“Fitzwilliam?” Her voice carried an uncertainty that matched his own internal state. “I understand if you wish to continue being alone. But you need to eat something. Even if you will not speak with me, even if you cannot bear to see me, please at least accept the tray. Your family is very worried, and I—I am worried too.”
He stood motionless, paralysed by conflicting impulses. Part of him wanted to fling open the door, demand explanations and grant her the opportunity to defend herself against accusations that had been eating at him for what felt like eternity compressed into mere hours. Another part wanted to maintain this separation indefinitely, to avoid confrontation that might confirm his worst fears.
There was much he wished to say, but words would not come. The love that refused to die despite everything he knew — that was the thing he could not reason his way past.
Even if he chose to speak, what could he possibly say that would encompass the chaos of his thoughts, the war between his heart’s certainty and his mind’s doubt?
Nothing. There were no words adequate to this moment, to this impossible situation where love and betrayal existed in the same space.
So he said nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-six
Elizabeth
The tray weighed heavily in Elizabeth’s grip, not from the substantial meal she had assembled, but from the significance it represented, everything she could not say gathered into the one thing she could offer.
She had approached Fitzwilliam’s study door with steps that felt too slow and yet too rapid, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
She had knocked and delivered her message about food, concern and his family’s worry. But she’d heard nothing in response save silence, absolute and closed, from the other side of the door.
When his voice did not come, Elizabeth set the tray on the floor and leaned against the door. The solid surface felt like an accusation, this wall between them, erected by her own cowardice and his justified hurt.
“I do not know if you are listening,” she began, her voice unsteady. “I do not even know if you wish to hear what I might say. But I need to speak it regardless, if only so I can tell myself I tried.”
No response came from within. She pressed her palm flat against the door, imagining him on the other side. Sitting at the desk, perhaps. Or standing at the window. Anywhere but near enough to hear her properly, to let her words penetrate the anger insulating him from her explanations.
“In Ireland, at the garden party, I never recognised Annabelle as one of the fortune hunters. I held that entire group in low regard from the moment I observed their behaviour towards you. Their schemes were transparent, their intentions mercenary. I wanted no part of such manipulation.”
Tightness constricted her throat but she forged ahead. “Weeks later, after we arrived here at Matlock, a letter arrived from Annabelle Sempill. I did not immediately connect that name to those women at the garden party because we had been friends at finishing school, years before her family’s ruin. The letter was...” she paused, searching for words adequate to convey what that correspondence had revealed, the depth of suffering it had exposed. “Bleak beyond anything I imagined another person could endure. Her father was destroyed by gambling and drink until nothing remained of their family’s fortune. Her mother died from heartbreak. Her sister was compromised and abandoned, carrying a child that would destroy any remaining hope of respectable futures for either of them. And all of them are dependent on an elderly grandmother’s limited charity.”
“She wrote seeking some scrap of compassion from her former life. Some acknowledgement that she had once been more than desperation made her. And yes, she asked for financial aid. I...I responded. Not from a desire for gain or any scheme to help her at your expense, but due to human sympathy for suffering I could barely comprehend. I wrote one letter offering support and promised I would not ignore her plight. I told her I could not assist her financially, but I could be a connection to the past she lost. Nothing more.”
The silence beyond the door felt absolute. Perhaps he was not even listening. Perhaps he had retreated so far into hurt that her words could not reach him regardless of sincerity or volume.
The next confession emerged, stripped of defensive justifications or attempts to make her choices seem less cowardly than they were. “I concealed the correspondence because I was afraid. Afraid you would misunderstand. I was afraid of precisely what has come to pass. That you would see conspiracy where there was only compassion, calculation where there was merely kindness extended to someone facing circumstances I cannot imagine enduring myself.”
Her palm pressed harder upon the wood, as if she could force understanding through physical contact with the barrier separating them.
“I never meant to hurt you.” Her voice broke properly now, tears she had been restraining finally escaping. “I never meant to betray your trust or make you doubt my regard for you. I am ashamed that my cowardly silence caused you such pain.”
She wiped roughly at her cheeks, drawing a shaky breath.
“I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy. I love your integrity, how you defend those you care for and the way you take responsibility seriously without allowing it to crush your spirit. I love the man you are and the partnership we have been building together.”
She was so tired she could feel her knees threatening to give.
“I love you,” she repeated, needing him to hear it again. “And I am ready, eager even, to spend the rest of my life proving that truth to you and building the marriage we both deserve.”
She straightened, forcing herself to complete the confession with the honesty that had always characterised their best interactions.
“But I cannot promise I would act differently if circumstances were reversed.” The admission cost her, but dishonesty would serve no purpose now. “Sympathy is part of who I am. Compassion for those suffering, even those who have acted wrongly. I would still respond with whatever comfort or assistance I could offer. The only thing I would change is that I would tell you immediately and trust you with the truth rather than allowing fear to govern my choices.”
The door remained closed, solid and unyielding as stone. No sound came from within, no indication that anyone existed in that space. Elizabeth’s heart sank as seconds stretched into silence that suggested her confession had changed nothing, meant nothing.
“Whatever you decide, whatever you choose to believe about my character and my choices, please know that is true. I love you more than I thought possible to love another person, and I will wait as long as necessary for you to determine whether that truth matters more than my failures.”
She stood there for a long moment, hoping that he might respond, but there was only more silence.
