Chapter 8


She'd run away. He couldn't believe she'd actually run from him.

"Elizabeth, please. You can't just ignore me. What happened? Please call me," he said to her voicemail for the second time. Before he could dial again he was interrupted by a knock at his door and Charlie walked in.

"Is everything alright Will? What happened to Lizzie?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"I don't really know, Charlie." Darcy admitted, sitting on the end of the still unmade bed. Charlie's gaze followed him and finally took in the rest of the room. His eyes widened as he noticed the mussed bed, the clothes strewn over the floor, the familiar dress mixed in with Darcy's suit and Lizzie's ornate mask lying beside his on the end table.

"I think you do know." Charles insisted, "At least now I know why I couldn't find either of you at the end of the night!"

Darcy gave a halfhearted smirk, but the cheekiness of the grin didn't reach his eyes, his eyes still looked somber and guilty.

"Elizabeth and I slept together last night" he admitted.

"Darce…"

"It wasn't me alright?" Will said, cutting him off "You don't have to believe it, but it's true. I walked up to her in the ballroom and she just started kissing me, and one thing led to another and we ended up here… in my bed," he fell back onto the mattress, defeated, but sat up again immediately when he smelt Elizabeth's perfume lingering on the sheets.

"That still doesn't explain why she went running out of here this morning," Charles said, coming to sit by his friend.

"I don't know what happened, Charles," he sighed "I woke up and she was right here, in my arms. And she fit so perfectly, it was like she'd been there forever."

Charlie was silent, letting Will tell his story. He was Will's best friend, and knew how he felt about Lizzie. Knew how long he'd struggled with those feelings because of the nature of their relationship and Lizzie's strange animosity towards him. Jane insisted she was secretly in love with him, but Charles wasn't so sure, most of the time her attitude boarded on polite hatred, and she argued with him constantly. Realizing that Will was still silent, he turned to his friend and nudged him.

"She shot up out of bed like she had lain down in acid," he mumbled "She seemed to be shocked that I was here. It was as if she didn't know what we'd done, or how she'd ended up in my bed."
"Was she drunk?" Charlie asked.
"I didn't think so," Darcy muttered "You know I wouldn't have taken advantage of her if I'd thought she was."

Charles nodded, that much was true.

"But maybe she was… god that just makes me feel even worse!"

"You didn't know Darce," Charlie said, hoping to comfort him "And you still don't. I'm sure you'll get your answers. You guys will work it out."

"It's just…" he paused, not sure what to say, "It's not the way I wanted it to happen Charlie. You know it's not."

"I know" Charles agreed, "But everything happens for a reason. It'll work itself out in the end"

"So what do I do now?" he asked. It wasn't often that Darcy looked to Charles for advice, usually it was the other way around, and even though they were best friends, the fact that Darcy sought his advice at a time like this not only made Charlie feel honoured, but made him realise just how much turmoil his friend was in.

"Give her some time," he suggested "There's nothing you can do about it now, and you shouldn't confront her about it over the phone. Too much chance she'll hang up on you!" he joked, but Darcy didn't laugh, there was too much truth to that statement to find it funny.

"Look Darce, you know you'll see her again. All is not lost. Give her the rest of today, and you know where she'll be tomorrow. Just, let her have time. She's obviously not ready to talk."

Darcy mumbled a response that sounded like agreement so Charles left him to think it over and went to find Jane, wondering if she knew what had happened, but knowing he couldn't bring it up and betray Darcy's trust in him.

Alone again Darcy looked down at his phone, which was still clutched in his hand. He knew she wasn't going to answer, but he also knew he couldn't leave things as they were. Even if she didn't listen to it, at least he'd know that he had tried. So he hit redial and listened to the phone ring out before clicking over to voicemail and listening to her sweet voice, happy and cheerful, requesting he leave a message after the beep.

Within half an hour of his conversation with Charlie, Will had packed up all of his things, and the things that Lizzie had left behind, and was climbing into his Aston Martin, ready to leave Netherfield behind him today, unable to stand staying there a moment longer. With Lizzie gone, him leaving and Charlie spending the morning with Jane, Will had left Charlotte in charge of the disassembling and cleaning up. She'd been surprised, but happily obliged as he'd muttered his thanks on his way out the door.

He spent the drive back to London in much the same state as he'd been in all morning. By the time he reached home, a three story townhouse in Chelsea, he felt like a wreck, he was tired, his body ached – which he wasn't sure if it was from last night's activities or a physical effect of his mental state. After letting himself in and carefully unpacking Lizzie's things, he placed them on the dresser in his bedroom he unceremoniously dumped his own belongings into the wash basket.

As tired as he was, he couldn't bear the thought of going to sleep. He dreaded the idea of what his dreams would be. Lizzie had already haunted them on and off over the years, and now that he'd experience her rejection he didn't want to dream it again.

Instead he found himself standing in the shower, still thinking about his Elizabeth. Eventually he got out and dressed in some old sweat pants and t-shirt. The house was quiet, too quiet. Usually Will liked the quiet, he liked to be alone, have his own space and not have to share it. But now it felt empty and cold, and lonely.

He couldn't sit in the silence anymore, he couldn't sit in his living room and imagine Lizzie curled up on the sofa reading a book, he couldn't read the paper in the kitchen and imagine her cooking for him, and he couldn't lie in his bedroom and imagine her lying next to him. So he did the only thing he could think of that would distract him. He drove to the office and immersed himself in work. He knew that several of the department heads had already emailed him their reports from last night, so he'd bury himself in those until he was exhausted enough to sleep without dreaming.