I moved slowly back toward the entrance, then turned back to her with solemn eyes.
“I remember everything of importance. Even the things that I wish I could forget.”
She went very still, her cheek twitching faintly. “Such as?”
I forced words past my suddenly numb lips. “I recall too clearly the day Father brought you home.”
I heard her soft, indrawn breath, but the floodgates had opened now. “I was but seven years, and you were a red and wailing scrap in his big arms. He let no one else hold you—not the nurses, not even Mrs. Reynolds. Just cradled you himself.”
My glance was drawn back to her upturned face. “I asked your origins, and he said...” I hesitated, seeing a spasm of hurt cross her expression in anticipation of his crushing reply. I longed to erase every sorrowful line from her beloved countenance.
“What did he say?”
I swallowed. “He said you were a gift from Heaven to ease our sorrows after the loss of Mother.”
She fell silent. I watched emotions chase across her features—wistfulness, grief, loss. With a choked cry, she turned aside, slight shoulders trembling violently as she struggled not to weep. My fingers twitched with the effort to remain motionless, warring instincts dividing me. Was I a gentleman or protective guardian now? The stranger or the one person on earth who could fully share her sorrow in this moment?
I crossed to her side before I could second guess my instinct. Gently, slowly as one would approach a wounded deer, I covered her shaking hand with mine where it rested on the mantel. At my touch, she hesitated, then turned into my arms all at once, quiet tears soaking into my coat. And there we stood in empty rooms once filled with life, silently sharing the grief of love lost and journeys interrupted too soon.
When, at last, she leaned back, I offered my handkerchief and brushed one final tear from her soft cheek. I stood mute, clenching my jaw against effusive apologies better left unsaid. Sympathetic silence must serve where paltry words stalled, inadequate to convey fellow feeling. At length, she drew a shaky breath, features still turned aside though heavy drops yet clung to her dark lashes. I yearned to brush away that mute evidence of past hurts, yet I was powerless to salve those wounds myself.
“Oh, do not stare so, Sir!” A fragile laugh escaped her, though she kept her glossy head bent. “You shall think me a watering pot indeed, dissolved into tears at the least provocation.”
I moved slowly back into her orbit, hoarsely clearing my throat against inexplicable obstruction there. “Tears do you credit rather than shame. Only marble resists the deepest stirrings of humanity.”
Another wan smile flickered. “Perhaps. However, I blush to be so undisciplined before you. Such childish clinging to old sorrows...”
“Elizabeth.” I waited until she hesitantly lifted those wounded doe eyes to mine before continuing gently. “No one could expect you to feel nothing. Does the sorrow still haunt you frequently?”
Her lips twisted, though she blinked back any fresh tears. “Oh, by no means! Time and happy occupation have worn smooth my jagged recollections of that hour.” She turned her shoulder, denial written in every line of slender frame. “I am content enough these seven years.”
“Elizabeth.” My low tone brooked no evasion, and she unwillingly pivoted back, features now shuttered to conceal what lay beneath. I risked feather-light touch beneath her lowered chin. “Even the most determined sufferer craves an outlet when too much is bound up inside. Will you not unburden yourself now, if only this once?” My hand fell away slowly as she searched my face. “Let me share the weight as a friend and… and confidant.”
My pulse bounded unevenly. Whatever our past connection had been, it was no longer. She was not a relative I could comfort with impunity but a young lady. A single, attractive young lady, and I was alone in a vacant house with her. Had I overstepped discretion’s bounds? But surely even the strictest etiquette code permitted me to comfort one in need?
When she offered no refusal, I curbed the urge to grasp her hands. But she read the unspoken wish in my eyes. With slumped shoulders, she turned toward an aged settee, settling onto the faded damask. She patted the space beside her in invitation.
As I settled cautiously beside her, she spoke haltingly. “I cried myself to exhaustion every night that first week. And the second. And the third! Poor Jane suffered the worst, attempting to cheer me up and soothe my wounded pride.” A rueful smile ghosted her mouth, though eyes remained downcast. “I had been cast off without explanation or farewell by those I loved most and trusted utterly.”
My throat closed. How thoughtlessly our father had denied her vulnerable spirit even that small comfort of an explanation! How could he? Struggling to keep my voice even, I managed a gruff murmur. “Your reception there was not... unkind, I hope?”
Elizabeth lifted her head swiftly, reading shadows in my averted face. She hastened to pat my wrist reassuringly. “Oh no, indeed! Aunt and Uncle Gardiner have ever treated me as their own. And dearest Jane’s companionship proved just the balm to heal a bitter heart. I might have been truly lost without her tender championship those difficult weeks.”
Wistfulness softened her features. Impulsively, she turned toward me, a fragile hope kindled in her look. “But tell me truly—did Mr. Darcy never disclose… anything? Any reasons?”
I shook my head. “He was ever close beyond measure. Even now, I grasp at straws, trying to think of an explanation.” Frustration sharpened my tone before I caught myself. I was her sympathetic ear, not a victim. Softening my glance, I said, “Take heart. If we are patient, surely, we can uncover the truth.” Silence fell between us—fragile as ice over a stream. When her hand slid hesitantly over mine, something lurched inside me. I had to know her mind.
“Does it comfort you—that he spoke your name those final days?” I searched her glistening eyes, willing her to unburden herself to me alone. “Whatever his reasons were, he did not undertake them lightly or without regret.”
Her voice broke on a shuddering exhale. “I grieved never seeing him again to ask why he sent me away… or embrace him one last time as my father.”
As tears spilled down her cheeks, fury surged inside me—at my father for wounding her so deeply, and at myself for stirring this pain now. I gripped her hand, desperate to restore her shattered smile. “He should not have denied you answers or solace.” My voice rasped with emotion. “But I vow you will know joy again.”
“You think I have not had joy?” She sniffed and smiled. “Do not give yourself airs, sir! Itispossible to find happiness somewhere other than Pemberley.” Her shadowed gaze turned cheerful again—she always had possessed that trick of turning even the gravest conversation into a jest, but not in the same way George did. Elizabeth might smile and laugh as merrily as he could, but while he turned his thoughts purposely to the most frivolous things, she was still grounded through it.
“In truth,” she confessed, “Mr. Bennet took me in with open arms, raising me almost more like a son than a daughter. He guided my mind and understanding, and… dare I say it… he became Papa to me. As much as Father ever was… Father.”
I could not decide if I was more pleased or dismayed to hear how swiftly Father had been replaced—all by his own doing, but still… “I am grateful such care was given in our stead.” I hesitated. “And I hope my father… did something to forward the interests of the family?”
