“Isn’t it wonderful, Lizzy?” Kitty asked. “Now we can visit Netherfield and not have to worry about Mr Darcy looking down his nose at us. A pity he did not go before last night. Everyone was talking about it, how they were afraid to even approach the man. Better if he had gone before the ball, but at least he knows where he is not wanted.”
Elizabeth barely heard her. She felt a deep sense of loss, an inexplicable feeling that she had failed Mr Darcy in some crucial way. He had been suffering, she knew that much. And he had wanted something from her, though she knew not what. She had been unable to reach him, to offer the comfort he so clearly needed.
“He... he left without saying goodbye?” she asked, more to herself than to her sisters.
Lydia shrugged. “Why would he? He’s such a sour man. I’m glad he’s gone. Now Mr Wickham need not be at such pains to entertain him.”
Elizabeth’s chest tightened. She had failed Charlotte, and somehow, she was quite sure that she had disappointed Mr Darcy too. Now she would never understand what he wanted from her, but she had sensed his need, his pain, and had done nothing to alleviate it. Had she pushed him away with her harsh words? Had she missed a chance to know a good man?
“Lizzy, are you entirely well?” Kitty asked, her tone more serious now as she noticed Elizabeth’s distress. “Should we walk with you back to Longbourn?”
Elizabeth forced a nod, though her throat tightened. “Yes. You two go on ahead. I… I would like to be alone for a while.”
Lydia and Kitty exchanged a glance, but Lydia shrugged and pulled Kitty along. “Suit yourself, Lizzy. Come, Kitty, let us race!”
As they dashed away, their laughter echoing down the lane, Elizabeth stood still, her mind awhirl with guilt and sorrow. She had thought herself strong, capable of helping those she cared about. But it was all ash. She felt powerless, her attempts at aid ending in failure and disappointment for people who would have done better not to listen to her.
Darcy sat at hisdesk, the letter trembling slightly in his grip. Richard’s familiar handwriting flickered a faint smile on his lips. Chatham. Munitions. Supplies for the army. The words blurred as his mind wandered. Richard’s second letter from his new post in Kent was something of an anchor to everything familiar, but now his cousin’s cheerful presence felt achingly far away. The quiet of the room pressed in, broken only by the rustle of paper. He tightened his hold on the letter, wishing he could summon Richard’s calm and clarity to dispel his own turmoil.
Darcy,
Chatham is a far cry from the battlefield—glory and honour and all that—but I daresay I am grateful for it. The endless shipments and inventorying of supplies keep me occupied. Just yesterday, a shipment of gunpowder arrived three days late, causing quite a stir. Thequartermaster nearly lost his wig in frustration! It took all my persuasion to calm him down and assure him that we would manage without causing Wellington to lose the war. Though I sometimes yearn for more direct action, there is never a dull moment here.
You will be pleased to know that it is highly unlikely I will be sent to France. Our duties here have been deemed “critical to the war effort,” and it seems my skills are more useful behind a desk than in a trench. I have become quite adept at navigating the bureaucracy, though I do miss the camaraderie of the field. The other officers here are a decent lot, but not one of them could fight his way out of a wet sackcloth. I am left to wonder whether I was assigned here because I was the only man with valuable battle experience or because I have been deemed as useless in the field as the rest of the lot. My own hubris requires it to be the former, and I shall thank you not to disabuse me of the notion.
I hope this news finds you in good spirits, dear cousin. I think often of the fine sport we missed this autumn at Pemberley, and I must solemnly charge you to keep my room ready for the moment I am granted leave. Until then, know that you are in my thoughts.
-Richard
Darcy sighed, his fingers tracing the edges of the paper. Richard’s words brought a measure of relief, knowing his cousin was safe and not directly in harm’s way.
He toyed with the idea of replying, of confiding in Richard about the tumour that plagued him, but the words would not come. What could he say? That he was dying? That he could not promise a waiting room at Pemberley because he had no way of knowing how much time he had left? It felt too soon, too raw. Richard had enough to worry about with his own responsibilities. And Georgiana... he could not bear to burden her with this news just yet.
His eyes wandered to the unopened letters on his desk, one from Lady Matlock and another from Georgiana. He had not yet informed them of his return to London three days earlier. What could he say? How could he explain his abrupt departure from Meryton or the secretive way he kept the knocker off his door? How could he reveal the truth of his condition without causing them undue distress?
Darcy stood and moved to the window, looking out over the bustling streets of London. He felt adrift, caught between the need to protect his family and the growing fear of this thing consuming him from the inside out.
“A second opinion,” Doctor Westing had advised. “It is always wise to seek another perspective, particularly when the circumstancesare so grave.”
He could not continue in this state of limbo, waiting for the inevitable. He had to act, to seek answers. Darcy returned to his desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and began to write a note to Westing, requesting him to arrange an appointment with another physician. Perhaps this new doctor would offer some hope, some clarity.
As he sealed the letter, Darcy’s thoughts drifted back to Elizabeth Bennet. Her image, her voice, haunted him still. He had left Meryton with a heavy heart, knowing he had not made amends, that he had left things unsaid to the one person he seemed to be able to speak to at all. If he had only managed to find the right words, he might even now have the right to go to her as a friend, a future partner for what remained of his days, and one with whom to share the depths of his pain and fears.
As the only one who could truly make him smile just now.
Did she think of him? How had she taken the news that he had gone? He snorted and kneaded his forehead. She probably scarcely noticed his absence, and if she did, she could have no possible inkling of the true conflict that had driven him away, or the regret with which he went.
But there was no time for such thoughts now. No time for anything, truly. He had to focus on the present, on the steps he needed to take. Darcy placed the letter on his desk, ready for his steward, and sank back into his chair.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The past week hadbeen a blur of pain and despair, the echoes of Elizabeth’s preference for Wickham reverberating through his mind with every stabbing reminder of his malady. He had convinced himself that his heartache was merely a byproduct of physical agony and the looming fear of his diagnosis. Determined to put his affairs in order, he sat at his desk, letters of business strewn about. The ink on his quill barely dried before he found his mind drifting back to the ball, to Elizabeth, and the pain that now seemed a permanent part of him.
He tried to focus on the letter to his steward at Pemberley detailing the maintenance of the estate’s tenant houses. Each word seemed a struggle, as if the ink itself resisted his command. He paused, staring at the paper, and Elizabeth’s face intruded on his thoughts. Her laughter, her eyes that sparkled with intelligence and fire, the way she had looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and something he dared not name. His heart twisted painfully.
Egad, somehow, he had convinced himself that he was truly in love with the woman. Thatmustbe it because nothing else could explain the way his heart floundered in his chest at the thought of her.
How and when had he managed to lose his senses over a woman he had known but mere weeks? And most of those encounters had been tainted with the nearly certain knowledge that he did not have the luxury of finding love nor the time left on this earth to make such a pursuit worthwhile. But there it was, all the same. Given no choice but to endure without her, he had to confess… it was the most exquisite torment he had ever known.
