23. Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
The fire crackled softly in Darcy’s study, its warmth doing little to ease the chill that had settled in his chest. The hour was late, and the streets of London were quiet, save for the occasional sound of wheels against cobblestones outside. Darcy sat in his chair, staring into the flames, a glass of brandy untouched in his hand.
He did not even hear the door open until his cousin’s familiar voice broke the silence.
“Well, this is a sight,” Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam drawled, stepping into the room with an easy confidence. “I had wondered if I’d find you buried under some mountain of paperwork or brooding into the night, and here you are—doing both, I see.”
Darcy’s shoulders stiffened. “Richard,” he said flatly, not bothering to rise. “I was not expecting you.”
“That much is obvious.” Richard closed the door behind him and crossed the room, his sharp eyes taking in Darcy’s uncharacteristically disheveled appearance. “You look terrible, cousin. No, truly. I’ve seen soldiers after a week-long march look better than you.”
“Thank you for your concern,” Darcy replied dryly, setting his glass down on the desk with more force than necessary. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Richard dropped into the chair opposite him, resting one ankle over his knee. “Georgiana sent me.”
That caught Darcy’s attention. His gaze snapped to his cousin, his frown deepening. “Georgiana?”
Richard nodded, his expression turning serious. “She’s worried about you. She said you’ve been… unwell these last two weeks. Distracted. More irritable than usual—which, frankly, is saying something.”
Darcy exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “Georgiana should mind her own concerns.”
“She is your sister. If you’ve forgotten, let me remind you: her concerns include you. She mentioned a Miss Bennet from Hertfordshire.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, the flicker of the firelight dancing in his eyes. “She should not have mentioned that.”
“Ah, but she did,” Richard said, leaning forward slightly. “And now I’m here, because whatever is going on, it’s clearly eating you alive. So, talk. Who is this Miss Bennet, and why does she have you looking like you’ve just lost a battle?”
Darcy was silent for a long moment, the tension in the room thick enough to cut. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Elizabeth Bennet,” he said quietly, the name like a confession. “She is… unlike anyone I have ever met.”
Richard’s brow lifted. “Go on.”
Darcy hesitated, then rose abruptly, moving to the window. He stared out into the dark street below, his hands clasped behind his back. “She is clever, sharp-witted, independent… and utterly infuriating. For weeks, she teased me, challenged me—drew me into conversations I never expected to enjoy. And somewhere along the way… I fell for her.”
Richard studied him, his expression unreadable. “And what happened?”
Darcy turned back to him, his face shadowed with bitterness. “I discovered that she had made a wager with her friend—a game to see if she could gain my favor. A farce.”
Richard frowned, leaning back in his chair. “A wager? That doesn’t sound like the kind of woman you’d fall for.”
“I thought the same,” Darcy admitted, his voice quieter now. “But it was true. Collins—her cousin—made it painfully clear. And yet…”
“And yet?” Richard prompted.
Darcy’s gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening. “There were moments, Richard. Moments when she was so tender, so unguarded, that I cannot believe it was all false. I cannot reconcile the woman I knew with the idea of her playing such a cruel game.”
Richard tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair thoughtfully. “And have you considered the possibility that there’s more to the story?”
Darcy’s head snapped up, his expression sharp. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Richard said, “that people aren’t always what they seem at first glance. You of all people should know that. Maybe this wager wasn’t what you think it was. Or maybe she started with one intention and ended with another. Either way, you’ll never know unless you ask her.”
Darcy shook his head, turning back to the window, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of the streetlamps outside. “I cannot go back. Not after everything that was said. She despises me now.”
Richard snorted, leaning back in his chair with an incredulous smile. “I doubt that. You’re many things, Darcy, but despised? No. At least, not by her.”
Darcy let out a humorless laugh, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You did not hear her, Richard. You did not see the fire in her eyes when she confronted me. She called me out for my supposed civility, for my falsehoods, and—” He cut himself off, his voice breaking slightly.
Richard frowned, tilting his head. “She called you out for… civility? What does that even mean?”
Darcy’s shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, with aching reluctance, he turned back to his cousin, his expression shadowed with self-reproach. “Because I was not entirely innocent, either.”
Richard raised an eyebrow, sitting up straighter. “Go on.”
Darcy’s gaze dropped to the floor, his voice low and tight. “It was Bingley. He made a wager—harmless, he said. A jest. He believed I was incapable of civility, especially toward the Bennet family, given my… initial impressions.”
“Initial impressions,” Richard repeated, a grin tugging at his lips. “Let me guess. She did something irreverent and you insulted her? I only guess because it would not be the first time—”
Darcy shot him a sharp look, but Richard only laughed. “Carry on, cousin. This is getting good.”
“Bingley challenged me to prove him wrong. To demonstrate that I could be polite without creating unnecessary entanglements. And I—” He paused, exhaling heavily. “I accepted. It seemed harmless at the time, nothing more than a matter of pride.”
Richard’s grin widened. “So, let me get this straight. You, Mr. High-and-Mighty Darcy, accepted a wager to be polite, and now you’re furious that Miss Bennet might have had her own wager? That’s… rich.”
Darcy scowled, his jaw tightening. “It’s not the same.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” Richard leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You gambled with her reputation, Darcy. Whether you meant to or not, you made her the subject of some ridiculous game. And now you’re angry that she did the same to you?”
Darcy flinched at the words, his guilt twisting deeper. “I did not mean for it to go this far.”
“No one ever does,” Richard said dryly. “But here’s the thing—you’re both idiots.”
Darcy’s head snapped up, his expression darkening. “Excuse me?”
“You’re both idiots,” Richard repeated, unabashed. “You’re angry with her for making a wager, but you made one, too. And the way you talk about her, Darcy—if half of what you’ve said is true, then she’s probably just as miserable as you are right now.”
Darcy’s lips parted, but no words came. He turned back to the window, his chest tightening as Richard’s words struck uncomfortably close to the truth. Could Elizabeth be as conflicted as he was? Could there be more to her actions than the cold calculation he had imagined?
Richard rose, crossing the room to clap a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “Look, I’m not saying you should forgive and forget instantly. But maybe—just maybe—you should stop wallowing long enough to find out the truth.”
Darcy shook his head slightly. “And what if the truth only confirms what I already fear?”
“Then you’ll know,” Richard said simply. “And you’ll stop driving yourself mad with questions. But if you let this go—if you let her go—then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if you made the worst mistake of all.”
Darcy swallowed hard, his throat tightening around the weight of his emotions. He wanted to dismiss Richard’s words, to retreat into the safety of his own anger and pride. But deep down, he knew his cousin was right.
Richard stepped back, his tone softening slightly. “You’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. Don’t start now—not when it’s something that clearly matters this much.”
Darcy nodded faintly, though he couldn’t bring himself to speak. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and feelings, each one pulling him in a different direction.
Richard sighed, his voice tinged with amusement as he moved toward the door. “And for the record, I’d wager on Miss Bennet over you any day.”
“You do not even know her.”
“I do not need to. The fact that she has you this wrung-out speaks enough.”
Darcy shot him a withering look, but Richard only grinned as he slipped out of the room, leaving Darcy alone with his thoughts.
He sank back into his chair, his gaze fixed on the dying embers of the fire. The memory of Elizabeth’s voice, her laughter, her fiery spirit, filled his mind once more, refusing to be silenced.
Perhaps Richard was right. Perhaps he owed it to himself—and to her—to find out the truth, no matter how painful it might be.
The winter sunlight filtered weakly through the windows of Longbourn, casting pale beams across the sitting room. Elizabeth sat in her usual chair, her hands idle in her lap, her thoughts as barren as the spot on the bookshelf where her Shakespeare volumes had once proudly stood. The emptiness there seemed to mock her, a silent reminder of everything she had lost—not just her beloved books, but the hope that had flickered briefly in her heart.
From the next room, the low hum of conversation drifted through the walls. Mr. Bingley’s familiar voice carried warmth and good humor, and Jane’s soft replies were no doubt full of her usual gentleness. Elizabeth knew her mother hovered nearby, likely wringing her hands and urging Jane to secure her future before the moment slipped away.
Elizabeth should have felt happy for Jane. And she did—truly. But it was a hollow sort of happiness, dulled by the ache in her chest that refused to fade. Two weeks had passed since the Netherfield ball, two weeks since her disastrous confrontation with Darcy, and still, her heart felt as though it had been trampled underfoot.
Collins had left Longbourn the day after the ball, his pride bruised and his offers of marriage rejected by every eligible lady in Meryton. Even Mrs. Bennet, who had once championed him so fiercely, now declared him “an insufferable oaf” and spoke of him only to complain. Elizabeth wished she could feel relief at his departure, but even that small victory was overshadowed by the weight of everything else.
Mary sat quietly in the far corner of the room, a book open in her lap, though her eyes barely skimmed the pages. Elizabeth glanced at her sister, her expression softening. Mary had barely spoken to her since the ball, her guilt and discomfort evident in every awkward silence. Elizabeth had assured her more than once that she was forgiven, but Mary’s shame seemed impossible to shake.
As if sensing her gaze, Mary looked up hesitantly. “Lizzy?”
Elizabeth smiled faintly, trying to put her sister at ease. “Yes, Mary?”
Mary hesitated, her fingers tightening on the edge of the book. “I—I wanted to say again how sorry I am. I never meant to… I didn’t think—”
“I know, Mary,” Elizabeth said gently, cutting her off before she could spiral further. “I forgave you weeks ago.”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears, and she looked down at her lap, her voice barely above a whisper. “But you lost so much because of me.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened, and she glanced once more at the empty space on the shelf. “I did not lose as much as you think,” she said, though the lie tasted bitter.
Mary seemed unconvinced but said nothing more. Elizabeth rose abruptly, unable to bear the tension. Crossing the room, she paused by the window, staring out at the frost-covered garden. The cold, stark landscape felt like a reflection of her own heart—silent, empty, and unyielding.
I cannot stay here.
The thought came suddenly, sharp and clear, and for the first time in weeks, Elizabeth felt a spark of something other than despair. She turned away from the window, her steps purposeful as she crossed to the small writing desk by the wall. Sitting down, she reached for a sheet of paper and dipped her pen into the ink.
“Lizzy?” Mary’s voice was hesitant. “What are you doing?”
Elizabeth didn’t look up. “I am writing to Aunt Gardiner.”
Mary frowned. “Aunt Gardiner?”
“Yes. I am going to ask if I may visit her in London.”
Mary’s brow furrowed. “London? But why—”
“Because I cannot stay here, Mary,” Elizabeth said, her voice breaking slightly. She set the pen down, pressing her fingers to her temples as she tried to steady herself. “Every day, I feel as though I am suffocating. I need to get away. To think. To…” She trailed off, her eyes closing briefly. “To find out if there is still hope.”
Mary was silent for a moment, then ventured timidly, “Hope for what?”
Elizabeth opened her eyes, her gaze distant. “Hope that I might not have ruined everything.”
The words hung heavily in the air, and Mary had no reply. Elizabeth picked up the pen again, her hand moving steadily across the paper as she addressed her aunt. She did not know how she would cross paths with Darcy again—if it was even possible—but London at least offered a chance, however slim. Here at Longbourn, there was nothing but regret and the knowledge that she had let him slip away.
When she finished, Elizabeth folded the letter carefully and set it aside to be sent. For the first time in weeks, the weight in her chest lifted slightly. It was not much, but it was a start.
The snow fell in thick, swirling flakes, blanketing the road ahead and muffling the steady clatter of the carriage wheels. Darcy sat stiffly in his seat, his eyes fixed on the frosted glass of the window as the landscape passed by in shades of white and gray. Despite the warmth of the carriage, he felt cold, a chill that came from within and had plagued him for weeks.
He was nearing Meryton now, the town that had become synonymous with frustration and heartache. Darcy’s grip on his gloves tightened as he thought of Elizabeth Bennet, her fierce eyes and sharp tongue, her laughter that had once felt like sunlight piercing his carefully constructed walls. She had haunted him every day since their parting, her image an unwelcome but relentless companion.
And yet, here he was, traveling the same snowy roads he had sworn never to tread again. Logic had abandoned him entirely, leaving only the raw, unrelenting need to see her—to speak to her, even if it meant risking further humiliation. He could not rest until he knew the truth, no matter how painful it might be.
The carriage jolted slightly, drawing his attention back to the road. Darcy leaned forward, his gaze narrowing as he saw another carriage approaching from the opposite direction. It was an unremarkable vehicle, small and plainly outfitted, but something about it caught his eye. He squinted, his breath catching as the carriage drew closer.
Then he saw her.
Elizabeth.
His heart lurched, disbelief crashing over him like a wave. He blinked, certain for a moment that he was imagining her—that the snow, the strain of the journey, and his own fevered thoughts had conjured her apparition. But no. It was Elizabeth.
She leaned slightly out of the carriage window, her dark hair escaping in soft, wind-tossed tendrils, dusted with snow. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her eyes wide and unguarded, fixed on him with a look that mirrored his own: shock mingled with something raw and vulnerable.
“Stop the carriage!”
The driver obeyed immediately, pulling the horses to an abrupt halt. Across the way, Elizabeth’s carriage slowed as well, coming to a jerking stop just yards from his own. For a moment, the road was silent save for the snorts of the horses and the faint rustle of snowflakes falling all around them.
Darcy threw the door open, the cold air biting at his face as he stepped down into the snow. Elizabeth emerged from her carriage almost in tandem, her movements hurried and unsteady as she stepped into the snow. Her cloak swirled around her, the dark fabric in sharp contrast to the stark white of their surroundings. For a moment, she stood frozen, her expression a mixture of astonishment and disbelief.
Her lips parted slightly, as though she were about to speak, but no words came. She simply stared at him, and Darcy was struck—painfully, powerfully—by the sight of her. She looked so achingly familiar, yet seeing her here, so unexpectedly, was like seeing her for the first time.
He stopped a few paces from her, his chest tight, his pulse thundering in his ears. He could not tell whether the cold or her presence was stealing the air from his lungs. “Miss Bennet,” he said finally, his voice low and rough with the effort to contain his emotions. “What are you doing here?”
Elizabeth blinked, as if startled by the question. Then, with a faint shake of her head, she replied, “I could ask you the same, Mr. Darcy.”
The sound of her voice—familiar yet distant, as though it belonged to a dream—sent a pang through him. He struggled to find the right words, his thoughts a tangled mess. “I—” He hesitated, exhaling sharply, his breath visible in the cold. “I was traveling to Longbourn.”
“To Longbourn?” Elizabeth echoed, her brow furrowing. She took a half-step forward, her eyes scanning his face. “Why?”
“To see you,” he admitted, his voice trembling slightly despite his best efforts to steady it.
Her lips parted in surprise, her gaze locking with his. For a long, heart-stopping moment, neither of them spoke. The snow continued to fall between them, the world beyond the road seeming to fade into nothingness.
“You were coming to see me?” she asked at last, her voice soft and disbelieving.
“Yes,” Darcy said, taking a step closer. “ I could not—” He faltered, swallowing hard, his gaze never leaving hers. “I could not stay away.”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched, her hands clutching the edges of her cloak as if to ground herself. “And I,” she said after a pause, her voice shaking slightly, “was on my way to London. To see you.”
Her words struck him like a physical blow. “You… you were?”
She nodded, her expression both tender and hesitant. “I—I have no idea what I thought I was going to do. Show up on your doorstep, perhaps, though I know not where that even is. I just… I could not stay at Longbourn, not knowing if…” She broke off, glancing down briefly before meeting his gaze again, her eyes shining with emotion. “If there was still a chance.”
Darcy felt as though the ground beneath him had shifted. His chest tightened, his thoughts racing as he searched her face for any sign of deceit. But there was none. Only sincerity, raw and unguarded, in every word and every look.
“A chance,” he murmured, the word tasting foreign on his tongue.
Elizabeth took another step closer, closing the gap between them. “Do you still hate me, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, her tone a mix of earnestness and fragile hope.
“Hate you?” Darcy repeated, his voice thick with emotion. “Elizabeth, I—” He stopped, closing his eyes briefly, gathering himself. When he opened them again, his gaze was steady, though his voice trembled. “Elizabeth, I have never hated you. If anything, I have spent these past weeks hating myself for letting you think I could.”
Her breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly. “But the wager—”
“The wager was foolish,” Darcy interrupted, his tone fierce. “But it was never about you. Not truly. And even if it began as a jest, it did not take long for me to see you for who you are. For everything you are.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed, her expression softening even as her lips trembled. “And yet, I—” She faltered, swallowing hard. “I hurt you. I played a part in all of this, and I regret it more than I can say.”
Darcy shook his head, his voice gentler now. “You hurt me, yes. But you also showed me a part of myself I had forgotten existed. You made me laugh, made me think, made me—” He stopped, his breath catching. “Made me care.”
Elizabeth’s eyes shone with unshed tears, and she laughed softly, shakily. “And here I thought I was the only one who cared.”
For the first time in what felt like years, Darcy smiled—a small, genuine smile that softened the lines of his face. “You were not.”
The distance between them disappeared as they stepped closer, snow swirling around them like a veil. The road was quiet, the world still, save for the unspoken understanding that passed between them.
“Elizabeth,” he said quietly, his voice trembling slightly, “I—”
“Do not say it,” she interrupted with a soft laugh, her smile breaking through her tears. “Not here, in the middle of the road, in the snow. Let us go somewhere warmer.”
Darcy laughed—a real, unguarded laugh that felt like a release of everything he had been holding back. “As you wish.”
He helped her back into her carriage, their hands lingering as they parted. Then, with a nod to their drivers, the carriages turned toward Longbourn, the snowy road stretching ahead like a blank page, ready to be filled.