grief broke over her. She had shattered her husband’s trust through her cowardice and misguided compassion. All the progress they had made was now rendered meaningless due to her own actions.
The door opened behind her and suddenly Jane was there, arms wrapping around her as Elizabeth sobbed into her sister’s shoulder.
“What has happened?” Jane’s voice carried alarm. “Lizzy, you are frightening me. What is wrong?”
The story emerged in fragments between gasping breaths: Annabelle’s letter, her response and subsequent concealment. And the devastation of Fitzwilliam’s reaction, closely followed by his dismissal.
By the time she finished, a few of her family members had gathered in response to her sister’s summons. Jane and Mary sat on either side of her on the bed providing physical support. Mr Bennet stood near the window with uncharacteristic gravity while Mrs Bennet hovered anxiously wringing her hands.
