Page 55 of Near Pemberley

Sleep came eventually, though neither peacefully nor deeply.

When she woke again, the room was entirely dark.

For several confused moments, she did not know what had disturbed her.

Then memory returned all at once.

Lydia. Wickham. Darcy’s letter. Her father. The unanswered offer of help lying forgotten amongst old papers.

Elizabeth closed her eyes again, but rest would not return.

The house around her remained silent. Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck two.

She turned restlessly upon the pillow.

Her thoughts returned to Darcy.

Not merely to his kindness, though that alone affected her enough, but to the letter itself – the openness of it, the delicacy, the concern expressed without presumption. He had written, knowing perfectly well how awkward such interference might appear. He had disregarded propriety already for her sake once before at Hunsford, when he placed his own character in her hands through that extraordinary letter.

And now he had done so again.

Elizabeth sat upright.

A strange resolve, half-formed yet irresistible, had begun gradually to take shape within her mind.

Why should she remain silent?

He already knew something was wrong. He had reached out first. And if he thought ill of her family now, silence could not preserve them from it.

Her heart began beating terribly fast.

Before she could lose courage, she rose quietly, wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, and moved towards the writing table.

She simply sat there for several minutes, staring at the blank sheet before her.

Then at last she dipped the pen. The words came slowly. Never before had she felt so uncertain of every word, and yet so unwilling to remain silent.

She hardly knew how to address him now. Every form appeared either too distant or too familiar.

“My dear Mr. Darcy…”

Elizabeth stopped, colour rising violently even though no eye but her own could see the page.

“No,” she whispered aloud.

The sheet was pushed aside hastily. Another followed. This time, she wrote more carefully.

Mr. Darcy,

I do not know whether I ought to write…

Again, she paused. But she did not tear the page. That alone, she thought, was already remarkable.

The candle flickered beside her while, little by little, hesitation yielded to feeling.

Chapter XV

London had done nothing to improve Darcy’s spirits.