Elizabeth froze when footsteps approached, pressing herself into a shadowed alcove until a maid passed with an armload of linens. The woman did not look in her direction. When the footsteps faded, Elizabeth continued.
She emerged finally through a panel near the back entrance. Elizabeth pushed it open cautiously. The entrance hall beyond stood empty, morning sunlight streaming through tall windows.
And there, visible through one of the windows, Colonel Fitzwilliam walked across the lawn with his characteristic military bearing. He was dressed for riding. He moved with purpose, heading toward the stables, alone.
This was her chance. Perhaps her only chance.
Elizabeth pushed herself away from the wall and crossed the hall with steps that stumbled despite her efforts. She reached the door and pulled it open, the heavy wood protesting, and stepped out into morning air.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she called, and her voice emerged thin and breathless.
He turned at the sound, his expression shifting from surprise to concern. He changed direction immediately, striding across the lawn toward her.
“Cousin Anne,” he said as he drew close. His gaze swept over her, taking in her dishevelled appearance, the obvious exhaustion in her bearing. “Should you be out of doors? You were quite unwell last evening.”
Elizabeth extended her hand, the letter clutched in trembling fingers. “I need you to do something very important,” she said, forcing the words out. “Take this to London yourself, right now, and wait for a reply.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam took the letter automatically, his brow furrowing as he read the direction. “This is addressed to MissElizabeth Bennet’s sister. Cousin, why would you be writing to Miss Jane Bennet?”
He looked at her with polite confusion, clearly expecting some reasonable explanation. Elizabeth stared back at him, recognising the impossibility of providing one.
When she did not reply, he held the letter out to her, clearly intending to return it. Elizabeth stared at the offered letter, at her last hope being casually rejected, and felt something crack inside her chest.
Her legs gave out entirely, but rather than try to catch herself, Elizabeth simply let herself fall. She dropped to her knees on the cold stone steps, her borrowed body surrendering to exhaustion and desperation. Tears streamed down her face unchecked, and she reached up to clutch at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s coat with both hands, clinging to the fabric with desperate strength.
“Please,” she sobbed, and the word emerged broken, stripped of pride or dignity. “Please, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I am begging you. Take this letter to Jane Bennet. Put it in her hand yourself. Wait for her reply. Please, please, I beg you.”
She looked up at him through her tears, saw his expression transform from confusion to shock. She maintained her grip on his coat, trembling with the effort of kneeling upright.
“I cannot explain,” Elizabeth continued, her voice emerging in gasps between sobs. “Cannot tell you why. But I am begging you, on whatever regard you have ever had for your family, for justice, for mercy. Take this letter. Go now. Please.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam stood frozen above her, the letter still clutched in his hand, his face showing shock and growing alarm. He looked toward the house, perhaps searching for Mrs. Jenkinson or Lady Catherine. Then he looked back down at Elizabeth, and something in his expression shifted.
“Very well,” he said finally, and his voice had gone gentle. “Anne, please do not upset yourself further. I will take the letter.Will ride to London immediately and deliver it to Miss Jane Bennet’s hand. I give you my word.”
Relief crashed over Elizabeth with enough force to make her sway dangerously. She released her grip on his coat and would have collapsed entirely if Colonel Fitzwilliam had not caught her elbow, steadying her.
“I will wait for her reply,” he continued, still using that same gentle tone. “And return with it as quickly as possible. Now, please, you must go inside. You are not well enough to be out here. Shall I call for Mrs. Jenkinson?”
“No,” Elizabeth managed. “Do not tell her about the letter! Do not tell anyone. Simply go. Now. Please.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded slowly, his concern evident but his word given. He helped Elizabeth to her feet with careful support, guided her back through the door, then stepped away with visible reluctance. He looked down at the letter in his hand, then back at Elizabeth’s tear-stained face, and she saw the moment his decision solidified.
“I will get my horse,” he said, “and put this letter into Miss Jane Bennet’s hand before noon. You have my word as a gentleman.”
Then he was striding purposefully toward the stables, the letter secured in his coat pocket, and Elizabeth leaned against the doorframe watching him go. She had done it. Had succeeded in sending her message to Jane despite every obstacle.
Now she simply needed to survive long enough for Jane to arrive.
Chapter Thirteen
Themorninghadgrownuncommonly fine by the time Darcy escaped his aunt’s demands, the spring air carrying that particular crispness that made walking a pleasure. He had intended to ride out with Fitzwilliam, but his cousin had apparently gone off somewhere after breakfast without explanation, leaving Darcy to endure Lady Catherine’s lengthy discourse on drainage improvements alone. The irritation of abandonment faded as Darcy turned his steps toward Hunsford, his pace quickening without conscious decision. Sunlight filtered through newly leafed trees in patterns that shifted with each breath of wind.
Darcy had not planned to call at the parsonage today. Had told himself he should maintain some distance after the strangeness of the previous day. But his feet carried him along the familiar path regardless, and he found himself arriving at the modesthouse before he had properly formed an excuse. The door stood slightly ajar, and through it came the sound of feminine laughter that made something in his chest tighten with recognition.
The servant who answered his knock showed him through to the parlour without ceremony, and Darcy paused in the doorway. Elizabeth sat in the chair nearest the window, sunlight catching in her dark hair and illuminating her profile as she spoke with Charlotte Collins. She wore a simple morning dress in pale yellow muslin, and her hands moved expressively as she described something that had apparently amused her. Charlotte sat opposite, teacup balanced in her lap, smiling with what looked like genuine pleasure.
“Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte said, noticing him first and rising with appropriate courtesy. “What a pleasant surprise. Please, do join us. We were just taking tea.”
