Do not waste the time you have been given. We have so little of it, in the end.
With my deepest regards and best wishes for your happiness,
Thomas Hewitt’
Darcy sat motionless, the letter trembling slightly in his hands.
He had thought himself alone in his confessions. Had thought his words disappeared into the silence, unheard and unwitnessed.
But Hewitt had known. Had understood. Had listened—truly listened—to every stumbling confession, every admission of failure and longing.
And rather than judge him, the old man had offered him grace.
Darcy set the letter down carefully, pressing his fingers to his eyes as emotion threatened to overwhelm him.
If you love her still—and I believe you do—then tell her.
But how? How could he tell her when she had made it so clear that his affections were unwelcome? When she had refused even to read his letter, to hear his explanations?
Give her the choice, and trust that she will make it wisely.
Perhaps that was the answer. Not to demand. Not to assume. But simply to offer—to lay his heart before her once more, without pride or pretense, and let her decide.
It terrified him. The thought of facing another rejection, of seeing that same disdain in her eyes—
But the alternative was worse. To say nothing. To let these days in Bath slip away, to return to Pemberley with his feelings still locked away, unexpressed and unresolved.
He could not do it. He could not go through life wondering what might have been if he had only found the courage to try.
Darcy stood, folding the letter carefully and tucking it into his coat pocket. He moved to the window and looked out at the Bath morning—golden and bright, full of promise he had not noticed before.
Do not waste the time you have been given.
He would not.
Less than a week remained before Elizabeth returned to London, and then to Hertfordshire. Less than a week to show her that he was not the man she had once believed him to be. Less than a week to earn—if not her love, then at least her respect.
It would have to be enough time.
It would have to be.
TWELVE
Bath, September 1812
Elizabeth
Elizabeth woke later than usual the morning after her encounter with Sarah. She had slept poorly, her dreams filled with dark-haired children and accusing eyes. When she finally descended to the breakfast parlor, she found her aunt and uncle already at table, Jane buttering toast with a dreamy expression that suggested Mr. Bingley had featured prominently in her thoughts.
"There you are, Lizzy," Mrs. Gardiner said. "If you had woken but ten minutes earlier, you would have seen Mr. Darcy's errand boy. He brought an invitation for us all."
Elizabeth's hand stilled on her teacup. "An invitation?"
"To dine at his estate tomorrow evening," Mr. Gardiner said, biting into his toast with evident satisfaction. "Quite thoughtful of him, I must say. We have only three days remaining before we quit Bath. It is high time he invited us to see his property."
"I am certain he would have invited us earlier," Mrs. Gardiner added with a teasing smile directed at Jane, "but the gentlemen wished to maintain their excuse for calling here daily to see the ladies."
Jane colored prettily. Mr. Gardiner chuckled into his coffee.
