“I think it does,” he said. “And I think you were right. Pemberley… this place… it holds more than memory. Even if we only dreamed it—those moments were real to me.”
“And to me,” she whispered.
But as she looked up, she saw the change in him—his eyes a little glassier now, the lines around his mouth a little deeper. He was fading. Not in spirit, but in strength. Hisbreathing had grown shallower, and though he sat upright still, she could see how much the effort cost him.
She longed to speak more—there was still so much unsaid—but one glance told her it would be selfish.
“Colonel,” she said gently, stepping to the door and opening it a little. “He is ready now.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared almost at once. “Ready?” he echoed, though his gaze went straight to his cousin.
Elizabeth nodded. “He will not say so. But yes.”
Darcy made no protest. He simply looked at her once more, then allowed his cousin to help him rise. He leaned on the Colonel heavily, more than Elizabeth had ever seen, and though he tried to hide it, it was clear the exertion cost him dearly. When they reached the threshold, a footman stepped forward silently to assist. Together, they guided him back to his rooms.
Elizabeth watched from the doorway, heart aching with something more than sorrow. She longed to follow, to be the one at his side, to help him undress and see him safely to sleep.
But it was not time. Not yet.
What he had given her in that hour was more than comfort. He had dreamed of James as a toddler—laughing, running, calling him Papa—and she had never seen her son take his first step. But Fitzwilliam had. Somehow. In some dream or vision or deep imagining, he had seen what she had longed for, what she had feared might be lost forever. He had dreamed of a daughter, too. A daughter who did not yet exist. She prayed that the future he had seen, and the one she remembered, might still become the same.
The next morning brought true signs of recovery. He ate with better appetite. His colour had returned in small but certain measure. And though Dr. Wentworth gave his permission with no small amount of theatrical caution, Darcy insisted upon being taken to the west sitting room before noon.
“If I do not reclaim that chair,” he said, “my cousin will begin redecorating in the Gothic style.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. “You may limp, Darcy, but I assure you: your sense of melodrama survives intact.”
Darcy chuckled, and by the time they reached the sitting room—supported again by the Colonel and a footman—his steps, though slow, were steadier.
This time, the whole party was gathered for a light tea. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner sat on the settee nearest the serving table, the Colonel had taken the one beside the bookshelf, and Elizabeth sat with Mr. Darcy in the matching wing-backed chairs by the fire.
It was the first time he had faced any company since the attack. And though Elizabeth knew he would never reveal discomfort, she watched him closely all the same.
He did not falter.
“I believe I heard you enjoy fishing, Mr. Gardiner?” he asked, once formal introduction and tea had been poured.
“I do indeed,” Mr. Gardiner said, smiling with some surprise. “Though I confess I haven’t had much success this summer.”
“There’s a spot just beyond the ridge,” Darcy replied, “where the fish seem far less philosophical. You should try it while you’re here—though I regret I can’t accompany you. Next time, perhaps.”
Elizabeth watched her uncle’s brows lift just slightly in pleased astonishment.
“You are very kind,” he said. “I should be glad of it.”
Mrs. Gardiner had begun to relax as well. She spoke of her childhood in Lambton, of walking to market with her sisters and stopping at the smithy by the green. “There was a broad-chested chestnut tree there,” she said, “we used to pretend it was our castle.”
“I remember it,” Darcy said. “My nurse used to take me past it. I once tried to climb it and ended up with a gash to the knee that bled like a Shakespearean tragedy. I was six.”
Mrs. Gardiner laughed, and Elizabeth saw in her aunt’s expression something like dawning affection. It was not the grandeur of Pemberley that had softened her—it was the man beside the fire, with his quiet humour and unexpected humility.
Even the Colonel, lounging near the window, offered his own contribution to the warmth. “Mrs. Gardiner,” he said with exaggerated gravity, “do you still claim the north is superior to London?”
“In every possible respect,” she answered, “except perhaps the walk from the main doors to this room. I required a full five minutes and a quiet prayer to reach it.”
Elizabeth laughed, and even Darcy smiled—though it was clear the visit had begun to tire him.
The conversation did not stretch long. When Darcy’s voice began to fade and his teacup went untouched, the Gardiners made their farewells with perfect grace.
