In the cradle of a picturesque valley lay the little village of Hunsford. Stretching broadly above it was a sky so clear and blue that it belied the unseasonable chill still lingering in the air. The brick and ivy clad dwellings were clustered together like forest mushrooms, their chimney stacks emitting soft curls of sweet smelling smoke that vanished quickly into the bright morning air. The Hunsford church stood dignified and unadorned in the middle of it all, its steeple jutting upward into the cloudless sky—a timeless and impartial observer of the hamlet below
The Collins party lingered in the churchyard after the Sunday service, the merry chirrup of birds filled the air as they flitted through the headstones. Their animated presence a stark contrast to the weathered monuments of sorrow. Elizabeth wiggled her toes in her boots, attempting to awaken her cold numbed feet.
Nearby, her cousin listened with well-rehearsed gravitas to the meandering story of the elderly parishioner before them. Beyond the droning gentleman, Elizabeth saw with interest the diminutive form of Miss De Bourgh emerge from the chapel door. Enveloped in a swathe of plum silk and shawls, she was followed closely by the fussing Mrs. Jenkinson, who was busy with the perpetual task of adjusting Anne's shawls to prevent a chill. A moment later Lady Catherine appeared behind them, the great plume in her bonnet brushing the door frame as she strode into the sunlit churchyard. Elizabeth was forced to suppress a smile as the Lady's erect posture and green feathered hat put her in mind of a begowned rooster.
Elizabeth inwardly chastised herself for her distraction. She made a small noise of assent to demonstrate her interest in the discussion at hand, though she could not say with certainty if they were speaking of rifles or biscuits. When, a very short time later, her eyes drifted again, as she saw that Colonel Fitzwilliam had now joined the throng. This time Elizabeth did not attempt to corral her errant thoughts; the colonel's arrival was of far more interest to her. Elizabeth watched keenly as he doffed his hat and bowed to a middle-aged woman who greeted him. As she studied the gentleman, Elizabeth mused that, had she not already known it, she would not have surmised that Darcy and the colonel were related.
Though he was tall, Elizabeth estimated the colonel to be a hand's breadth shorter than Darcy, with a frame that was more sturdy than graceful. His broad chest, thick arms, and hair the color of mulled cider gave him a robust appearance. His face, though handsome in a rough-hewn way, bore more lines than was typical for a man of his age. Elizabeth could not decide whether these were the result of smiling or scowling—either seemed equally probable.
As she considered the colonel, her mind somehow took itself back to a quiet walk three days ago, on a similarly brisk morning. Her senses effortlessly revived the memory of Darcy's unmistakable presence beside her, her arm entwined in his and the steady reassurance of his warmth making her feel the peculiar ease his company brought—despite the racing of her heart.
The intent stare Mr. Darcy had fixed her with somehow managed to keep Elizabeth awake through the night. Each time she closed her eyes, that arresting look seemed to follow her. It was an expression unlike anything she had ever seen, and she struggled to understand why it had affected her so deeply. He had pressed a kiss to her hand just as he had done after their interview on Oakham Mount, but this kiss felt markedly different, and she was uncertain as to why. In the small hours of the morning, Elizabeth allowed herself to wonder if it was not the kiss that had changed, but her own perception of the man who had given it. By morning, however, she had resolved to banish such thoughts from her mind.
If Elizabeth had grown fonder of Mr. Darcy, it was certainly not by design and perhaps even contrary to her own considerable will. Whatever the extent of her newfound appreciation for Georgiana's brother, she would do well not to encourage it any further. She was not a woman he could seriously regard as anything more than a friend to his sister. Despite how she had seemingly overestimated his pride, she was not naïve enough to believe that a man of such lofty position would consider her a genuine matrimonial prospect.
'Not,' Elizabeth thought, 'that I would even wish for him to regard me in that way.'
Despite this knowledge, she wondered briefly if, had she been born to an estate such as Rosings Park, Mr. Darcy would consider her?
Even as Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, he certainly did not dislike her—she had dismissed that notion soon after he had entrusted her with Georgiana's friendship. To be sure, this was no small thing. Yet respect alone was not a tender sentiment. With each interaction, she grew increasingly uncertain of the nature of their ill-defined connection. Just a few days prior, he had sought her out for a private meeting, solicited her opinion on a deeply personal matter, and then lingered when he would have arguably done better to depart immediately for London. She could not divine his intentions, and her head ached with each futile attempt to unravel the particulars.
As she stood watching the colonel converse with the woman who had greeted him, her eyes kept flickering toward the door from which he had just exited, inexplicably hoping that another figure—quiet and imposing—might yet emerge behind him. Her reflection was interrupted as, at that very moment, the colonel turned his head slightly and locked eyes with her across the churchyard.
Elizabeth inhaled sharply, drawing a quick sidelong glance from Charlotte. Her cheeks flushed as she averted her eyes, suddenly aware of how openly she had been staring at the colonel. Mortified by the possibility that anyone might have noticed, she desperately tried to find the thread of the conversation at hand, though her thoughts were now too scattered, her embarrassment too consuming, to focus on anything else.
A few minutes later, Elizabeth gave a small start of surprise as, in her studied avoidance of anything in that direction, she had not seen the colonel approach.
"Miss Bennet!" he said as he walked towards her, raising an arm in greeting.
With a curtsey, she excused herself from the conversation, praying that her cheeks were returned to their usual color. She turned and hurried towards the colonel, doing her best to smile warmly at him.
"Colonel Fitzwilliam!" she said brightly. "I trust you are well this morning?"
"I am always well, Miss Bennet."
"How fortunate for you!" Elizabeth replied with a teasing smile. "Though I am certain to forget, and will very likely ask you again sometime or other."
"I shall endeavor not to embarrass you when you do."
"How does the Rosings party bear up under the loss of Mr. Darcy's company?" she asked lightly.
"It has made no great difference to myself, nor, I think my cousin Anne, but my Aunt Catherine has written to demand his return no less than three times in the two days he has been away."
Elizabeth tipped her bonneted head down to hide her amusement. "Her concern for her nephew is very touching, I am sure."
"Oh yes, very proper of her."
They both cast a sideways look at the lady who was now conversing with the woman the colonel had greeted earlier, though her expression seemed to Elizabeth to be rather annoyed.
"Darcy is too important to her to be left to his own devices," Richard said, leaning in conspiratorially. "She will have him for a son as soon as she can manage it."
Elizabeth's brow furrowed slightly at this, but she quickly pushed the admission aside. Lowering her voice, she asked, "Have you any news of Georgiana's predicament?"
Colonel Fitzwilliam's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Ah, no. I have not."
She shifted uneasily, suddenly aware of the uncomfortable silence her query had left in its wake.
"Your information appears to be very good, Miss Bennet," the colonel remarked at last, a frown creasing his brow. Elizabeth had the sudden sense that she had unintentionally trespassed into some private territory.
"Am I to take it then that Darcy went to Hunsford before departing for London?"
"Ah—well, yes, he did," she replied, recalling how Darcy had mentioned waiting in the hope of finding her. Something about sharing this detail with his cousin unsettled her, so she quickly amended, "That is to say, Mr. Darcy happened upon me in the lane as he was setting out for London. He showed me Miss Darcy's letter…I apologize if I—"
Col. Fitzwilliam shook his head to interrupt her apology. "I am only surprised, Miss Bennet, that is all."
Elizabeth's gaze dropped to her hands, struggling to find a way to mitigate the strange sense of guilt that had come over her. "I hope you know that your cousin has become very dear to me."
He studied her face intently for a moment, his brow slightly furrowed. "Indeed?"
Horror struck, Elizabeth realized too late the implication of her words. "Your cousin, Miss Darcy, I mean," she blurted out, wincing and shaking her head.
"Oh, naturally," he replied evenly, though Elizabeth thought she detected the faintest twitch of his lip as he spoke.
Elizabeth was certain her cheeks could not possibly be redder. However, the colonel took pity on her and offered a reassuring smile. "Do not trouble yourself, Miss Bennet. It was not your conduct that surprised me."
"Oh?" She managed.
"Darcy is…" he trailed off, searching for the right words. "Well, to be frank, I do not always understand him."
"Well," she said, recovering herself with a wry smile, "In my limited experience, he rarely seems to take the trouble to make himself understood."
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed heartily at her assessment. "No, indeed, he does not."
Elizabeth grew thoughtful. "I wonder how he will resolve matters with Miss Bingley."
The colonel sighed heavily. "If there's one thing I can say about Darcy, it's that he will see the damn thing through, whatever it may be." He glanced up at Elizabeth, an apologetic look in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Miss Bennet. I should not use such language in your presence."
Elizabeth smiled, "I can assure you, Colonel, I have read far too many of my father's books for you to shock me with words."
"How improper of you," he said with a grin, before continuing, "What I mean to say is that Darcy takes care of his own. He would move heaven and earth for her peace of mind. For my part, I cannot determine if this is a fault or a virtue."
"I am sure you would not sit idly by, either."
"Yes, well. I am not saying I would not do all I could for Georgiana. It is only that Darcy can be quite dogged. When he sets his mind to something, he simply will not allow himself to fail."
"Then Miss Darcy will be well."
"I have no doubt of it."
Elizabeth nodded, "Miss Darcy appears to have been left in very capable hands."
"If you want my opinion, Miss Bennet, I believe I am much more Darcy's guardian than Georgiana's," he remarked.
Elizabeth gave him a puzzled look. "How so? Was not Mr. Darcy of age when his father passed?"
The colonel gave a small, knowing smile and shook his head. "George Darcy was a wise man who understood his children well. Georgiana is well cared for under Darcy's guardianship, but who looks after Darcy? He is far too serious for his own good. He needs to be mocked and scolded now and then— for the improvement of his character."
Elizabeth's face broke into a broad smile. "I have a feeling you are quite the best man for the job."
At that moment, Lady Catherine's shrill voice cut across the churchyard. "Fitzwilliam!"
The colonel straightened his waistcoat and raised a hand to signal his acknowledgment. "I flatter myself, I am," he said, then added with a grin, "though it is not to say he might not find a wife who could do the job credibly, if he chooses well."
"Excuse me, Miss Bennet." He gave her a deep bow before turning to stride back to his aunt, leaving a startled Elizabeth in his wake.
Darcy's boots struck the cobblestones of London in the fading light of evening. Scarcely had he set foot on the ground when two liveried stable lads hurried out from the mews to take Adonis's reins and loosen his girth. The horse chewed his bit and sighed, flicking his ears inquisitively and paying little heed to the men attending him. The taller of the two grooms, evidently the one in charge, looked to Darcy and inquired, "Will he be staying, sir?"
Darcy did not answer immediately, scratching the animal roughly beneath the neck before patting his shoulder.
"Rub him down, and give him some feed if you would," Darcy replied.
The great beast swung his head around to peer at his master with one dark eye. Darcy obliged him with a final scratch under the browband.
"I shall not stay the night, but I may be here some hours."
With a crisp bow from the servant, Darcy's horse was led away toward the dimly lit stable. The sound of shod hooves echoed behind him as he turned and made his way toward the alley that led to the front of the house. His expression grew somber as he strode purposefully, tugging his waistcoat straight as he went.
With a final glance at the mews, Darcy turned his attention to the looming task ahead. The shadows deepened as he passed through the alley: his weariness abated as his steps quickened, spurred by a mix of obligation and dread. Dimly, he noted the sounds of life beyond—wheels clattering across cobblestones, the jingle of harness, and distant laughter. He reached the entrance and paused for a moment, adjusting his cuffs before being admitted inside.
A few moments later, he was ushered into a dark-paneled study, where Charles Bingley, pen in hand, looked up from his correspondence with wide-eyed surprise.
"Darcy!" Bingley exclaimed, springing from his desk and casting aside his pen. "Aren't you meant to be in Kent?"
As Darcy drew nearer, Bingley's gaze registered his friend's grim expression, and concern swiftly overtook his features.
"Georgiana sent an express. I came as quickly as I could."
"My God, man!" Bingley exclaimed. "What has happened?"
Darcy did not respond immediately, allowing his gaze to shift to the servant who had attended him.
Bingley, with an impatient wave, addressed the footman. "You may go, Franklin. We shall summon you if we require anything further."
The footman, his expression neutral, bowed deeply before turning on his heel and exiting the room. As the door closed behind him, Bingley stepped out from behind the desk.
"What could have prompted you to arrive in such haste? And your boots—I do not believe I have ever seen them in such a state. Have you not even been home yet?"
Darcy shook his head.
"Well, is Miss Darcy well? Do you require my assistance?" Bingley asked with great concern. "I am, of course, at your disposal—just say the word."
The harsh lines of Darcy's face softened slightly at his friend's unquestionable loyalty, little though he felt he had done to deserve it. He produced Georgiana's letter and handed it to Bingley. "Here. Read it for yourself."
Bingley hesitated before taking the letter, casting a questioning glance at his friend, who had already crossed to the fireplace. Darcy rested a hand on the mantle, his gaze distant. As Bingley unfolded the paper, he returned to his desk, swallowing hard before he began to read.
Several minutes passed, marked only by the faint creak of leather as Bingley leaned ever closer to Georgiana's words. When Bingley's curse finally shattered the stale silence, Darcy did not flinch. His expression remained cool and impassive, his gaze fixed on the limestone bricks before him.
Bingley was on his feet in a trice, looking to Darcy with a mix of disbelief and alarm.
"Darcy, surely you know that I would never…" Bingley's voice wavered with a faint tremor of anxiety. "That I could never…"
His words faltered, and his gaze dropped to the letter in his hands, as though searching for the words to convey himself.
"Georgiana is— She is your— She is sixteen, for God's sake!"
Darcy silenced him with a look. "Bingley, I know you have made no designs on my sister. I believe her, and I believe you," Darcy said with unreserved frankness. "Do not think I have come all this way to question your honor."
"Then why did you come? Judging by the state of your attire, you've ridden straight from Kent to my doorstep. What is your purpose?"
"Where is Miss Bingley? I would speak with her…"
Bingley's back straightened. "Darcy…" he said in a low, warning tone.
Darcy raised a solitary brow as he regarded Bingley. The younger man lifted his chin slightly in response, the unexpected tension between them a finely drawn cord.
"I cannot allow it," Bingley said with a firmness Darcy did not recognize.
"You cannot?"
"I will not."
"Surely you are not defending her actions?" Darcy said, his tone measured but oddly forceful. "She has attempted to use falsehoods to secure an alliance that benefits her at the expense of both my sister and my closest friend. I will not stand by and let such a transgression go unanswered."
"Do you truly think her offenses mean nothing to me, Darcy?" Bingley retorted, his voice incredulous and exasperated. "That I cannot be as invested in this matter as you are? Or do you doubt my ability to address this situation to your satisfaction?"
Darcy's lips parted in surprise. "Bingley—" he began, but was cut off.
"I am my own man, Darcy," Bingley said, tapping himself on the sternum. "It is the greatest lesson you have taught me, and one, I might add, that nearly cost me everything."
Bingley turned away, running a restless hand through his hair. Silence fell between them, and he moved to the decanter on the sideboard, poured himself a generous measure of brandy, and tossed it back with a wince.
"Heaven help me…" Bingley muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I loved her, Darcy. From the very first moment, I loved her. I cannot understand how I ever doubted."
Darcy looked on without speaking, motionless except for the thumb that slowly spun his signet ring around his finger.
"I still love her," Bingley said fiercely, then looked away, shaking his head with a pained expression.
Darcy sighed heavily. "I was wrong to advise you as I did. I thought I was acting in your best—"
"You have said that already," Bingley interrupted. The only sound between them for a time was the gentle sound of Bingley's finger tapping on his empty glass, lost to his thoughts.
"I don't blame you, Darcy," Bingley said after a moment. "Though I admit, it would be easier if I could. Your advice was officious and presumptuous, that is true. But it was my own weakness that led me to value your opinions above my own feelings."
"Bingley—" Darcy began, but stilled at Bingley's raised hand
"There's nothing quite as humbling as realizing you've tripped over your own feet, Darcy," Bingley said with a sad smile. "But I doubt you need a lecture from me. You have always been the wiser of us."
Darcy looked away, his voice low. "I am scarcely in a position to claim wisdom. Any advice would come far too late in any case."
Bingley managed a small, appreciative smile before his expression grew serious once more. "You must understand, Darcy," he said, carefully setting his glass on the sideboard. "I can no longer allow anyone to dictate the course of my future—or my family's. I will be the one to handle Caroline…please trust me."
Slowly, Darcy gave a solitary nod. Bingley smiled gratefully, his expression warming. "My fortune is changing, in any case. At last, I have been given some hope. Miss Bennet has confided that she still cares for me. That is what matters to me now."
Darcy's expression softened, and he replied, "If she values you as you deserve, then I shall support you in whatever way I can."
Bingley inclined his head. "Thank you, my friend. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear you speak thus."
A protesting hinge caused both men to turn their heads just in time to see a feminine silhouette through the gap in the door.
"Caroline!" Bingley called sharply. "There is no need to skulk at the door. I was about to call for you anyway. Please, come in."
Darcy stiffened, his expression immediately forbidding as the figure flinched in surprise. After a few hesitating moments, Miss Bingley pushed the door wide, revealing her abashed expression.
"I—" she said weakly, "I thought I heard voices from the hall…"
"You did indeed, sister," Bingley replied. "I am surprised that you have stooped to listening at doors, but no matter."
Miss Bingley scowled at her brother covertly before turning to Darcy with a nervous titter. "Nothing too dreadful has happened, I trust?
"Nothing that will have any lasting effect, I assure you," Darcy said coldly.
"We were discussing a letter Darcy received from his sister," Bingley said lightly. "It seems she was quite distressed."
Miss Bingley's face went from red to white in an instant. With an audible swallow, she turned to Darcy. "I hope all is well, Mr. Darcy? I should hate to see any harm come to her."
"You need not concern yourself with Miss Darcy," Darcy said, his composure slipping with every word. "She is a young woman with many dedicated protectors, and as her well being is of little import to you, you needn't trouble yourself with it."
Caroline was taken aback by Darcy's forceful tone. "Mr. Darcy, have I done something to upset you?"
"I will tolerate no more of your pretense," Darcy growled, his gaze icy as unmistakable hatred flashed in his eyes.
Caroline recoiled. "Pretense? Mr. Darcy, I assure you—"
"Assure me? Miss Bingley, I am not fool enough to believe any assurance you might give me."
After a few moments, her facade cracked and her face shriveled into a snarl, her eyes narrowing into angry slits.
"I did not wish to involve myself in this, Mr. Darcy, but you forced my hand. You would not help," she said fiercely, as if daring him to deny it. When he remained silent, she pressed on. "You profess to care about Charles, yet you stand by while he would unite himself to that empty-headed harpy, whose mother seeks only to thrust her brood of succubi into polite society. You know as well as I do, Mr. Darcy, that they would ruin us." The words came out as a hiss.
Bingley's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open as he stared in horror at Caroline.
"Oh!" she cried in frustration. "Would that we had never gone to that wretched place!"
Bingley seemed to regain his composure, leveling a wild look at his sister, his nostrils flaring dangerously. "You will ruin us!" he cried out. "Can you not even see how your actions affect others? I am ashamed of your selfishness." Bingley shook his head in appalled disbelief. "I would gladly take every one of Miss Bennet's sisters if it meant being rid of you."
"You are a fool, Charles," Caroline said with an incredulous yelp of laughter. "You amble through life as if all is good and agreeable. To call yourself a gentleman, you must first be a man, and you, dear brother, were born without a backbone."
"It is astonishing how someone so devoid of virtue and integrity can presume to judge others," Darcy said, his voice full of disgust.
Caroline folded her arms, her expression unrepentant.
"You will be relieved to hear that you will no longer be under the influence of my apparent ineptitude, dear sister," Bingley replied, his tone frigid. "Perhaps your new guardian will meet your expectations."
A heavy silence fell after this proclamation. The only sound was the sharp intake of Caroline's breath before she whispered, "You cannot…"
"I assure you, I can," Bingley said evenly. "I will write to our Aunt Smith in Manchester to ask that she take you in." A small smile tugged at his lips as he continued, "I do not suppose they are in a position to add another lady to their household just yet, so I will provide them your full allowance to ensure they can afford fine clothes and comfortable carriages for you– though I know not where they would stable the horses."
Caroline's color turned ashen, and she looked to Darcy as if she were about to swoon, yet neither man moved to assist her.
"Do not despair, Caroline," Bingley said with a cold smile. "With such funds, perhaps they might even lease a house large enough for you to have your own room."
A strangled sound escaped Caroline as she rocked back, as if struck by a physical blow.
"No!" she breathed. "You cannot!"
Bingley pressed on without mercy. "I have no doubt that the coin I provide will elevate her standing significantly in Manchester society."
"Elevate her?" Caroline cried in panicked alarm. "She is a miller's wife!"
"You forget, dear sister, that we are not so very far removed from trade ourselves," Bingley replied calmly. "It is high time you learned some respect for those whom you so assiduously disdain."
"Louisa will not let you do this."
"You may speak to her if you wish," Bingley said with a shrug, "but I must warn you that I have no doubt Hurst will see matters much as I do."
"How am I to marry shut away in the slums of Manchester?" Caroline asked, her hand trembling visibly as she pressed it to her lips.
"I am sure I do not know," replied Bingley. "Perhaps you would wish to use the capital from your dowry to purchase your own establishment in London? But with no means to tempt a gentleman into wedlock, I suppose you must strive to make a love match, if you are capable of such a thing."
"You would trade your own blood sister for those vile Bennets?" Caroline hissed, her voice dripping with malevolence.
"An easy prospect, I should think," mused Darcy. "When the blood is poisoned, it must be let."
"You!" Caroline cried, pointing an accusing finger at Darcy. "You have lost your senses! Your perverse obsession with Elizabeth Bennet is the cause of this! Do not deny it!"
Darcy stood motionless except the brow slowly creeping up his face.
Caroline made a noise of disgust and turned away from them both. "I will speak with you in the morning, when you are in a more reasonable mood."
"I beg you not to disturb me, Caroline," Bingley replied with cold formality. "I have little time to notify our aunt if I am to afford her the courtesy of advance warning before your arrival. It would be most discourteous to have you introduced without her being prepared for it."
Without a word, Caroline marched toward the door, but her brother's voice gave her pause. "Oh, and Caroline," Bingley said to her back, "if you wish to sway me to reconsider, I suggest you appeal to my wife in future. She is the most generous soul I have ever known, and I am entirely captivated by her. Yet I doubt even she could persuade me to shelter one who has treated her so ill."
"Your wife…?" Caroline trailed off, blinking in astonishment.
"Indeed," Bingley replied with a smile, "though she is not my wife just yet—nor even my betrothed until her father's consent is secured."
Darcy glanced at his friend, noting the triumphant glow on Bingley's face.
"It is a shame you will miss the wedding," he said quietly, "I have no doubt you will have rather more pressing concerns than to attend my union to a 'vile Bennet'."
Caroline stared at her brother, her face a mask of stunned disbelief, before an exasperated cry escaped her and she stormed from the room.
For a few moments, the two men in the study exchanged uncertain glances, unsure of how to bridge the sudden, peculiar quiet. Gradually, however, Bingley's expression softened into an abashed smile. He gave Darcy an apologetic shrug. "It was meant to be a secret."
Without warning, Darcy crossed the room and took Bingley's hand as if to shake it. Instead, he pulled his friend into a hearty embrace that caught Bingley off guard. The surprise quickly melted into a chuckle, which then erupted into a full bellow of laughter. Darcy stepped back, gripping Bingley by the shoulders, his own face lit with a wide, beaming smile.
"A drink, perhaps?" Darcy suggested, still grinning.
"Go on, then," Bingley said, eyes bright. "Though I cannot rightly tell if this day has been real or just some lucid figment of my imagination."
As Darcy moved to the sideboard to unstop the decanter and pour two generous measures of brandy, he replied, "Let us drink to dreams, then."
Turning back, he pressed a glass into Bingley's hand and raised his own. "May we never wake."
Bingley raised his glass, then frowned, wrinkling his face in distaste. "Good God, Darcy. Put your arm down or go home and bathe."
Darcy began shrugging off his coat the instant the muted thud of the door echoed behind him. By day, the vestibule of Darcy House was grand and inviting, its vaulted ceilings adorned with ornate plasterwork, while two stone pillars framed an elegant archway leading into the main hall. Yet in the darkness, it transformed, vast and shadowed, as cavernous and solemn as a cathedral.
Darcy ignored the doorman's solicitous inquiries, tossing his coat into the man's waiting hands with a curt nod. As he crossed the gleaming marble of the entrance hall, he released a long, weary sigh and dug his fingers into the knot of his cravat. It was already past the hour when his sister would have retired for the night, making any attempt to see her before the morning impractical. Recalling Bingley's advice, Darcy conceded with a rueful smile that a bath and some rest might be the most sensible course of action.
After a brief struggle, Darcy's cravat draped limply from his fingers. His hand rubbed the side of his aching neck as fatigue settled heavily upon him. As he approached the staircase that led to the upper floor, a soft rustling from above drew his attention.
There, standing on the curved landing above, was Georgiana. Dressed only in her nightgown and a heavy shawl, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, she looked almost like an apparition in the flickering candlelight. Her long, dark hair lay in a single plait over her shoulder, and her pale face was etched with lines of worry.
Darcy straightened, clearing his throat as they studied one another.
"You are awake," he said at last.
"Fitzwilliam…" she replied in a small voice.
As he looked up at her in the gloom, the present seemed to dissolve into the shadows, and before him stood a young girl on the grand stairs of Pemberley's entrance hall, her face bathed in tears. He remembered clearly the cherubic sentinel, dressed in her nightclothes, her hair bound with a glossy black ribbon. The sight of her that night had been as surreal as the long carriage journey home from London, a haze of eternal twilight. To him, none of it felt real—Pemberley, forever altered by the absence of his father.
He remembered the governess approaching his tiny sister, her black dress blending seamlessly with the surrounding shadows. With soothing murmurs, the kindly woman took Georgiana's hand and gently guided her away. Darcy, though reluctant to see her go, found himself unable to voice even a word of protest. Georgiana's head turned back, her haunted eyes fixed on him as she followed the governess into the encroaching darkness.
Darcy turned away, surrendering to the footman's guidance, lost in a stoic trance of sorrow. Moments later, the unnatural silence was shattered by a mournful wail, its tragic echoes reverberating through the grand house as if the walls themselves were weeping—the agonizing lament of a broken child.
Her pain had struck him like a stinging powder burn, searing across his composure. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth, and silently prayed for the strength to master himself. Despite the rawness of his grief, Darcy knew he could not falter. Duty bound him, and soon he would face his father's steward. He had to demonstrate, with unwavering resolve, that he was worthy of his legacy.
Through him, Pemberley would endure.
Beneath his tight self-control, Darcy had yearned to be with the one person who understood this new emptiness as deeply as he did. More than anything, he had wished to offer Georgiana comfort, hoping that in soothing her, he might find solace for himself.
Yet he had walked away from her.
One duty taking precedence over another. It was what he was meant to do, or so he had told himself—but the recollection of that moment still filled him with remorse.
Then, a more recent memory surfaced, offering a balm to his burning guilt.
"You can say nothing wrong if you speak from your heart, Mr. Darcy. I am certain that it cannot dishonor you," Elizabeth had said. Yet no grand words came to mind, no perfect phrase to convey his feelings. Instead, his thoughts remained a tempest of powerful, contradicting emotions, both overwhelming and paralyzing.
But as he searched within himself for what to say, he found, with a sudden, unshakable certainty, that it was not words he needed.
Darcy moved.
He climbed the stairs three at a time, each stride closing a distance not measured in steps, but in years. Georgiana's expression melted into tears as her arms rose to reach for him. Without hesitation, Darcy embraced the young woman before him. As he squeezed her tightly and felt her bury her face into his chest, he hoped somehow that if he held her tightly enough, the young girl he'd forsaken all those years ago would somehow feel it too.