Mr. Hewitt's fingers moved against his palm—slow, deliberate. He was trying to sign something.
His son, sitting on the other side of the bed, leaned forward as well. "Father? What is it?"
The old man’s gaze was not upon his son. His eyes were fixed on Darcy’s face. Slowly, his trembling hands began to move—weak, familiar gestures Darcy had picked from a handbook on sign language. He pointed toward Darcy, then touched his chest, then mimed holding something fragile and letting it slip away.
The girl. Love. Lost.
“I know,” Darcy said quietly, leaning close and speaking slowly so the old man could read his lips. “I know you understood everything I told you. I know you could read what I said all along.”
A faint change crossed Mr. Hewitt’s expression—something that might have been a smile, had he possessed the strength.
“I have begun to take actions,” Darcy continued, his voice steady though his throat ached. “In the direction you advised. Assoon as…as soon as you are well enough, I will go to her. I will find the words. I will—”
Mr. Hewitt’s hand dropped weakly beside him. His head moved in a small, deliberate shake.No.
“Father—” Thomas began, but the old man raised his other hand, bidding him to be silent.
Again his frail fingers moved, this time with greater urgency. He pointed at Darcy, then toward the door, then back to his own chest. His fingers tapped insistently.
Thomas watched, his eyes bright with tears. “He says... now. Go now. He’s—” Thomas’s voice faltered. “He’s saying he’s tired. Ready. That you should go.”
“You need to recover first,” Darcy said quickly. “I cannot leave while you—”
But Mr. Hewitt was shaking his head again, more insistent now. His hands moved in a rush of signs, directed to his son though his gaze never wavered from Darcy’s face.
Thomas swallowed hard. “He says you should go. That you should not wait. Do not waste time.” He paused, his voice breaking. “He says... tell him. Go find her. Do not let her go.”
The words struck Darcy like a physical blow. They were the same words the old man had written in his letter, the same counsel he had given when Darcy had thoroughly confessed his feelings for Elizabeth.
“I will not,” Darcy whispered. “I promise you, I will not let her go. Not this time.”
Mr. Hewitt’s eyes softened. For a long moment, he held Darcy’s gaze—a look filled with understanding and paternal affection that closed Darcy’s throat entirely.
The old man’s fingers squeezed Darcy’s, weak but sure. Approval. Blessing. Farewell.
Then his eyes drifted closed.
For several minutes his breathing continued, shallow and rattling. Thomas held one hand, Darcy the other. Neither spoke.
When the breathing ceased, it was so soft that Darcy at first did not realize it had happened. Then Thomas made a sound—half sob, half sigh—and Darcy knew.
Mr. Thomas Hewitt was gone.
***
Darcy sat in the chair long after the physician had come and gone, long after Thomas had left to make arrangements, long after the room had grown dark with evening.
He had lost his mother when he was thirteen. Had held her hand as fever consumed her, had watched her slip away despite every physician's effort, every prayer. He had lost his father six years ago—suddenly, without warning, a stroke that had taken him in his sleep. Darcy had arrived at Pemberley to find him already cold.
And then there had been Elizabeth's rejection. That loss had been different—not death, but the death of hope. The death of a future he had allowed himself to imagine.
Each loss had carved something out of him. Each had left a hollow place that never quite filled.
This felt like all of them at once.
He had known Mr. Hewitt such a short time. A few weeks of morning walks, of one-sided confessions, of companionable silence. And yet the old man had given him something no one else had: the freedom to speak his heart without fear of judgment. The wisdom to see his mistakes clearly. The courage to hope that he might deserve a second chance.
And now he was gone.
