Elizabeth accepted the cup, grateful for the warmth against her cold fingers. “Thank you. I did not realize I had rung.”
“You did not.” Clarice moved about the room with quiet efficiency, straightening items that did not need straightening. “But the night grows late, and I thought you might find comfort in a warm drink.”
The kindness was unexpected. Clarice had always been competent, never tender; professional, never maternal. Yet something in her manner suggested she understood precisely what Elizabeth had awaited—and what had not come.
“You may retire,” Elizabeth said. “I will not need you again tonight.”
Clarice paused at the door. “Sleep well, madam. The morning often brings clarity that the night withholds.”
It was as close to advice as Clarice had ever offered. Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her voice, and listened to the lady’s maid’s footsteps retreat down the corridor.
The chamomile was both bitter and soothing. Elizabeth sipped it slowly, watching the last of her candle drown in its own wax, and told herself that tomorrow must be better. She would not speculate about indigestion, estate emergencies, or the possibility of Darcy’s regret. She would attempt an explanation when she had more to offer.
Morning arrived with an excess of brightness, a personal affront to Elizabeth’s mood. She had slept at last, chamomile and exhaustion conspiring to drag her under despite the churning of her thoughts.
She woke with her eyes burning, wiping the tears with the edge of a sheet. She was alone, quite obviously, and this was not something to weep about. She would not languish in bed, like a pathetic Gothic heroine. She was Elizabeth Bennet—Elizabeth Darcy now—and she had never been the sort of woman who surrendered to melancholy when action remained possible.
There had to be an explanation, and she would not let moss grow under her feet. She swung off the counterpane and rose, moving to the washstand as Clarice entered with hot water.
“Did you sleep well, madam?”
The question was ordinary, and the pause before it was not.
“Tolerably,” Elizabeth replied, watching Clarice’s lips compress for a fleeting moment—almost sympathetic—before her composure reassembled itself into professional blankness, for which Elizabeth was quietly grateful.
Clarice was no Hannah, and at this moment, Elizabeth could not fathom having the cheery housemaid chirping romantic nonsense while drawing back the curtains and waxing eloquently about covers and counterpanes and stormy nights sheltered with strong arms and passionate?—
Enough. Elizabeth commanded herself, turning her attention firmly to the business of washing her face.
“How is the household?” she asked, instead of referring to her husband.
“They are stirring. Miss Darcy is breakfasting alone. Mrs. Reynolds is consulting with Cook regarding the day’s menus. And…” She drew a folded note from her apron pocket. “Mr. Darcy rose early. He left this for you.”
It was sealed with plain wax, without the Darcy insignia.
Elizabeth’s heart stuttered, and she did not reach for the note, so Clarice placed it on the dresser. Moving efficiently, she set out Elizabeth’s morning dress—a sensible muslin, not the green silk of the night before—and withdrew with a murmured comment about returning shortly to assist with dressing.
The door closed, and Elizabeth found herself alone with Darcy’s handwriting. She broke the seal.
Elizabeth,
Forgive me. You offered more than I deserve, and I found I could not take what I have not yet earned the right to claim.
This is no reflection upon you. You are everything I said and more—everything I could wish for and more than I dared hope to find. The fault lies entirely with me, and with matters I am not yet free to explain.
Please believe that I love you. Please believe that I will make this right when I am able.
- F.D.
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed as she reread the letter. How could he imagine he had not earned the right to claim her? She had offered herself—plainly, unmistakably, without a trace of coyness or maidenly hesitation. She had left the door unlocked, sat in her finest nightgown, and waited like a fool while the candle guttered to nothing.
And he sent her a note. A note that praised her, certainly. A note that professed love, undeniably. But a note, all the same: ink and paper where his presence ought to have been, pretty words in place of explanation.
Indignation flared, then ebbed, leaving something colder behind. Very well. He wished to earn her, did he? To prove himself worthy by some arcane process of his own devising?
Then let him earn. Let him prove. She had made her position clear; it was not her burden to repeat it.
He was withholding himself, that much was plain. Some unspoken matter held him back, and Elizabeth was no innocent in the woods. She prided herself on reading characters, both fictional and living. Darcy was not simply a brooding gentleman; his reserve concealed more than desire or passion. His composure masked secrets.
