Although Darcy had gone to bed late, his sleep had been fitful and haunted. Before dawn's first light broke, he rose, weary but restless. The faint sounds of the early morning seemed to magnify his inner turmoil. He stood by the window, watching the shadows retreat as the grey of dawn crept over the horizon. His heart and mind were caught in a relentless tug-of-war.
The mere thought of Elizabeth brought a warm feeling to his chest. He could vividly picture her: her lively, beautiful, and intelligent eyes, her smile, and her ability to speak to him with disarming honesty. The prospect of seeing her again filled him with an intense and almost painful anticipation.
And then there was Anne. A wave of guilt crashed over him as he thought of her. His cousin had lived a life of quiet isolation, shielded from the world's cruelties by her fragile health and Rosings' unyielding walls. Now, she faced a situation that even her wealth and name could not shield her from.
The world would not forgive her. Society would be cruel, and the child—innocent yet burdened by circumstance—would be judged long before it could find its place in the world. Anne did not seem to comprehend the gravity of the situation, and it fell to Darcy to guide and protect her. He had a plan, but it was far from perfect.
As he went to join Anne for breakfast, his mind swirled with questions. Could he persuade her to agree to a marriage of convenience? Would the Matlocks assist him in finding a gentleman to provide legitimacy for Anne and her child? And even if they did, could he trust such a man to treat her kindly?
The small dining room adjoining Anne's quarters felt intimate as Darcy entered. Anne and Mrs. Watson looked up in surprise; it was uncommon for him to join them in the mornings.
"Good morning, Mr. Darcy," Mrs. Watson greeted with her usual politeness, though an undertone of curiosity was present in her voice.
"Good morning," Darcy replied evenly, his gaze shifting to Anne.
To his surprise, she looked… brighter. A faint blush coloured her pale cheeks, and her lips curved in the smallest of smiles. Her hand rested protectively over the slight curve of her belly, a gesture that struck Darcy deeply. She seemed almost happy, an expression he had not seen in her in years.
The breakfast was a quiet affair. Darcy ate little, his appetite dulled by the weight of what he needed to discuss. Anne, however, seemed lost in her thoughts, occasionally glancing at him with a peculiar light in her eyes.
As they finished, Mrs. Watson rose, excusing herself with an arch look at Darcy. She seemed to sense that something significant was about to transpire.
Once alone, Darcy turned to Anne, steeling himself. But before he could speak, she broke the silence, her voice trembling with excitement.
"Darcy," she began, leaning forward slightly. "I have been waiting to tell you something—something wonderful!"
Darcy paused; his expression carefully neutral. "I need to speak with you as well, Anne," he said gently. "Yesterday—" But she interrupted, her words tumbling out in a rush. "Yesterday afternoon, I believed I saw Captain Harris! He walked past the inn, Darcy—right past the door. I could not see him clearly, but I was certain it was him. He must have come on purpose." Her eyes shone with hope as she clasped her hands together. "Please, you must speak to him for me. I know he cares deeply for me. I know he will do what is right."
Darcy's chest tightened. He had dreaded this moment, knowing how it would crush her. Taking a deep breath, he met her hopeful gaze with quiet resolve.
"Anne," he began softly, "I spoke with Captain Harris last night."
Her face lit up, her hands gripping the table. "You did? Oh, thank you! What did he say? When is he coming to see me?"
Darcy's throat tightened, his heart aching at the hope in her voice. He exhaled slowly before continuing, his voice low, measured. "Anne, I am so sorry. But Captain Harris is married."
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Anne's smile froze, her hands falling limply to her lap. "No," she whispered, her voice shaking. "No, that cannot be true. You are lying!"
"I would never lie to you about this," Darcy said, his voice firm but heavy with regret.
Her breathing quickened, and her eyes filled with tears. "You are wrong!" she cried, her voice breaking. "You must be wrong. He promised me, Darcy. He promised! He loves me—he said he did."
He felt an almost unbearable wave of guilt and compassion. He reached across the table and gently clasped her trembling hand. "I know this is devastating, but you must accept it. He is married. There is no future with him."
She pulled her hand away, her sobs growing louder, her shoulders shaking with the force of her despair. "I have to see him, Darcy," she pleaded, her voice raw. "I need to hear it from him. Please, take me to him. I am begging you!"
Darcy's jaw tightened; his resolve unshaken despite the pain across her face. "No, Anne. I cannot allow that. It would only bring you more pain, and it would endanger your future. No one else can know your situation—least of all Captain Harris."
Her cries turned frantic, her protests desperate, but Darcy remained steadfast. He spoke firmly, reminding her of the consequences if her condition became widely known. For every tear she shed, his guilt grew, but he would not relent. After what felt like an eternity, her resistance faded, replaced by hollow, defeated silence.
Darcy's heart ached for her as she sat, broken and trembling. For the moment, he resolved to give her time to grieve. Later, he would speak with her about the path forward.
An hour later, Darcy rode through the streets, the cool morning air offering little comfort to his troubled mind. His heart was heavy, yet a flicker of anticipation still burned within him. He was on his way to see Elizabeth. Though he would depart for London with Anne the following day, today he clung to the hope that Elizabeth would stand by his side, no matter the challenges.