Page 39 of Honor Requires

Elizabeth accepted the small parcel, unwrapping it with care. Within lay a necklace.

Elizabeth turned the little object in her fingers, her breath catching almost at once. The shell—her shell—no larger than her thumb, had been left in its natural form, its blush of ivory and rose deepened by a gentle polish that caught the light with warmth. A narrow band of gold had been fitted about its upper curve, shaped so precisely it seemed to cradle rather than confine it, with the finest wire drawn in a delicate spiral to follow the shell’s own line. There was no sign of force or alteration, only care. It hung from a slender chain, light enough that she scarcely felt its weight, and the workmanship spoke of deliberate expense. That Jane—who spent so little upon herself—should have contrived such a thing from her own small savings struck Elizabeth more keenly than any grander gift. It was not the ornament that moved her, but the tenderness of it; that her sister had seen something simple and lovely, and thought of her.

“Jane…”

Jane smiled. “I thought you might wish to keep it close.”

Elizabeth could not speak. Then she reached forward and embraced her sister tightly. “Thank you.”

Jane returned the embrace, her hand gentle upon Elizabeth’s back. When they parted, Elizabeth’s composure wavered.

“I must—” she began, then stopped.

Jane understood at once.

“Go,” she said.

Elizabeth withdrew to her room. Once inside, she closed the door and leaned against it, the necklace still clasped in her hand. For a moment, she stood quite still. Then she crossed to her bed and sank upon it, drawing her knees up, the delicate chain curling between her fingers. The shell lay warm against her palm.

A memory rose—unbidden, vivid. The shore, his voice, the way he had held it out to her.

“I thought you might like this.”

She pressed the necklace to her heart. The tears came then, sudden and unrestrained. She curled upon the bed, the power of her grief returning in full force, as sharp and overwhelming as it had been that first day.

“I love you,” she whispered into the stillness. There was no answer, only silence and memory. At last, exhausted, she wept herself to sleep.

Chapter Eight

Time did not pass in Yarmouth Castle so much as it settled, thick and unyielding, until the distinction between one hour and the next lost all meaning. There was no way to mark the time, no clock to divide the hours, no voice to lend structure to existence. There was only silence, broken at intervals so irregular that even interruption became uncertain.

Darcy’s first awareness of it had been resistance.

He had demanded satisfaction until his throat burned raw with the effort. He had called out—not once, but repeatedly—his voice carrying through the narrow corridor beyond his cell, echoing against stone that returned nothing but the sound of his own desperation. He had invoked his name, his position, his connections. He had spoken of consequences, of justice, of retribution that must surely follow.

No one answered. At first, he had persisted. He had stood at the door—if such a heavy slab of iron-bound wood could be called a door—and grasped the bars set within its upper half, straining against them with all the force he possessed, certain sheer effort might compel acknowledgment. His hands, already bruised from his initial confinement, had grown raw where his fingers wrapped around the cold metal. He had called again, louder, sharper, demanding to be heard. Only silence returned. The guards came and went as though he did not exist.

There was a small, covered opening at the base of the door where food and the bucket that served as his chamber pot could pass through. When that opened, it did so without ceremony. A hand entered, deposited a filled bowl or removed the bucket, and departed without a word. No words were exchanged, no friendliness extended.

After some time—how much, Darcy could not say—he ceased calling out, not from resignation, for he was not resigned to his fate, but from necessity. His voice could not endure the strain, and his mind—ever inclined toward order—began to understand that effort expended without return must be reconsidered.

Silence, then, became his companion.

His cell was small, though not so small that he could not move within it. The walls were formed of rough-hewn stone, each block uneven, their surfaces pitted and cold to the touch. Damp lingered there, settling into the mortar and seeping outward in faint, darkened lines that never quite dried. The scent of it pervaded the air—earth and stone and something older still, the place seeming to have absorbed the misery of all who had been confined within it.

There was a pallet in one corner, little more than a thin layer of straw spread over a wooden frame, its surface uneven and unyielding. A coarse blanket lay folded upon it, its texture no more inviting than the clothing he had been given. It offered warmth, but no comfort.

Opposite the pallet stood the bucket, which he came to regard with a detachment that surprised even himself. Necessity allowed for no indulgence of distaste.Above, the ceiling arched, formed of the same material as the walls, though darker, as though it had absorbed more of the dim light that filtered into the room. That light came from a narrow window set high within the wall opposite the door. It was barred, as everything was barred, the iron thick and unyielding, set deep into the stone so that no movement could be perceived.

From that window, he could see only a portion of the world beyond. A courtyard. At first, it had seemed a blessing. Proof that there was still something beyond the confines of his cell, that the sky still existed, that air moved freely somewhere not far removed from where he stood. But the view was limited. The angle allowed him only a narrow slice of open space—a stretch of worn ground, the base of a wall opposite, and occasionally the movement of figures passing through.

It was enough to remind him of what he had lost, and not enough to grant any true comfort.

Being sedentary only worsened Darcy’s mood. With nothing else to occupy him, he began with movement. It was instinctive, at first. His body, accustomed to activity, to riding, to walking the length of Pemberley’s grounds, could not endure stillness without protest. Even weakened as he was from his initial confinement, he forced himself to stand, to take stock not only of his surroundings, but of his own strength.

The cell allowed for a short length of pacing. He walked it carefully. Seven paces from wall to wall. Seven in one direction, seven in the other. Fourteen in total, though the turn at each end required a pause, a shift that broke the rhythm. He counted them aloud at first, his voice low, as though the act itself might impose order upon the disarray of his circumstances.

“One…two…three…”