Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elizabeth
E lizabeth remained seated in Mr Darcy’s study, enveloped in a state of profound shock. She replayed their conversation in her mind, searching for the precise moment when her words had sent him into such visible distress. She felt as though she had made a dreadful error somehow, but the nature of her mistake eluded her.
She understood his passion for uncovering the truth, just as she understood that, in her defence of Charlotte, she had been somewhat unfair. It had not been her intention to let her loyalty towards her oldest friend compete with Mr Darcy’s sense of justice and the need to protect their reputations. Yet the gulf between their perspectives now seemed insurmountable.
Her heart ached with the awareness that, perhaps, Charlotte had indeed betrayed her. The circumstantial evidence was damning, and Mr Darcy’s frustration with her reluctance to act was, she had to admit, not unwarranted. And yet, Elizabeth clung to a slender thread of hope. Charlotte had written of a desire to speak with her in person, a conversation they had not yet been able to have. Could it be possible that there was some explanation, some truth that might absolve her? Until she had heard Charlotte’s side, Elizabeth could not bear to pass judgement.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock at the door, followed almost immediately by Georgiana stepping tentatively into the room. The young woman’s face was drawn with worry, her usual composure shaken by the palpable tension that had permeated the household since her brother’s abrupt departure.
“Lizzy, I—” Georgiana began, her voice uncertain.
Elizabeth shook her head, her voice soft but trembling. “No, Georgiana. Not now, please.”
Georgiana hesitated, then quietly approached, pressing a handkerchief into Elizabeth’s hands. For a moment, Elizabeth simply stared at it, puzzled, until she realised her cheeks were damp. She raised a hand to her face and found her fingers wet with tears she had not even realised she was shedding.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Georgiana said nothing, but nodded solemnly and settled herself in a nearby chair. They sat together in silence, the weight of the moment pressing heavily between them. Elizabeth was grateful for Georgiana’s quiet presence, even as she fought to contain the maelstrom of feelings within her.
She understood now that her own words had played a part in provoking Mr Darcy’s reaction, though she was still struggling to fully comprehend how. Had she been too sharp in her tone? Too dismissive of his perspective? She chastised herself inwardly—not for defending Charlotte, but for the timing and manner in which she had pressed the issue. Perhaps today, with their journey to London imminent, had not been the best moment for such a fraught discussion.
Elizabeth sighed and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. Her tears were not born solely of the quarrel itself, but of the realisation that her marriage, which she had believed so strong and harmonious, was still shadowed by the disparities in their perspectives. She had allowed herself to believe that they understood one another completely, that the trials they had faced before their marriage had forged an unshakeable bond. But Mr Darcy’s words in the study—his veiled references to her standing, his unwavering determination to pursue justice at all costs—had left her reeling.
What troubled her most was the echo of his earlier pride, the unyielding nature she thought she had helped temper. He had always been principled, and she admired that, but she now wondered if he valued justice above the human cost. Or, worse still, if he doubted her ability to make the right decision herself.
The tears came again, unbidden, as she reflected on this. She could not understand why she was crying so freely. She was not one to succumb to such displays, even in the privacy of her own company. But Mr Darcy’s words had struck a chord deep within her, and the realisation that she had failed to communicate her feelings to him effectively only deepened her distress.
“Lizzy?” Georgiana’s voice was soft and tentative, and Elizabeth looked up to find the younger woman watching her with concern.
“I’m fine,” Elizabeth replied, though her voice was far from steady. She attempted a small smile, but it faltered.
“You do not seem fine,” Georgiana said gently. She hesitated, then added, “If there is anything I can do, or say to Fitzwilliam—”
“No, Georgiana,” Elizabeth shook her head firmly. “This is not for you to resolve. It is between your brother and me, and I must be the one to address it.”
Georgiana nodded but remained seated, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Elizabeth appreciated her willingness to stay, even if no words passed between them. It was a comfort, however small, to know she was not entirely alone in her turmoil.
Elizabeth let her thoughts drift back to the conversation that had sparked this anguish. She understood, now more than ever, how difficult it was for Mr Darcy to relinquish control. He was a man who acted decisively, driven by duty and a deep sense of responsibility. But his decisiveness, in this instance, had clashed with her need for agency.
As the hours passed and the time for their departure approached, Elizabeth steeled herself for what was to come. She knew the journey would be uncomfortable, the silence between herself and Mr Darcy heavy with unspoken words. But she also knew she could not let this rift fester.
For now, though, she allowed herself this moment of quiet with Georgiana, using it to gather her strength. She would need it for the conversations ahead—with Mr Darcy, with Charlotte, and perhaps even with herself.
And yet, as she sat there, dabbing her eyes and breathing deeply, she could not shake the feeling that something fundamental between herself and Mr Darcy had shifted. She only hoped it was not beyond repair.