Elizabeth wavers at the question, mouth hanging open in uncertainty. Ernest can see her hesitation from his place in the gathered crowd. He can practically hear her brain working frantically through her options in the few moments before she'll have to answer Duke Karlington's proposal. A hundred pairs of eyes watch, oblivious to the fear in Elizabeth's expression. Even the Duke doesn't appear aware. It's just as likely he doesn't care.
Ernest sees as if he's watching a carriage crash in slow motion; tongue and feet frozen in horror, heart in his throat. Elizabeth looks resigned before anyone can get suspicious and Ernest knows what's to come. He knows the reply is for the good of Edgewater. To secure Lady Bennett's future rather than to please her heart. That makes it no less sickening. He flees, unwilling to let himself hear her actual acceptance. The soft, delighted gasp of the crowd is enough.
Elizabeth's correspondence comes the next day. Delivered by hand from Edgewater. He hasn't visited, of course. In his opinion no congratulations are in order. Condolences seem far more apt. He's been too busy to give either, spending the night of her engagement drunk on the floor of his study instead. Only his inability to deny her requests has him arriving at Edgewater that night.
Mr Woods answers the door with a solemn bow and the house seems otherwise empty. The two men walk in silence to Elizabeth's rooms, both seemingly aware but unwilling to voice that Ernest knows his own way. Woods knocks on the door, opens it despite the lack of permission, and then takes his leave once more. Edging into the darkened room Ernest can hardly bare the sight of the state of Lady Elizabeth. She sits, half slumped, in a chair opposite the fire; gazing unseeingly at the curls of flames licking up toward the chimney. Sinclaire knows he's never seen her so disheveled. The fact that she's letting him - that she's requested his company when she looks like this - drops a pitiful weight into his gut. Her hair is in tangles round her face and she's dressed only in her nightgown. The rest of her clothes are piled at the end of her bed. The heavy curtains are drawn, leaving the room in a depressing darkness. Rather appropriate.
"Mr Sinclaire." Elizabeth greets in a croaky whisper, waving him further into the room with the whiskey bottle she holds. On her cheeks and in her eyes there are tears, terribly clearly illuminated even in the dull light. Ernest sits obediently in a chair to one side and waits with his brow furrowed.
Silence. For too many agonising moments the crackling fire is the only sound and yet when Elizabeth speaks again he still wishes she hadn't.
"Thank you for coming so promptly. I know my request was short notice." Her pain isn't masked by the clinical politeness and he cringes. It's impossible for him to know who she thinks she's benefiting by addressing him as society dictates even though they're alone. It can't make her ache any less, surely? He feels that much worse for it himself. Any reply he might have been about to give dies in his throat as she rolls her head to stare at him. He doesn't know what she's searching for in his face but she doesn't appear to find it. Another drink from the whiskey bottle is apparently more comforting despite the burning kick that makes her cough. Perhaps it's the pain she's finding comfort in. A bitterness to distract from the bitterness in her heart. It's how he feels about drinking and an aged whiskey provides just enough sharp pain to act as punishment for needing to get drunk in the first place. Though a lady in Elizabeth's circumstances can hardly be blamed.
"...Was that bottle full when you began?"
She nods. Little more than a quarter remains. The silent, desperate longing for a distraction it shows is entirely too familiar.
"Will you stop when it is empty?"
It's more a pleading request than a question. Elizabeth looks over at him again. He's sitting rigidly as if the chair were lined with nails; white knuckled hands clasped in his lap. Fresh tears prick in her eyes but she nods. Yes. She'll stop. Guilt would eat her alive if she caused him any more distress than she already has. Elizabeth doesn't know what she's done to deserve his continued company even as her choices must be tearing him apart.
They sit in silence once more. Only a mouthful or so remains in the bottle by the time Mr Woods returns. Sinclaire has spent the time watching Elizabeth cry silently. It feels like an awful invasion of her privacy and he has to repeatedly remind himself that she wants him here, even if all he'll do is watch her helplessly. There's little else he can do, and he knows they're both aware. He hasn't the status or the funds to dispute her engagement to Duke Karlington. Elizabeth's occasional sniffs and the fading sounds of the fire are interrupted by Mr Woods.
"My Lady, your Father and the Countess will return within the hour." His voice bares a sorrow that Ernest finds himself unable to articulate to her even when they're alone again.
"You should go." She speaks into the room, avoiding looking at him as her voice cracks. His sensibilities barely catch the disagreement he wants so badly to give. Instead, he watches Elizabeth hold the bottle up to him as if she's making a toast. She only breaks eye contact to drink the rest of the bottle at once. It's a gesture that Ernest will only realise later is a devastated goodbye.
There's a dull scraping sound as she replaces the empty bottle back on the side table - the heaviness in her actions the only sign she's drunk.
"You'll be alright?"
Alone, he means. Drunk and broken and alone as he was last night and will be again in a matter of hours. Elizabeth just nods; afraid her mouth will blurt the truth in desperation as he finally stands to leave. It's unlikely they'll ever speak again properly. He couldn't possibly bring himself to attend her wedding even if he were invited. Which he won't be. Duke Karlington would never allow it.
Shamefully Ernest flees without another word. Even as Elizabeth's now unbridled sobs follow him he flees - away from Edgewater as soon as he's able. You're late. He reasons with himself. Late for drinking until he can't remember his own name, much less the crushing sorrow of his loss.