Chapter 5
5
T he night air was thick, swallowing the sound of hooves pounding against the frozen ground. Elizabeth urged her horse forward, her breath coming in short, frantic bursts. The moment she had left Darcy, the moment she had torn herself away, the full weight of what had happened crashed down upon her.
Darcy was shot. Because of her. The thought battered her relentlessly.
Her heart raced as fast as the horse beneath her, the wind stinging her skin, her hands clutching the reins, nearly slipping from the dampness of blood—His blood.
Her stomach lurched violently.
She could still hear his voice, weak but steady, telling her to go.
She had left him. She had left him bleeding in the clearing while others rushed in to save him.
It was her fault.
Her fault.
The moment she reached the parsonage, she did not stop to think.
She jumped down before the horse had fully stopped, nearly stumbling as her boots struck the ground, her skirts twisted from the wild ride.
She rushed inside, hands shaking, breath uneven, slamming the door behind her.
The house was silent, the only sound the rapid hammering of her pulse.
Her eyes darted wildly—she had to get rid of the blood, the proof that she had been there, that she had been kneeling beside him, pressing her hands to his wound, whispering his name like it was the only thing that mattered?—
Elizabeth hurled herself toward the washbasin.
Her hands were unsteady, the water sloshing over the sides as she scrubbed at the stains. The water turned red.
She scrubbed harder.
"This is my fault." The whisper sliced through her.
If she had not angered him, if she had not refused him so harshly, if she had not allowed Wickham into her confidence, if she had not?—
"Elizabeth!" Charlotte’s gasp of horror filled the room.
Elizabeth jerked around, hands still dripping pink-tinged water, her chest heaving.
Charlotte stood in the doorway, pale as a ghost, her gaze flicking rapidly between Elizabeth’s wet, bloodstained dress and her wild, desperate expression.
What could Elizabeth say?
Charlotte shut the door quickly, stepping closer. "What happened?" she demanded, voice low, urgent.
Elizabeth shook her head. "I—" She could not speak. She could not breathe. She lowered to her knees.
Charlotte knelt before her, taking her hands gently, ignoring the dampness. "Calm yourself," she murmured. "Tell me what happened."
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut.
The words rushed out in a whisper.
"There was a duel. I couldn’t stop it.”
Charlotte stilled.
Elizabeth forced herself to continue. "Wickham… he shot Darcy. In the arm. There was so much blood. Fitzwilliam went for help—I stayed—I tried to—" Her voice broke.
Charlotte’s expression darkened.
"Darcy let Wickham fire first, didn’t he?"
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “Darcy shot into the trees.”
Charlotte sighed heavily, grasping Elizabeth’s hands more firmly. "This is not your fault."
Elizabeth flinched. "Yes, it is."
"Elizabeth—"
"If he had not proposed—if I had not been so cruel—if I had not?—"
Charlotte’s eyes widened. The proposal was news to her. But she said nothing of that yet, only squeezed her hands. "Do you think for one moment that Darcy would have done anything differently? That he would not have intervened had it been another woman’s name on Wickham’s lips?"
Elizabeth stared at her.
"You know his character. You know his sense of honor." Charlotte’s voice softened. "This was always inevitable."
Elizabeth’s breath shuddered out of her.
Charlotte brushed damp strands of hair from her face. "You need to rest," she murmured.
"I cannot," Elizabeth whispered. "I—I must see him."
Charlotte hesitated. "Not now," she said gently. "Not until you have slept. You will be of no use to him like this."
Elizabeth wanted to argue. But her body was weak, trembling from exhaustion and fear and the weight of everything. She nodded. She barely remembered lying down, only that the moment her head hit the pillow—Darkness took her.
The afternoon light streamed through the window when she woke. Elizabeth sat up abruptly, her heart already pounding.
Darcy.
She dressed quickly, her limbs heavy, but her determination unshaken.
By the time she reached Rosings, the tension in her chest was nearly unbearable.
The house was subdued—unusual for a home that usually vibrated with Lady Catherine’s presence.
She was ushered into a sitting room where Lady Catherine sat upright and composed, her fingers clasped tightly together.
"You wish to see my nephew," she said, her gaze assessing.
Elizabeth swallowed hard. "Yes. I hear he is unwell."
Lady Catherine’s expression darkened. "Impossible."
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
"He is much too ill," Lady Catherine continued. "And it would be highly inappropriate."
Elizabeth’s hands fisted at her sides. "But—I only wish to?—"
"My decision is final."
Elizabeth felt the rejection like a physical blow. Her chest ached. He was ill.
Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes. "It is best you leave now, Miss Bennet."
Elizabeth could not argue. Not without ruining herself further. She inclined her head stiffly. "Of course," she murmured. She turned to go, heart sinking, every step heavier than the last—Then, just as she reached the door—A voice, low and knowing.
"Miss Bennet."
Elizabeth stilled. She turned slowly, her hands shaking as she met Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gaze.
He stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, his expression carefully neutral. Then—a single wink.
Elizabeth’s pulse leapt.
Fitzwilliam turned away as if nothing had happened.
A servant waited to show Elizabeth out.
She followed obediently. But the moment she stepped into the hall—she took a sharp left.
The corridors of Rosings were quiet, empty except for the Colonel turning a corner. She moved quickly, her heart hammering, her fingers trembling as she say him enter a door. She stood outside, waiting, counting heartbeats, building courage before placing her hand on the knob and opening the door.