Hoped against sense, against experience, against even her own careful understanding of Fitzwilliam Darcy's soul.
She had thought—perhaps—he might come for her. Might defy reason, tradition, fear itself, and come to her sooner.
But he had not.
And though Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words lingered, a fragile balm against despair, the old fear gnawed at her still—that by knowing him too well, too soon, she had somehow unstitched the delicate tapestry of fate.
Would James still be born, if Fitzwilliam made a different choice?
The very thought unsettled her, hollowed her from within.
She had already hastened Bingley and Jane’s union—a choice she did not, could not, regret—but now she wondered: would that sweet union still bear fruit? Would little Clare Elizabeth—Jane’s firstborn, her goddaughter, her radiant joy—never exist in this altered world?
The thought was a knife twisting slowly in her heart.
Not all her changes weighed so heavily.
The fact that she had prevented Lydia’s ruin—that she had spared Meryton the burden of Wickham’s debts, and spared Fitzwilliam the quiet agony of repaying them out of duty and honour—was a mercy she could not question.
Nor could she grieve the blossoming of her bond with Mary, once a stranger, now a sister of her heart.
There were blessings in the changes.
There was hope.
And yet—
Her love for Fitzwilliam remained a constant, a lodestar that neither memory nor time could dim.
It was timely. It was true. She knew it in the marrow of her bones, in the trembling of her hands, in the way his eyes—dear heavens, his eyes—had softened when she spoke of James.
The yearning was there. Whether he would name it or not.
But he needed time.
Time to reconcile the impossible.
Time to believe in a future she had already lived and lost once before.
Elizabeth wandered alone through the grove where the trees bent their ancient arms overhead, their early leaves whispering in a language she almost understood.
The ache in her chest did not lessen.
The uncertainty did not fade.
But she had made her choice. She would wait. She would hope.
The trees swayed gently above her, the breeze weaving through the boughs like a prayer carried heavenward—promises she dared not speak aloud, lest she shatter them.
She would wait.
And she would hope.
Even if it cost her everything.
Chapter 37
Elizabeth’s final week at Hunsford passed with a peculiar mixture of familiarity and unrest.
