As she sat staring at the letters, the silence shifted—not peace, but anticipation. The sense that one last thread had yet to unravel.
The door opened once more. Mrs. Reynolds entered first, her expression subdued. Behind her stood Colonel Fitzwilliam, who looked graver than the night before, though the resolve in his bearing was unmistakable.
“I hope we do not intrude,” the Colonel said quietly. “But something has come to light that you ought to hear.”
Mrs. Reynolds stepped forward, her voice low but steady. “Miss Bennet, we received a letter this morning from Mrs. Hargrove, the housekeeper at Darcy House. It seems one of the maids, while tending the master’s study, found a curious amount of ash in the hearth. The fire had not been lit in weeks—nor should it have been.”
Elizabeth straightened, her hands still resting on the desk.
“In the ashes,” Mrs. Reynolds continued, “she discovered fragments of burnt paper. Most were too charred to identify. But one bore a name—‘Charles Bingley’—still visible.”
Elizabeth’s voice was quiet but sharp. “Who could have done it?”
The Colonel’s reply came at once. “Lady Catherine.”
“She arrived just after the attack,” he added grimly. “Claimed she wished only to ensure the household was in order. No one questioned her access—she was family, and you were still missing. But she had no business in the study. She lit a fire where none had been before.”
Elizabeth drew a breath, slowly. “Then she meant for him to remain in ignorance. She severed every path between us.”
Silence fell, broken only by the crackling hearth behind them.
After a pause, Mrs. Reynolds cleared her throat. “There was another letter, miss. Not from London, but from here.”
Elizabeth looked up, brows lifted slightly.
“It arrived just a day or two before the master returned,” Mrs. Reynolds explained. “With Mr. Darcy so unwell, and Mr. Ellis unsure whether to forward it on to London, it was kept safely with the personal post until he might review it himself.”
Elizabeth gave a dry huff of breath—almost a laugh, though without amusement. “Naturally. If that one had gone missing as well, it would have been the cherry on top of an already lavish cake.”
Mrs. Reynolds blinked at her tone, uncertain whether to smile.
The Colonel took the letter from her and opened it silently. Elizabeth said nothing; she already knew its contents. She had stood beside Bingley when he penned it—had seen him wrestle with what to say, how much hope to reveal.
At last, she murmured, “I waited. I kept hoping. But now I wonder if I did not have the easier burden. He was hurt. He needed me. And she burned his letter. How could he not conclude that everything I said—that all I told him at Rosings, at Gracechurch Street—was nothing but a lie?”
The Colonel folded the page. “He may have questioned,” he said carefully. “But he never truly believed you had forsaken him. If he had, Miss Bennet, he would not have come.”
Elizabeth turned toward him, her eyes searching his face.
“He left London against every warning,” the Colonel went on. “The physicians urged delay. He could scarcely stand. But he insisted. He believed—he needed to believe—that if you had once loved him, as you had said… you would come.”
His voice gentled. “He did not travel for pride. He came for hope.”
Elizabeth said nothing, but something in her face changed. Not quite relief—but a softening. A loosening of breath.
Then came a knock at the door. A maid entered, curtseying. “Dr. Wentworth is come, ma’am, to examine the patient.”
Mrs. Reynolds and the Colonel withdrew quietly, leaving Elizabeth alone with the letters—and with silence no longer empty, but expectant.
Chapter 56
By the time the door opened, the sun had already begun its slow descent beyond the hills. Elizabeth looked up from her seat near the window, where she had remained in stillness, the letter from Jane folded neatly upon the table beside her. Mrs. Reynolds entered first, her expression composed but touched with quiet satisfaction, and behind her came Dr. Wentworth, removing his gloves with the deliberate care of a man who had at last observed a favourable change.
“Mr. Darcy is much improved,” he said, his tone both grave and reassuring. “He sat up without distress and has taken nourishment without resistance. The swelling has receded, his pulse is stronger, and he has regained some colour.”
He paused, glancing toward Mrs. Reynolds before continuing. “There is, however, another matter. It seems Mr. Darcy is insistent—most insistent—that he be permitted to see Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth felt her breath catch.
