He would not go. He could not. She had made her decision—or at least, he had left her no room to make another. To appear now would be a cruelty. To stand at the back of the church like some discarded suitor, hoping for divine intervention or second thoughts—it would not make her his. It would make her a cautionary tale.
And he loved her too much for that.
Darcy sat down heavily, staring at nothing. The fire hissed softly in the hearth. He could feel it again, the ache that had settled behind his ribs since the morning of his own unraveling. He had known then. He would never marry anyone else.
So be it.
Georgiana had looked at him this morning with such hope—hope that he would recover, that something good would come of all this damage. He would not give her more reason to doubt the world’s fairness.
He drew a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen. The motion steadied him, just barely. If Elizabeth would not be at his side, then he would still set his house in order—for Georgiana’s sake, at the very least.
"Summon Dyer," he wrote. "Though I know the terms are likely ironclad, I must ask again. There are matters regarding thetrust which require immediate attention. I wish to learn if there is a way to name an alternate trustee in the event of dispute."
He paused, tapping the pen once against the inkstand. "Explore whether the dowager Countess may be named in equal standing with the current guardians. Discreetly."
He signed it. Folded it.
It would not bring Elizabeth back. It would not erase what he had done.
But it was something. And it would have to be enough.
The parcel was thin.
No scent of lavender or paperwhites. No ribbon, no seal. Just her name—Miss E. Bennet—written in a sharp, unfamiliar hand, and a footman in livery insisting it had been paid in advance for immediate delivery. She turned it over twice in her palm. Light, but not weightless.
Mrs. Gardiner watched from the doorway. “Shall I…?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No.” Whatever this was, it had been meant for her alone.
She slipped her finger beneath the flap.
A pamphlet slid out. Cream-papered. The print still smelled of ink.On the Matter of Miss Bennet: A Case Study in Ambition, Disgrace, and Female Conceit.
The breath left her lungs in a single, soft noise.
She did not open it. She did not need to. The title alone was artful, just indirect enough to avoid libel—just personal enough to burn. The last in a series. Miss Bingley’s series. Prepared long ago, likely in tandem with her own failed engagement, set to print and mailed with deliberate timing. Elizabeth could picture the timeline perfectly. This had been arranged weeks ago. A farewell slap in print, sent first-class and soaked in perfume-freespite. It would have been almost admirable—if it were not so very cliche.
A proof, no less. Sent directly to her.
It was almost flattering, in a way. Caroline Bingley had summoned every drop of venom in her inkwell for one last curtain call. And for what? To prove Elizabeth was vain? Ambitious? Audacious? She might as well have announced that fire was hot and horses occasionally smelled. The pamphlet only said what the rest of the world had already started whispering.
The Gardiners had grown silent behind her.
Elizabeth folded the thing carefully, deliberately, and placed it atop the desk like a relic to be buried. Her hand lingered on it for only a second.
It was not even an attack, not really. Just an observation dressed up as social caution. She was too proud. Too clever. Too quick to laugh at the wrong people.
And the worst part? It was not even a lie.
Mrs. Gardiner stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “My dear…”
“I shall not be ill,” Elizabeth said. Her voice was too calm, too clear. It startled even her. “But I do not think I can remain in London.”
Mrs. Gardiner said nothing for a moment. Then she laid a hand gently on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I thought to write your father.”
Elizabeth shook her head faintly. “Longbourn would be no refuge. Not now. Not with every eye in Meryton fixed on the scandal.”
“No,” her aunt agreed. “But Lambton might be.”
