“They say something’s wrong at the great house.”
Elizabeth turned at once, her voice sharper than she intended. “Pardon—did you say something wrong at the great house, Pemberley?”
The maid startled, dipping a quick curtsey. “Oh—only talk, miss. Likely nothin’. Just—some say the master’s not been heard from in a while.”
Mrs. Gardiner had come up beside her. “Heard from?” she repeated gently. “Has something happened?”
The girl hesitated. “I only know what Cook said her cousin told her—he works the stables there. Mr. Darcy writes every week, like clockwork. But it's been—near on four weeks now. Not a word.”
Elizabeth’s voice was quiet but steady. “Was he expected home?”
The girl shook her head. “Not quite yet—though soon, I think. But last week, the steward sent a letter to London about some urgent matter. No reply came.”
The innkeeper, having drawn closer, lowered his voice. “A letter did arrive—eventually. But not from Mr. Darcy. From his cousin. It said there had been... an accident.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s brow furrowed. “An accident?”
“That’s all we’ve heard,” the innkeeper replied grimly. “Some say it was an illness. Others a fall. But most think—” He paused. “Well, the talk is he may not have survived.”
Elizabeth’s hand reached for the doorframe. Her fingers tightened against the wood until her knuckles paled.
Mrs. Gardiner stepped nearer. “Lizzy—”
But Elizabeth shook her head, her voice low and certain. “No. If he were gone… I would know. I would feel it.”
Her voice trembled, but the conviction in it was unmistakable. She did not weep. Not yet.
Mrs. Gardiner exchanged a glance with her husband, then gently placed a hand at Elizabeth’s back. “Come inside, my love. You must rest.”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be led. But her thoughts did not follow.
They remained fixed on the house beyond the hills—on the silence that had lasted too long, on letters that had ceased, and whispers that said what her heart would not believe.
Chapter 52
Elizabeth had to know. She had pleaded, quietly but with urgency, that they stop at the estate—that someone, anyone, might offer more than rumor. But her uncle, noting the deepening dusk, had gently insisted it would be improper, even fruitless, to call at so late an hour. Better, he had said, to wait until morning—after rest and clear-headedness had returned.
Elizabeth had nodded, outwardly acquiescing. But her mind did not rest.
Sleep, when it came at all, was shallow and broken. She lay for hours with her eyes on the ceiling, not only anxious, but ashamed—ashamed that she had let doubt take root where love had once stood certain. The steady creak of the inn offered no comfort. She had believed he had withdrawn—that his silence had been a choice. But now, knowing what she did, she felt the weight of misjudgment more keenly than any uncertainty. If he had been able to write, he would have. Of that, she was now sure.
But something had happened. What it was, she dared not name—but she knew he was not lost. And yet a darker fear whispered otherwise. No. She would not believe it. Her mind recoiled from the image, even as doubt gnawed at the edges. He was not careless. He was not cruel. If he could have written, he would have.
She had done her best to remain steady—clinging to memory, to his character, to the quiet conviction that love, once known, could not vanish without trace. But as the candle at her bedside guttered low, even that slender thread of hope felt frayed beyond holding.
"He is not dead," she told herself. And that, at last, she chose to believe.
She dressed quickly and crossed to the window. The sky outside was pale and damp with the remnants of night rain, the streets of Lambton still quiet beneath the soft haze of early morning. She did not know what the day would bring—but she knew where it must begin.
A gentle knock came at the adjoining door.
“Lizzy?” her aunt called softly. “Are you awake?”
“I am,” Elizabeth answered. “I’ll come down shortly.”
“Take your time, dear. We’ll leave whenever you’re ready.”
Elizabeth lingered at the window another moment, her eyes tracing the road that wound beyond the village.He is not here. But that road may lead to answers. And I will find them—and him.
