Page 185 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Caroline could not breathe. The Countess had flayed her open with a handful of sentences, exposed every defence she had built, every wall she had raised.

"What do you want from me?" Her voice came out raw. Broken.

The Countess exchanged another glance with her husband. Then she sighed.

"We want you to consider the possibility," she said quietly, "that my son is exactly as stupid as he appears. That he truly did fall in love with you—inconveniently, inappropriately, against all logic and sense. That when he told you he would rather die of the fever than live without you, he meant it."

"He did not—"

"He asked me to ship him to the West Indies." The Earl's voice was flat. "He has not left his room since. He is not eating. He is not sleeping. He has, according to the servants, been staring at the ceiling and suffering from a profound fit of the vapours." The Earl paused. "My son is many things, Miss Bingley. A liar is not among them. He is too stupid to lie convincingly."

Caroline pressed her hands to her face. She was crying in earnest now, ugly tears that would make her face blotchy for hours.

She did not care.

"I cannot—" She gasped. "I cannot simply—he hurt me—"

"Yes." The Countess's voice was gentle. "He did. And you hurt him. That is generally how love works, in my experience. Two idiots, wounding each other repeatedly, until they either learn to stop or destroy each other entirely."

"That is remarkably cynical, my dear," the Earl observed.

"I have been married to you for thirty-five years, Henry. Cynicism is a survival mechanism." The Countess turned back toCaroline. "We are not asking you to forgive him today. We are not asking you to accept him. We are simply asking you to think. To consider the evidence with fresh eyes. And perhaps—perhaps—to allow for the possibility that you were both wrong."

Caroline lowered her hands. Her face was a disaster. Her eyes were swollen. Her nose was running in a most unladylike fashion. She looked, she suspected, exactly like a woman who had just been handed a fragile, small hope.

"I will consider it," she managed.

The Countess nodded. Satisfied. "That is all we ask."

The Earl retrieved his hat from the side table, brushing scone crumbs from his waistcoat. "Adequate scones," he said. "Excellent butter. You may expect a dinner invitation."

"Henry." The Countess's voice carried a warning.

"What? She should know. The butter was very good."

Charles escorted them to the door while Caroline remained on the settee, too exhausted to move. When he returned, he stood in the doorway, looking at her with an expression she did not recognise.

"You meant it," she said. "What you said about me."

"Every word." He crossed to the settee and sat beside her—he had not done that since they were children. "I'm sorry it took me so long to say it."

Caroline leaned against his shoulder. It felt strange. Unfamiliar. Like trying on a garment she had forgotten she owned.

"He really told them to ship him to the West Indies?"

"Apparently."

"To die of the yellow fever."

"Dramatically, yes."

Caroline was quiet for a moment. Then: "That is extremely stupid."

"It is," Charles agreed. "But then again, Colonel Fitzwilliam has always struck me as a man who commits fully to his poor decisions."

Caroline laughed. It came out watery. Broken. But real.

"I do not know what to do, Charles."