Her eyes gleamed with something knowing. “Even so.”
He bowed slightly. “Excuse me, Mrs. Gardiner. I will not trouble you further.”
He turned to go, eager to be outside, anywhere but here—
“Mr. Darcy?”
He stopped.
“If you will wait but a moment, sir.” Mrs. Gardiner crossed to a small writing desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a slip of paper to write something on it. She returned to him, pressing it lightly into his hand.
“With everything still so unsettled,” she said delicately, “it might be… convenient to know her direction. Should you or the earl have any further questions about what transpired.”
Darcy’s fingers curled around the note before he even thought about what he was doing. He looked down.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet
Longbourn, near Meryton
Hertfordshire
A ridiculous thing—her name and direction written out so plainly, so formally, as though she were a stranger whose whereabouts he required for mere business. But it might be all he would ever have of her.
Slowly, carefully, he folded the paper and placed it in his breast pocket. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Mrs. Gardiner nodded, smiling ever so slightly. “Safe travels, Mr. Darcy.”
He did not respond.
Hecould barely think.
With a final bow, he turned and walked out.
The crisp October air struck him like a slap as he stepped onto the street, cool and stinging against his skin. It should have cleared his thoughts, should have brought him back to reason—but it did not.
His eyes found his carriage waiting at the kerb, the crest on the door gleaming dully in the afternoon light. His driver shifted expectantly, awaiting instruction.
But Darcy had none to give.
His hands hung loosely at his sides, useless. His mind, so accustomed to careful strategy and decisive action, felt like an empty slate. For weeks, he had moved with purpose, driven by duty, by necessity. Every step had led him forward, toward something.
Then, all this with Georgiana—the doubt that he had ever been on the right path, the fear that he had done entirely wrong in heeding… any of this! His sister nearly lost to him, his home to be nearly a stranger to him for… several years, at least… as he mired himself in the troubles of others. The only good to come of this whole blasted exercise was… washer.
And now…
Now, there was nothing.
Elizabeth was gone.
Not just to Longbourn, but from his world, from the part of his life where she had somehow woven herself so seamlessly.
He had no reason to follow. No claim to make. No right to pursue her.
His fingers twitched at his sides, as if they had only just realized they were empty. The ache that settled in his chest was unfamiliar—worse than frustration, worse than anger. It was an absence, a void he had no idea how to fill.
The driver cleared his throat. “Shall I take you home, sir?”
Darcy did not answer at first. His throat worked, but no sound came.
