It had been the promise that Pemberley was still his that had given him the courage to dream of a future with Elizabeth Bennet. He would never have allowed his heart the freedom to love her so openly, to raise her expectations, if he had believed for one moment that he would not be able to support her and a family.
A family. He had begun to dream of children who looked like Elizabeth, with her liveliness and wit. It might possibly kill him to give up even the dream of them. Of her.
Darcy leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. “What am I to do?” he murmured to the empty room, his voice barely audible.
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
A deep, unrelenting ache spread through his body, settling in his joints and refusing to ease, no matter how he shifted. His throat burned, raw and swollen, each breath scraping painfully against it, and his head throbbed in a punishing rhythm.
He was given precisely one hour of solitude, barely enough to prepare himself for bed, before Fitzwilliam entered without knocking. He stared at Darcy, who tried not to look as though he was about to pitch forward onto the floor.
“Cousin,” he said, “if there is something troubling you, you know you can confide in me. Whatever it is, we shall face it together, as we always have.”
He nodded stiffly, unable to meet his cousin’s gaze. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. I appreciate your concern, but there is nothing to discuss. I have a cold. It will pass.”
“Then you should have no complaint if I summon the nearest physician.”
“There is only an apothecary nearby. Mr. Jones.”
Fitzwilliam’s mouth settled into a grim line. “Then I will send for him. In truth, Darcy, you look very ill.”
Darcy raised a hand, his voice calm but firm. “Leave it until the morning, Fitzwilliam. If I am not improved by then, you may summon Mr. Jones. There is no need to trouble the man tonight.”
Fitzwilliam hesitated, clearly torn. His eyes scanned Darcy’s face, and he knew his cousin would not miss the sheen of perspiration he could feel dampening his brow.
“Very well,” he said at last. “But if there is even the slightest change for the worse, I will not wait for your permission.”
Darcy inclined his head. “That is acceptable.”
His cousin muttered something to himself, but left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Darcy waited until the sound faded before rising and moving to the desk. Harris appeared discreetly at the door, having waited just outside for Fitzwilliam’s departure.
“You summoned me, sir?”
Darcy nodded. “Yes. I need you to deliver two letters at first light. They must go immediately and on the most direct post.”
Harris bowed. “Of course, sir. Shall I wait while you write them?”
“Yes,” he said, and grimaced. It hurt to speak, but nodding his head would be worse. The first letter was to Mrs. Holden, his housekeeper in London, asking that she send him his grandfather’s journal. The second letter, addressed to Mrs. Reynolds at Pemberley, was shorter but even more pressing. It directed her to locate the blanket George Darcy’s mother had made for her infant and send it back with the messenger.
Once finished, Darcy sanded and sealed the letters before handing them to Harris. “Send Anders to Pemberley and Johnson to London.”
“Anders will be distressed not to be driving, sir,” Harris said.
Darcy could barely hold his head up. “I am aware, but the post will get him there and back more quickly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The letters are to be delivered directly to their recipients, and upon the messengers’ return, they must come directly to me. Say nothing of this to anyone, and give Anders and Johnson the same instructions.”
Harris accepted the sealed letters with a nod, his expression solemn. “I understand, sir. I shall ensure it is done.”
“Thank you, Harris.” Darcy dismissed the valet.
As the door clicked shut, Darcy rested his head on his arms, his eyes closing against the sickly wave of exhaustion that engulfed him. The room was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire, but his mind was anything but still. His fears bore down on him, twisting his thoughts into a tangle of duty, honour, and love.
Finally, he pushed himself to his feet and moved carefully to bed, pulling the covers over himself. When he had read his grandfather’s journal all those weeks ago, he had not been overcome, but the agony of thinking himself safe only to have it all ripped away—it was oversetting him in a way he could not be proud of.
Elizabeth was worth more to him than Pemberley. He would know the truth. He must.
