Elizabeth met that contemptuous gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She would not give Lady Catherinethe satisfaction of a response, nor engage in defence or explanation that would only provide additional ammunition.
After a long moment, Lady Catherine turned and swept back into the house with her usual imperious bearing, leaving her standing alone in the courtyard.
“Mrs Darcy?”
She turned to find Colonel Fitzwilliam approaching, his expression sympathetic. The viscount stood behind him, appearing to show similar concern.
“I do not know the full truth of what has transpired,” he murmured. “But I have observed you these past weeks, and I believe you genuine in your regard for my cousin. I trust that you shall find means to overcome this obstacle together.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said gratefully. “That is very kind.”
The viscount nodded his agreement to his brother’s statements. “Darcy is not a man who abandons those he cares for lightly. Have patience and give him time to think and recover from the initial shock.”
They offered additional quiet encouragement before retreating indoors, leaving Elizabeth once more alone in the courtyard. She stood there for several more minutes, staring at the empty drive where the Bennet carriages had disappeared.
A movement in an upper window caught her eye. Fitzwilliam was standing there—she recognised his silhouette even at this distance—watching the departed carriages.
Then he turned away, disappearing into the house’s interior, leaving Elizabeth staring at an empty window and wondering if she had just lost him forever.
Chapter Twenty-five
Darcy
Darcy leaned against the study door, his breathing measured against the storm building inside him. He thought again and again about the letter and its implication.
Even if it were true that Elizabeth hadn’t set out to benefit from their meeting in Ireland and, like him, she’d been stunned by how everything unfolded, what possible explanation could justify her correspondence with those women?
The next available assumption, garnered from the little he’d heard her say, was that she’d acted from misguided compassion for her friend, concealing the correspondence because she feared his reaction would damage their bond. But even that explanation wounded in a different way. It suggested she trusted him so little that honesty seemed more dangerous than deception, that she believed him incapable of understanding mercy or extending compassion even when circumstances might warrant it.
The possibilities cut deep in different ways. Both suggested fundamental failures. Hers in judgement or honesty, his in creating an environment where she felt safe enough to confide difficult truths.
He moved to the window, staring sightlessly at the grounds washed grey by overcast sky. Rain threatened, clouds heavy with moisture that matched the pressure building inside him.
He loved her. That was the terrible, inescapable truth he could not deny no matter how much easier denial might make this entire situation. He loved how she made him laugh, how their conversations ranged from playful to profound with ease that felt effortless, and the comfort of her presence that had become essential to his happiness.
Despite everything, despite the letter, which provided solid evidence of betrayal, he could not make that love disappear. It remained stubbornly, achingly present making every passing second hurt in a way he had no name for.
He could not contemplate separation. The thought of sending her away, of ending their marriage through whatever legal means might be available, of never seeing her again, felt impossible. Elizabeth had become woven into the fabric of his existence too much to be extracted without destroying the whole.
But did she love him? Or merely the security his fortune represented?
The question struck at his deepest vulnerability. The fear he had carried since youth, since the first fortune hunter had set her sights on him at seventeen and he had learned the bitter lesson that his wealth would always colour how others perceived him. Mr Darcy of Pemberley, an eligible bachelor whose worth was calculated in pounds rather than character.
He had thought—foolishly, perhaps—that Elizabeth was different. That her agreement to their hasty marriage reflected complicated circumstances rather than opportunistic manoeuvring and that these past weeks of growing closeness indicated authentic feelings developing between them.
But what if he had been wrong? What if her animation in conversation, her laughter at his observations, had been feigned?
His stomach churned with nausea at the thought.
He sank into the chair behind the desk with a sigh. He had been so certain of his judgement, dismissing Lady Catherine’s warnings as prejudiced disapproval.
Once again, he had misjudged character and allowed sentiment to blind him to reality. He’d valued what he wished to be true over what evidence suggested actually was true.
Rain began to fall, drops striking glass with increasing intensity until the world beyond the window became distorted into unrecognisable shapes. He watched it absently, musing over the same agonising questions without finding resolution.
Night came with rain still drumming steadily against the house. Darcy remained in the study, too exhausted to sleep. He paced the confines of the small room until the pattern of his steps wore invisible tracks into the carpet. Sat. Paced again. Read the damned letter until phrases burned into memory.
Dawn arrived grey and cheerless. He slipped from the study long enough to bathe and change in one of the spare chambers, avoiding his own rooms where Elizabeth’s presence lingered in displaced objects and the faint scent of lavender. Then he returned to the study immediately, barricading himself behind closed doors and mounting paperwork he had no real intention of actually reviewing.
