Page 32 of Honor Requires

He said he would write.

She wrote to Miss Darcy at Mill House. There was no reply. Time stretched. And then, at last, a letter came. The direction was familiar—the Darcys were still in Ramsgate.

Elizabeth’s heart leapt as she broke the seal. It was not Mr. Darcy’s hand, but then, she had not expected it to be. It was Georgiana’s. She began to read. And the world fell away.

My dearest Miss Bennet,

I scarce know how to write what must be said, nor how to reconcile myself to the dreadful reality I now endure. My brother—my dear, beloved brother—is no more.

He was set upon by highwaymen upon the road and did not survive the attack. I am told it was swift, though such comfort is of little consequence to me now.

Elizabeth’s hands trembled. No. No. She read on, though the words blurred.

You must not be alarmed for me. I am not alone. I have married my brother’s dearest friend, who has proved my greatest support in this most terrible affliction.

Elizabeth’s breath caught. Married?

He has taken me under his protection, and I am grateful beyond words for his constancy and care.

I know, dear Miss Bennet, that you will understand my grief—for who better than the woman my brother loved?

Elizabeth’s vision darkened.

I shall write again when I am able.

Your affectionate friend,Georgiana Wickham

Elizabeth lowered the letter.

Wickham. The name struck her as wrong—utterly, incomprehensibly wrong. Her friend was Georgiana Darcy, not Georgiana Wickham. She is only fifteen!

The woman my brother loved. The words echoed. Loved. Not courted. Not admired. Loved.

A sound escaped her—tender, broken.

“No…”

The room seemed to shift around her, the walls too close, the air too thin.

Dead. Darcy was—

No. She pressed a hand to her chest, hoping she might still the ache that rose there—sharp, immediate, all-consuming.

Two weeks. He had said two weeks.

Her knees gave way, and she sank into the nearest chair without awareness of doing so. Her hands still held the letter, though she could scarcely feel them. Everything she had built—every hope, every certainty, every private, growing dream—Gone. It had not faded, nor broken slowly, but been inexplicably destroyed in an instant.

I shall return. He had said it. He had promised.

Elizabeth bowed forward, the letter crumpling in her grasp as her composure shattered entirely. There was no restraint now. No careful management of feeling, only grief. It was deep, unrelenting, and absolute. She pressed her hand to her mouth, but it did nothing to allay the sob that escaped her.

“I love him,” she whispered aloud. Too late. It was far too late.

And now, there was nothing left of him in this world but memory. And the echo of a promise that would never be fulfilled.

Chapter Six

Darkness pressed in on every side.