She travelled for a time as if numbed, feeling neither sorrow nor the wish to unravel the tragedy. How distant was this state from her light-hearted spirits when she had arrived in Kent. Now, she departed with tear-filled eyes and a pain in her heart, the likes of which she had never known.
His image burned her mind, as she had last seen him on a horse, just as she had always seen him: a man at the height of his masculine glory—tall, handsome, elegant. Someone she could never have imagined suffering from illness or injury. Only days ago, Mr Darcy had been a young man like anybody else, with his entire life ahead of him. She could not imagine him wounded, uncertain of what tomorrow might bring.
In their small community, tragedies had occurred, but never had someone close to them endured something so shocking and grave. There had been illnesses and accidents—never a bullet. A bullet that could have ended his life instantly yet had left him teetering on the precipice.
She recalled other sorrows—a neighbour’s tragedy, Charlotte’s brother’s death long ago, a gravely ill father, Miss King’s parents both lost within months of each other—but none felt so staggering, so close to her, so unreal. A bullet? Only the men hunted in their world, and her father’s rifle had long sat unused. How was it possible that Mr Darcy had been shot?
She had heard that duels still took place, and for a few fleeting moments, she was seized with terror at the thought that he had challenged Wickham to a duel. Yet duels did not occur in the heart of London. How could anyone be shot on a London street? By accident? That did not seem to her a plausible hypothesis. But if not by accident, then it meant someone had sought to kill him. Gripped by fear, she banished the thought—it was better to arrive and see what had happened rather than conjure up dreadful imaginings.
Her compassion was great. Despite the arguments they had had in the past, in times of crisis, she regarded him as a friend who needed help. Then, her thoughts turned to Miss Darcy, her vivid face always graced with a warm smile. Elizabeth glanced at the letter in her hands, lightly touching the marks of tears upon the paper, and fully grasped the young woman’s grief. Orphaned so young, now faced with her beloved brother’s life hanging by a thread. Although the letter had not been explicit, Elizabeth sensed that a bullet lodged so near the heart could mean only one thing. Yet she shook herself, unwilling to dwell on such a dreadful thought.
For much of the journey, she puzzled over and over again why they had called for her. Both Mr Darcy and Miss Darcy had insisted on her presence. Why summon an almost stranger?
That turmoil ceased abruptly when she realised that, had she said yes to his proposal, she would have entered their house at the end of that journey as his future wife. She finally suspected why both Darcys had asked for her presence; regardless of howthe marriage proposal had ended, it had been an important moment in their lives. Fitzwilliam Darcy had proposed to her in a dreadful manner, but she did not doubt his determined intention, honesty, and love. A man like him would never have asked for her hand unless he loved her deeply and had total confidence in her. And his sister, without a doubt, either knew or suspected, for throughout their visit, they had formed a deeper friendship than was customary. Miss Darcy had come to know her, and it seemed she had liked her, agreeing with her brother’s decision to marry her.
In that terrible moment, Elizabeth was, in truth, the person closest to them.
His plea reflected this—at a time of great crisis, it was in her that he placed his faith. But again, she wondered, what did they expect of her?
Her breath came heavily, and tears fell intermittently, unchecked. With every mile that carried her nearer to their tragedy, she felt herself growing further from an answer. What was she supposed to do in that terrible situation?
She suddenly realised that she had not spared a single thought for her family in the haste of her departure. She had left for a stranger’s house, alone, without informing her parents; her father would not have approved without first obtaining some information about those with whom she was to stay. But then she cast aside such worries, for no danger awaited her in the Darcy household. Perhaps the only peril lay in being engulfed by an ocean of suffering—yet she knew how to fight, for she possessed the strength to reclaim her calm even in the most harrowing of circumstances. She would write to her parents, but only after she had uncovered what had transpired and what Mr Darcy sought of her.
Then, at last, she arrived. Miss Darcy met Elizabeth in the hall and flung herself into her arms. She did not cry; perhaps she had no tears left or knew she had to remain strong.
“Thank you for coming,” she whispered.
And Elizabeth embraced her as though she were a sister.
∞∞∞
“I am so relieved you agreed to come,” murmured Georgiana, leading her to the drawing-room.
Again, Elizabeth asked herself why this young lady she had seen only a few times had waited for her arrival with so much impatience and hope.
“I want to introduce you to the servants first,” Georgiana said, ready to call them, but Elizabeth, more and more surprised by the turn of events, stopped her with a gentle gesture. She was eager to ask what had happened, but with a considerable effort, she abandoned the idea, suspecting that such a question could make the young lady lose her feeble composure.
Instead she said, quite determined, “Miss Darcy, you must explain why you have summoned me. I am ready to do anything for you, but only after I understand how I might assist you.”
“Fitzwilliam will speak to you.”
“Could you tell me yourself…so that we might spare him the effort—”
“No, please,” whispered Georgiana, her eyes filling with tears, though not a single one fell down her cheeks. She was extraordinarily composed considering the tragedy she was enduring. Once again, Elizabeth admired her, but in a manner so unlike what she had felt at Rosings, where Miss Darcy had been an intelligent, elegant, and carefree young woman. “Fitzwilliamwishes to speak to you, and I cannot deny him, whatever risks it may pose to his life.”
Elizabeth nodded, for at that moment, she found herself unable to speak. Such a thing had never happened to her before—a painful lump in her throat rendering her incapable of uttering a word.
Miss Darcy seized the moment to call their household servants. “Mrs Talbot is our housekeeper, and together with Mr Talbot, our butler, they ensure the smooth running of this house. They are prepared to carry out any task you may require.”
“Welcome, Miss Bennet,” they said almost in unison, curtseying and bowing before her with marked reverence, as if she were a member of the family or a close friend. What could the servants know about her to regard her with such confidence? For beneath the evident sadness etched on their faces, there was an unexpected glimmer of relief in their gazes.
“You will meet Fitzwilliam’s valet, Parker, when we go upstairs. He remains constantly at my brother’s side whenever I must leave. And Rose will be your maid.”
A demure young woman curtsied before her, and Elizabeth smiled at her. She had never had a maid solely for herself but refrained from asking questions. Explanations would likely come from him.
After the servants withdrew, Miss Darcy made a gesture inviting Elizabeth to sit, obviously preparing for a conversation before taking her to Mr Darcy.
“Miss Bennet—”
