22. Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
The steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves against the road did little to soothe Darcy’s tumultuous thoughts. The countryside blurred past the carriage windows, a patchwork of muted winter tones that should have offered solace in their familiar simplicity. Instead, they only deepened the ache in his chest.
He had left Netherfield early, much to Bingley’s dismay. His friend had tried to coax an explanation out of him, but Darcy had offered none, retreating behind a wall of civility that even Bingley’s good humor could not breach. There was nothing to say that would make sense of the chaos in his mind, no words to explain the sharp, unrelenting pain that settled beneath his ribs.
Elizabeth.
Her name was a wound, each repetition cutting deeper. He had trusted her—more than that, he had admired her. She was unlike anyone he had ever known, her wit and sharp tongue a welcome contrast to the artifice and affectation he had grown so weary of in society. For two months, she had teased and baited him, drawing him into conversations that felt alive in a way he had scarcely allowed himself to imagine. And slowly, against every instinct, he had let himself care.
And now, it had all unraveled.
Darcy’s hands tightened into fists in his lap as Collins’s words echoed in his mind. The wager. The humiliating notion that Elizabeth Bennet had courted his favor not out of genuine regard but as part of some frivolous game. A contest. A jest at his expense.
He exhaled sharply, the sound harsh in the silence of the carriage. How could he have been so blind? He had allowed himself to believe that she was different—that she was honest, genuine, unaffected by the petty schemes of society. He had believed her laughter, her warmth, her wit were meant for him. And all the while, she had been laughing at him.
His jaw tightened as fresh anger surged. He had let her into his confidence, shared parts of himself he had kept hidden even from those closest to him. He had spoken to her of Georgiana, of his sister’s struggles and vulnerabilities. And Elizabeth—Elizabeth, with her perceptive eyes and sharp tongue—had seemed to understand. Had it all been an act? A carefully crafted performance to make him fall for her, only so she could prove a point?
Darcy leaned his head back against the carriage seat, closing his eyes briefly. The memory of her face, alight with laughter during their supper set, burned in his mind. That moment had felt real. But now, doubt seeped into every memory, tainting even the smallest gestures. Had she meant any of it? Or had she simply been playing her part in this cruel wager?
A sudden pang of guilt twisted in his chest. He had hurt her, too. His own wager, though meant in jest, had been no less thoughtless. Bingley’s lighthearted challenge had led him to act with the same callousness he now accused her of.
Darcy shook his head, the thoughts warring within him. Whatever her faults, Elizabeth had not deserved the coldness he had shown her in their final conversation. He had lashed out, his words as cutting as the betrayal he had felt. But beneath his anger lay something far more dangerous: longing. Even now, the memory of her voice, her smile, her presence lingered, a cruel reminder of what he had thought he might find with her.
As the carriage jolted slightly over a rough patch of road, Darcy opened his eyes, the countryside coming back into focus. Lincolnshire was still hours away, and beyond it, London waited. The thought of retreating to Pemberley, of immersing himself in the duties and routines that had once provided solace, felt hollow now. He could not imagine finding peace while the specter of Elizabeth Bennet haunted his every thought.
The carriage slowed briefly as the driver navigated a bend in the road. Darcy glanced out the window, his gaze settling on the distant horizon. The sky was overcast, the pale gray clouds heavy with the promise of snow. It matched his mood perfectly: bleak, unsettled, and cold.
He had thought Elizabeth Bennet was the one person who might see him as he truly was, who might look past the cold reserve and pride to find the man beneath. But he had been wrong. She had seen him, yes—but only as a challenge, a target, a game to be won. And now, that illusion lay shattered, leaving him with nothing but regret.
Darcy leaned back once more, the weight of his thoughts pressing heavily on him. Lincolnshire awaited, along with Georgiana. His sister would be glad of his company, he was sure, and her wellbeing was the one certainty he could cling to now. But even as he resolved to focus on her, to push Elizabeth from his mind, a single truth remained:
He had loved her. And the loss of that love, however undeserved, was a wound that would not easily heal.
“You look pale, Lizzy,” Jane said, crossing the room to sit beside her. “I thought you might like some company.”
Elizabeth shook her head faintly, her lips pressing into a tight line. “Thank you, Jane. I am not certain I am fit for company today.”
Jane tilted her head, studying Elizabeth with quiet concern. “I heard some news this morning,” she said softly. “Mr. Bingley mentioned that Mr. Darcy left Netherfield early—very early.”
Elizabeth’s head snapped up, her heart sinking at once. “He left?” she repeated, her voice sharper than she intended.
Jane nodded, her expression pained. “Yes. Mr. Bingley seemed surprised, but Mr. Darcy said he had pressing business in Lincolnshire. Something to do with collecting his sister?”
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. Yes, his sister… Lincolnshire, then London. He had told her as much during supper, before everything had unraveled. Hearing it confirmed now, knowing that he was already gone, left her feeling hollow.
“I see,” Elizabeth said after a long pause, her voice subdued. She looked down at the stationery before her, her fingers tightening slightly around its edge. “So he is gone.”
Jane reached out to place a hand over Elizabeth’s, her touch warm and steady. “Lizzy, I know this must be difficult. But if you truly wish to make amends, perhaps it is not impossible.”
Elizabeth laughed softly, though the sound lacked humor. “And how, Jane, do you suggest I do that? Shall I wait for him to return to London and then stalk him there like some forlorn heroine from a dreadful novel? That would surely end well.”
“I only meant,” Jane said gently, “that we could visit our aunt and uncle in Cheapside. You have been saying for months how much you miss them. London is vast, yes, but it is not entirely out of the realm of possibility that—”
“That I might stumble across him in the street? Or knock on his door unannounced?” Elizabeth interrupted, shaking her head. “No, Jane. I have made enough of a fool of myself already. To chase him to London would be the height of folly.”
Jane’s expression softened further. “Perhaps it would not be folly if it came from the heart.”
Elizabeth met her sister’s gaze, her throat tightening. For a moment, the temptation of Jane’s words flickered within her. She imagined herself in London, somehow finding a way to cross paths with Darcy, to explain herself, to repair the damage she had done. But even as the thought formed, it crumbled under the weight of reality.
“No,” she said quietly. “I have hurt him too deeply. Even if I could find him, I doubt he would want to see me.”
Jane sighed, her hand still resting on Elizabeth’s. “You care for him, do you not?”
Elizabeth’s lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she looked away, her chest aching with the weight of feelings she had only begun to understand.
Rising abruptly, she moved toward the bookshelf that stood against the far wall. Her fingers brushed over the spines of her Shakespeare volumes, their worn edges familiar and comforting. She paused, pulling one from the shelf—a battered copy of Much Ado About Nothing—and held it for a moment, her thumb running along its cover.
“I suppose,” she said lightly, though her voice wavered, “if I cannot make amends with Mr. Darcy, I might as well settle my accounts with Charlotte.”
Jane looked puzzled. “Charlotte?”
Elizabeth forced a small smile, though it did not reach her eyes. “The wager. I lost, Jane. And Charlotte deserves her due.”
“You are being too harsh on yourself,” Jane said softly, rising to stand beside her. “Charlotte would not hold you to such a thing.”
“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth said, tucking the volume into a growing stack of books on the desk. “But I hold myself to it.” Her fingers hesitated over the next book before she added softly, “It is silly, but I find myself wondering what Mr. Darcy thinks of Shakespeare. But Charlotte certainly does not care for him.”
The admission stung, sharper than she expected. She pulled another volume from the shelf, her movements brisk as if to shake off the thought. “It is fitting, really,” she said after a moment, her voice tinged with bitterness. “Shakespeare understood tragedy all too well.”
Jane touched Elizabeth’s arm gently, her eyes filled with quiet understanding. “Lizzy, you are not as hopeless as you think. You still have time to set this right.”
Elizabeth shook her head, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “Perhaps. But I fear that time is slipping away, Jane. And when it is gone, I will have no one to blame but myself.”
The carriage wheels creaked softly over the gravel drive as Darcy leaned back in his seat, casting a glance toward his sister. Georgiana sat across from him, her posture relaxed for the first time in weeks. The faintest smile played on her lips as she gazed out the window at the retreating view of the Pomeroys’ grand estate.
“I cannot tell you how glad I am to be leaving,” she said, her voice light but sincere. “Mrs. Pomeroy means well, but she insists on speaking of nothing but London society, as though it were the only thing in the world that mattered.”
Darcy’s lips curved into a faint smile. “She does enjoy her gossip.”
“Enjoy it? She thrives on it,” Georgiana replied, rolling her eyes. “And Miss Pomeroy—she is perfectly polite, but I do not think she has ever read a book that was not about fashion or manners. I felt like an interloper every time I so much as opened the piano.”
Darcy chuckled softly. “I believe Elizabeth Bennet would say the same.”
Georgiana’s head tilted curiously, her attention snapping to him. “Miss Bennet? You wrote about her in your last letter. What is she like?”
Darcy stiffened slightly, caught off guard by the question. How had her name slipped past his lips so readily? He hesitated, the image of Elizabeth’s sharp wit and sparkling eyes flashing unbidden in his mind. “She is…” He faltered, searching for the right words. “She is… unconventional.”
Georgiana’s brow lifted. “Unconventional? That is not very descriptive.”
Darcy’s gaze flicked to the window, his jaw tightening. “She is clever, independent, and unafraid to speak her mind.”
Georgiana smiled. “She sounds fascinating. Do you think I shall have the chance to meet her?”
The question struck him like a blow. Darcy’s grip on his knee tightened as he forced himself to maintain an even tone. “That is unlikely,” he said curtly, avoiding her gaze. “Circumstances… have changed.”
Georgiana frowned, leaning forward slightly. “Circumstances? Fitzwilliam, what happened?”
“Nothing that need concern you,” Darcy replied, his voice firmer now. He turned his attention back to her, softening slightly at the confusion in her expression. “Georgiana, let us leave the topic.”
His sister looked as though she might press further but relented, leaning back in her seat with a sigh. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the steady rhythm of the carriage wheels.
“You seem restless,” Georgiana said after a pause, her tone quieter now. “Is it because of Miss Bennet?”
Darcy’s chest tightened, but he forced himself to remain calm. “I have much on my mind, Georgiana. That is all.”
She studied him for a moment, her brow furrowed, but eventually nodded. “Where will we go next? Are we returning to London?”
Darcy hesitated, the thought of London filling him with unease. The idea of its bustling streets and glittering parlors, with their endless chatter and probing questions, felt unbearable. “I am considering turning north,” he said at last. “To Pemberley.”
Georgiana’s face fell, her earlier brightness dimming. “But Richard is in London for Christmas,” she said, her voice almost pleading. “I was hoping to see him before his leave ends.”
Darcy’s resolve wavered at the mention of their cousin. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s warmth and humor were a balm for Georgiana, and she had always adored their time together. Darcy sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. “Very well. We will return to London.”
Georgiana’s relief was immediate, her smile returning. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. I know you do not care for London, but it will mean so much to see him.”
He nodded, though the weight of his thoughts pressed heavily on him. Georgiana turned her attention back to the window, her spirits noticeably lighter, but Darcy’s mind was a tangle of contradictions. Elizabeth’s advice had been sound—sending Georgiana to the Pomeroys had indeed been a mistake, and the guilt of his stubbornness stung bitterly now.
And yet, the very thought of Elizabeth brought fresh pain. How had he allowed himself to be so thoroughly deceived? Her laughter, her teasing, her charm—it had felt so real, so genuine. And now, knowing it had all been part of a wager, left him hollow. His jaw tightened as he stared out at the passing landscape, willing the memories to fade.
Georgiana spoke again, her voice soft. “Do you think Miss Bennet would have liked me?”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly, his chest tightening further. “I cannot say.”
Georgiana frowned. “Why not? You seemed to think so highly of her before.”
Darcy’s gaze snapped back to her, his tone sharper than he intended. “Because it is a question that does not matter, Georgiana.”
She blinked at his uncharacteristic brusqueness, her mouth opening slightly in surprise. Darcy immediately regretted his tone, exhaling heavily. “Forgive me. It has been a long journey, and I am tired.”
The pony cart rattled along the uneven lane, its wheels crunching against the frost-touched earth. Elizabeth kept her hands tight on the reins, her jaw set in grim determination as Lucas Lodge came into view. The neatly kept house stood as serene and unbothered as ever, utterly unaware of the turmoil its occupant had caused.
In the back of the cart, carefully packed and wrapped in a blanket to guard against the cold, sat her precious Shakespeare volumes. A pang shot through Elizabeth’s chest as she thought of them—her books, lovingly collected over years of careful saving. Each one held memories: evenings spent reading by the fire, passages recited aloud to Jane, and the occasional argument with her father over which play contained Shakespeare’s finest wit.
And now, she was giving them up.
Charlotte met her at the door, her face lighting with a mix of amusement and—Elizabeth suspected—sympathy. “Lizzy,” she greeted warmly, stepping aside to allow Elizabeth inside. “To what do I owe this honor? A friendly visit, or are you here to settle our little wager?”
Elizabeth pressed her lips into a thin line, refusing to rise to the bait. “I have come to fulfill my end of the bargain,” she said briskly, brushing past Charlotte to retrieve the books from the cart. “It is no honor at all.”
“Oh, but it is!” Charlotte called after her, her voice laced with mock reverence. “The great Elizabeth Bennet, bestowing her sacred Shakespeare collection upon an unworthy friend. Truly, it is a day for the history books.”
Elizabeth returned moments later, her arms full of the wrapped volumes. She set them on the nearest table with a care that bordered on reverence, her hands lingering on the topmost book before she stepped back. “There,” she said, her tone clipped. “I trust you are satisfied.”
Charlotte tilted her head, surveying the stack with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Hmm. Yes, I think they will do nicely. I have even been considering where they might look best on my shelf.”
The jab hit its mark, and Elizabeth’s frown deepened. “You do not even care for Shakespeare.”
“That is precisely why they are so effective,” Charlotte replied with mock solemnity, crossing her arms. “Think of them, Lizzy—sitting proudly on my shelf, a testament to your folly and my triumph. Hamlet may even find a new purpose as a teacup saucer.”
Elizabeth’s mouth fell open, indignation bubbling up. “Charlotte Lucas, if you so much as balance a single cup on one of these books, I will—”
“Oh, relax,” Charlotte interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “I would never disrespect them so openly. Subtly, perhaps, but not openly.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help the reluctant laugh that escaped her, though it was tinged with bitterness. “You are impossible.”
“And you,” Charlotte countered, “are far too attached to these dusty old things.”
“They are not ‘dusty old things,’” Elizabeth retorted, her tone sharp. “They are works of genius.”
Charlotte smirked. “Genius, is it? The same genius who fills his plays with bawdy jokes and overlong soliloquies?”
“Bawdy jokes that reveal the deepest truths of human nature,” Elizabeth shot back. “And soliloquies that—”
”—that you will now have to live without,“ Charlotte finished smugly. “Do not look so aggrieved, Lizzy. It was just a wager, after all.”
Elizabeth’s smile faded, her shoulders sagging slightly. “It was more than just a wager, Charlotte. For both of us.”
The sincerity in her tone seemed to disarm Charlotte, whose expression softened. She stepped closer, her voice gentler now. “Lizzy, you do not have to do this. Truly, I do not care about the books. I only teased because—well, because I hate to see you so unhappy.”
Elizabeth shook her head, forcing a wry smile. “You won, Charlotte. Fair and square. It is only right that you take them.”
Charlotte hesitated, then placed a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “You are a terrible liar, you know. But if this is what you need to do…” She trailed off, glancing at the books. “Just know that they will have a good home. And perhaps,” she added with a small, teasing grin, “I might even read one of them. Much Ado About Nothing , perhaps. That title seems particularly fitting.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at her lips. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet, you still bring me gifts,” Charlotte quipped, her grin widening. “Come, let us have tea. You can mourn your books properly before you go.”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be led into the sitting room, her heart heavier than she cared to admit. The books were gone, but the weight of what she had lost lingered, far deeper than a few volumes of Shakespeare could explain.