Darcy pressed his fingers to his eyes, feeling the sting of tears he had not shed since his father's death.
"Sir?"
He looked up to find Thomas standing in the doorway, his own eyes red but his expression composed.
"I wanted to thank you," Thomas said quietly. "For everything you did for my father. For bringing him here. For sitting with him. For—" His voice caught. "For being his friend when he needed one."
"He was a good man," Darcy managed.
"He was. And he was fond of you, sir. Very fond." Thomas stepped into the room. "He wrote to me about you last month. Said you reminded him of himself when he was young. He said he hoped he could help you avoid some of the mistakes he made."
Darcy's throat tightened further.
"Did he?" Thomas asked gently. "Help you, I mean?"
"More than he knew," Darcy said. "More than I can adequately express."
Thomas nodded. "Then he would be glad of that." He paused. "There are arrangements to be made. The funeral will be in three days' time, here in Bristol. After that, I will take him home to be buried beside my mother. You need not stay for all of it, sir. You have already given more time than anyone could ask."
"I will stay," Darcy said immediately. "For the funeral, at least. I would—I would like to be there."
"Then we would be honored to have you."
***
The funeral was a small affair. Thomas and his wife, a few distant relatives, some acquaintances from Bristol. And Darcy, standing at the back of the church, listening to a vicar who had not known Mr. Hewitt speak platitudes about eternal rest.
Darcy had paid for it all—the funeral, the burial plot, the headstone that would bear the old man's name. Thomas had protested, but Darcy had been firm. It was the least he could do.
After the service, after the burial, after the last mourners had departed, Darcy stood alone beside the fresh grave.
"Thank you," he said quietly to the turned earth. "For listening. For understanding. For giving me the wisdom I was too blind to find on my own."
The wind moved through the trees overhead. A bird called in the distance.
"I will go to her," Darcy continued. "As you advised. I do not know if she will hear me. I do not know if I can make her understand what I feel. But I will try. Because you were right—love like this is too rare to let slip away without a fight."
He stood there for a long moment more, then turned and walked back toward the waiting carriage.
Thomas was there, looking tired but grateful.
"Where will you go now, sir?" he asked.
Darcy pictured the road that would take him back to Bath, from Bath to Derbyshire, and then to Hertfordshire. To Netherfield, where Bingley waited. To Longbourn, where Elizabeth was.
"I have business in Hertfordshire," he said. "Business I have delayed too long already."
Thomas smiled faintly. "The young lady my father–?"
"Yes."
"Then I wish you well, sir. And I hope—" He paused. "I hope you find what you are looking for."
"So do I," Darcy said quietly.
He climbed into the carriage and gave the driver his instructions. As they pulled away from the churchyard, Darcy looked back one last time at the grave beneath the trees.
Do not let her go.
