Page 166 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

She had let herself hope. And hope was the cruellest weapon of all.

The townhouse loomed ahead. Caroline fumbled for the door. The butler opened it, his professional mask slipping into concern.

"Miss Bingley! Are you—"

She pushed past him, ignoring his protest, and flew up the stairs. The walls pressed in. Her stays felt like a vice. She could not draw breath. Her bedchamber door slammed behind her.

Schmidt, mending a torn hem by the window, dropped her sewing and rushed forward.

"Miss! What has happened? Are you injured?"

Caroline tried to speak. No sound emerged. Only a broken noise—half sob, half gasp—that scarcely resembled a human voice.

Schmidt's arms encircled her, strong and steady. "There now. Come, sit. Let me help you."

She guided Caroline to the bed, easing her onto the coverlet. Caroline's fingers clutched at Schmidt's apron, her body wracked with tremors.

"Schmidt," she choked out. The word fractured. "What a fool I have been."

"No, Miss. You are no fool."

"I am." Tears came harder now, unstoppable. "I thought—I let myself believe—"

The words dissolved. Her chest heaved with sobs she had suppressed for years. For her mother's death. For her father's death. For Darcy's rejection. For Charles's weakness. For every cruel whisper behind gloved hands, every refused dance, every slight endured while pretending indifference.

And now, for the Colonel. For Richard Fitzwilliam, who had made her laugh when she least expected it. Who had pulled her from a runaway horse as though she were precious. Who had looked at her as though she were a puzzle worth solving.

Who required twenty thousand pounds and saw her as the solution.

Schmidt held her, rocking slightly, murmuring nonsense words of comfort. Caroline could not hear them over the roaring in her ears.

"He does not care for me," she whispered into Schmidt's shoulder. "He never did. It was always the money. Just the money. Like everyone else."

"Who, Miss? Who does not care?"

Caroline could not answer. She could only weep—great, ugly sobs that tore from her, something vital being ripped away.

Schmidt said nothing. She simply held her, stroking her hair, letting her shatter in the privacy of her bedchamber where no one else could witness the collapse.

The sobs eventually subsided into hiccups. Caroline pulled back, her face swollen, her nose running in a most unladylike fashion. Schmidt handed her a handkerchief without comment.

Caroline wiped her face, her hands still trembling. "I am sorry, Schmidt. I should not—"

"You have nothing to apologise for." Schmidt's voice brooked no argument. "You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to hurt. You are human, not marble."

"I feel like broken marble," she whispered.

"Then we shall mend you." Schmidt's tone was matter-of-fact. "Piece by piece. As many times as it takes."

Caroline studied her maid—her friend, though she would never call her that aloud.

"He only wants my money," she said, testing the words like a tongue probing a broken tooth. "The Colonel. He has three weeks to marry or be exiled. And I have twenty thousand pounds. It was never about me. It was always about that."

Schmidt's mouth tightened. "Then he is the fool, Miss. And you are well rid of him."

"Am I?" Caroline's laugh was bitter, broken. "It does not feel that way. It feels like losing."

"You have lost nothing that was ever yours to begin with," Schmidt said gently.