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When my wife got sick, when she was in her last weeks, he came to the hospice. I was willing to let him say goodbye if Clara wanted to see him. She didn’t. She wanted peace and in the end, he’d only caused distress. I passed that on, and he didn’t accept it. He punched me in the jaw and while I was reeling from the blow, he charged inside. He cried at her that I was the reason she was dying. That if I’d been true to myself, none of this would have happened.
I was the most angry I’ve ever been in my life. My dying wife was crying and I don’t regret clocking him in the nose and kicking him out.
My dislike of Will doesn’t come from a fear of exposure. He’s exposed me enough already.
If you require corroboration of these events, I have a depressing wedding day video I can give you, and will list the hospice should you wish to make your own enquiries.
Again, I wish I’d been able to explain this to you last night, but I found it hard to think through my disappointment and embarrassment.
As for being friends, I’m sorry I was unable to appreciate that kind offer. I hope it is not too late to accept?
You have my number if you want to use it.
Take care,
Darcy
Bennet stared out toward the ocean, phone bumping his knee with every bounce of his leg.
He read the letter again.
He couldn’t settle on what he was feeling.
For the kiss, Bennet needed no apology. He’d kissed him back, and when he’d wanted to stop, Darcy had respected that. Bennet couldn’t help feeling comforted by the weighty respect in his opening lines. And he wouldn’t do it again. That was . . . a relief.
Yes. Relief.
I was fully aware of what I was doing when I kissed you, and I would have done it without the ‘social lubrication.’
Bennet’s stomach jumped and he had to stop himself from biting too hard on his bottom lip.
That Darcy didn’t feel even the slightest bit sheepish for butting in with Lyon, though . . .
That he sought to change . . . Wishing something and making it happen were very different things.
Bennet’s pulse drummed as he tried to piece the puzzle together. He rubbed his fluttering chest with the end of his phone. He couldn’t believe Will had stooped so low. How painful this must have been for Darcy. How absolutely right he’d been to throw Will out.
Bennet stood and paced the lookout, thoughts racing, never quite landing to his satisfaction. He resumed his seat, and read the letter again. The very personal, evidenced account of what had happened from someone Bennet had never known to lie. He couldn’t stop shaking as he read it a third time. A fourth.
God, how could he ever have thought otherwise? How could he have so disliked Darcy, considered him so cruel, when he’d not known the full story?
He jogged back down the fern-shrouded hill. The morning sun shone bright on his face but offered no tranquility.
Bennet had been so quick to take Will at his word.
Shame gripped him. He’d been judgmental and prejudiced, easily believing Darcy was dishonorable. His stomach knotted tightly.
He replayed every moment he’d spent with Will. His easy manners and pride seemed less compelling than calculating and manipulative now. The day Darcy saw them together—Shear-A-Sheep Day, sharing a soda with the same straw—merely ploys to recruit Bennet to his side.
And that night, Will had brought up Darcy first. He’d wanted to say his piece, sink Bennet’s opinion of Darcy. Inspire his pity.
What a shameful fool Bennet was.
The fact Will was in Cubworthy at all sent a shiver down Bennet’s spine. He had to know Darcy owned land there. . . .
Bennet didn’t like where those thoughts sent him; he shoved them aside. Darcy would know what to expect from Will and how to handle him.
But, God, he owed Darcy an apology.
Bennet was hot with humiliation as he entered Olivia’s house, and hotter still when he found Olivia clearing out her sewing room—shifting fabrics and talking to her unborn baby about making the room beautiful. It was light and sunny and had the best view.
Bennet took the heavy fabrics out of her arms and helped her clear the room. “I know it’s early,” she said, laughing. Her eyes crinkled at the edges. “But I’m excited. This room is between mine and what will be Charlie’s. It makes sense the baby should have it.”
Bennet stared at the sewing machines—one modern, one antique—the fabrics, the mannequins, the cupboard full of thread and pins. Tailoring and designing costumes was her passion, yet here she was sidelining it.
Olivia, watching him closely, guessed his thoughts. “Some love is greater, isn’t it?” She patted her flat belly. “It forces you to reconsider your priorities.”
