Night had fully settled, the stars scattered faintly across a deep velvet sky. She pressed her fingers to the sill and gazed out, as if the stillness might offer some balm to her thoughts, some clarity for the uncertain path ahead.
The memories—theirmemories—rose in her mind with aching vividness. The home they had shared at Pemberley, the warmth of his arms, the quiet devotion in his eyes. She remembered his laughter, rare but dear, and the tender way he had spoken her name. She remembered James—theirson—and the small hand that had once grasped hers, the gurgling laugh that had filled their rooms with joy.
That life had been real. Itwasreal. And now, in this strange undoing of time, she alone carried the weight of it.
But none of that had happened yet. Fitzwilliam had not yet proposed to her, and James had not yet been born. To him, she was still the woman he had first met—the one who knew things she could not possibly know: his favorite song, Georgiana’s favorite composer, the small, unspoken details of his life that only someone close to him could understand. But she had not been close to him—not yet. She had no explanation for it, no simple way to make him understand.
How had she allowed herself to slip so? Every moment she spent with him felt so right, as if she had always belonged at his side. Yet, each time she revealed something he could not possibly expect, every small revelation only deepened the impossibility of their situation. Fitzwilliam had not come to Rosings with suspicions—he had been surprised to see her, intrigued by the familiarity between them. In their first meeting, he had even surprised himself with the urgent desire to propose, though he had done so out of pride, and she had hurt him badly. But now, this time, Elizabeth doubted hewould come willingly. The idea of proposing was probably the furthest thing from his mind, especially now that his suspicions had been awakened.
The little details she knew—things no one else could—had begun to puzzle him. Why should she know them? Was it simply coincidence, or was there more to her than she had revealed? This was the question that now haunted him, and as he walked the paths of Rosings, doubts he had never known before gnawed at him.
During their walks, a glimmer of hope had still lingered within her, a quiet belief that perhaps he might yet propose, even if with the same words as before. She had practiced what she would say, to temper him. But now, all those preparations were in vain because of the slip of her tongue. And in the stillness of her room, Elizabeth wondered—if she had not made that mistake, would he have come tonight as he originally intended? Would the tenderness they had shared, the moments that had drawn them closer, have led him to speak of a future together? Or had her words—her unintended revelation of their shared past—forever altered his course?
A soft knock at the door broke her reverie.
"Elizabeth?" Charlotte’s voice was hesitant, yet it carried an unmistakable note of concern.
Elizabeth quickly wiped her eyes, forcing herself to compose her expression. It had been some time since she had allowed Charlotte to be near her, since she had distanced herself from her former friend. The bond they had once shared had weakened over the months following Elizabeth’s awakening, and now it felt as though a gulf separated them. Charlotte, however, had tried—ever so patiently—to reach out, though Elizabeth had kept her distance, preoccupied with matters she could scarcely explain.
"I am here, Charlotte," Elizabeth replied, her voice steady but lacking warmth. "I… I have a headache."
There was a pause, the silence hanging between them, and Elizabeth could hear the hesitation in Charlotte's voice when she spoke again. "You’re still not well, are you?"
"I will be fine," Elizabeth said, forcing a small, reassuring smile, though it felt hollow. "Please, I just need rest."
The silence stretched longer this time before Charlotte spoke once more, her voice gentler, laden with concern. "Well, we are off to Rosings for tea," she said, as though trying to offer some distraction. "You’ll have the house to yourself for a while."
Elizabeth nodded, grateful for the solitude that was about to envelop her. "I understand. Please, enjoy your tea."
Charlotte hesitated for a moment longer, her words softening. "If you need anything, Elizabeth... anything at all..."
Elizabeth gave a small, tired smile, though it did little to lift the heaviness in her chest. "Thank you, Charlotte. I will be fine."
With that, Charlotte finally left, her footsteps growing fainter as she descended the stairs. Alone again, Elizabeth closed the door softly behind her, the weight of her secret pressing down on her once more.
Her thoughts whirled in a haze of uncertainty. She glanced toward the bed, but before she could sit, her eyes were drawn to the clock on the wall. Soon. He would be here soon.
Her breath caught in her chest. Fitzwilliam, she thought, closing her eyes as she silently invoked his name. Please, believe me.
Chapter 35
The silence that followed the Collinses' departure, usually a welcome respite, felt different tonight—heavy, charged with a terrible anticipation that seemed to soak into the very walls. The ticking of the clock mocked her, each deliberate tick a reminder of what was yet to come, each second stretching into an eternity. Every creak of the parsonage floorboards sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness, setting her pulse skittering with every groan of the old wood.
Unable to remain seated, Elizabeth drifted once again to the window, her palms pressing against the cool sill as her eyes strained toward the winding path. Though reason told her it was yet too soon for any figure to appear, hope overruled all sense, and her heart leapt at every shifting shadow.
It had come to this. She had invited it, even implored it, though every instinct for self-preservation screamed against such folly. Colonel Fitzwilliam had seen too much. His soldier’s instincts had caught at every slip, every too-knowing glance, every note struck too true. But it was not the Colonel's scrutiny that weighed upon her now.
No, it was him—Fitzwilliam—who haunted her most.
She must remember to think of him as Mr. Darcy. It was dangerous—reckless—to let his Christian name rise so easily to her mind. That slip, that single betrayal of habit, had set all of this into motion.
She could not forget the flicker of suspicion in his eyes when she let time’s secrets spill unbidden from her tongue, nor the sudden tension in his stance when, in a moment ofthoughtless familiarity, she had called him by his Christian name. That slip had struck between them like a blade, too intimate to be explained, too revealing to be ignored.
The careless intimacy still hung between them now, like a guillotine suspended—silent, inevitable, and waiting only for gravity to do its work.
You are not ready,her heart whispered, cruel and relentless.You are not truly ready for what must be said—or for what it may cost you. For what it may cost you both.
She gripped the windowsill tighter, the edge of the wood biting cruelly into her palms. Pain, at least, was real, tangible—something she could anchor herself against when her mind threatened to break upon fear’s sharp rocks. She had no choice now. She had set this course, and she must see it through. If she failed tonight—if he left her, bewildered and mistrustful—it would not be for lack of courage.
