Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Darcy
Darcy did not find Mr. Hewitt at their usual location on the morning following his last visit to the Gardiners.
He waited on the stone bench overlooking the Royal Crescent for the better part of an hour, watching the sun climb higher and the street below fill with the morning traffic of Bath. But the elderly gentleman did not appear.
Darcy told himself there were any number of reasonable explanations. Perhaps Hewitt had simply chosen a different location today. Perhaps the weather did not suit him. Perhaps he had other business to attend to.
But unease settled in Darcy's chest all the same.
He returned the following morning, arriving even earlier than before. The bench was empty. The path remained undisturbed save for the occasional passerby who nodded politely and moved on.
By the time another hour had passed, Darcy's unease had transformed into genuine concern.
He knew where Hewitt lived—had learned it weeks ago in casual conversation when the older man had written the address on a slip of paper and shown it to him. A modest house on Henrietta Street, respectable but not grand.
Darcy had never visited before. It had seemed an intrusion, somehow, to seek out the man beyond their morning meetings. But now—now he had little choice.
He found the house easily enough. It was narrow and well-kept, with window boxes full of late-blooming flowers. He knocked, and after a moment, a housekeeper answered. She was a stout woman with shrewd eyes and capable hands, but clearly as elderly as Mr. Hewitt himself.
"Yes, sir?"
"I am looking for Mr. Thomas Hewitt. I understand he resides here?"
"He does, sir, but he's unwell at present. Not receiving visitors."
Darcy's concern deepened. "I am a friend of his. We meet most mornings in the park. I have not seen him for two days and—I was worried."
The housekeeper's expression softened slightly. "You're the gentleman who brings him books, aren't you?"
"I am."
"He's mentioned you." She gestured vaguely. "Wait here, please."
She disappeared into the house, leaving Darcy standing in the narrow entryway. He could hear movement above—slow footsteps, the creak of floorboards.
After several minutes, the housekeeper returned. "He'll see you, sir. But only for a moment. He's quite weak."
Darcy followed her up a steep staircase to a room on the first floor. It was simply furnished but comfortable—a bed by the window, a desk in the corner piled with papers and books, a chair drawn close to the hearth where a small fire burned despite the mildness of the day.
Mr. Hewitt lay in the bed, propped up on pillows. His face was pale, his breathing labored. But when he saw Darcy, his eyes brightened with recognition.
"What is wrong with him?" Darcy asked the housekeeper quietly.
"His heart, sir. It's been weak for some time, but these past few days it's taken a turn. The doctor was here yesterday. Said there's not much to be done but keep him comfortable."
"Will he—" Darcy could not finish the question.
"I hope so, sir. I've written to his son in Bristol to inform him of his father's condition. Usually in situations like this, the son sends a carriage and takes him home to care for him personally. But it will take a few days for the letter to arrive and for arrangements to be made."
Mr. Hewitt made a small sound and gestured weakly toward the desk.
The housekeeper moved to follow his direction. "He wants something from the desk."
Hewitt's hand moved again, more insistently, pointing first to the desk and then to Darcy.
The housekeeper rummaged through the papers until she found a sealed letter. She brought it to Darcy.
"He says you're to read this in private, sir." She watched Hewitt's hands as he signed slowly, laboriously. "Yes, that's what he's saying."
Hewitt gestured again, and the housekeeper retrieved a small stack of books from the corner of the room. "Your books, sir," she said, offering them to Darcy.
"Oh, no." Darcy shook his head. "Mr. Hewitt should keep them. I have already read them. He is welcome to them."
But Hewitt shook his head firmly, pressing his hands together in what appeared to be insistence.
"I think he wants you to have them back, sir," the housekeeper said.
Darcy took the books reluctantly. "Very well. But I shall return them when you are better," he said to Hewitt, though he suspected the man could neither hear nor understand him.
The housekeeper touched Darcy's elbow. "It's important that he rest now, sir."
"Of course." Darcy moved toward the bed and bowed slightly. "I shall check on you again soon, Mr. Hewitt. You have been a good friend to me."
Hewitt's eyes were kind. He lifted one hand in a small gesture—farewell, or perhaps blessing. Darcy could not say which.
He left the house with the letter clutched in one hand and the stack of books tucked under his arm, feeling as though something essential had shifted in the world.
***
Darcy returned to his estate and went directly to the small study. Bingley was nowhere in sight—still abed, most likely, as was his habit when he had no pressing engagements.
Darcy sat at the desk, set the books aside, and turned the letter over in his hands. His name was written on the front in a careful, slightly shaky hand: Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy
He broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
‘Dear Mr. Darcy,
I have seen your name in the books you have lent me, and so I know how to address you properly. I hope you will forgive the liberty of this letter, and the deception I have maintained these many weeks.
You have been a wonderful companion this past month. Your presence on that bench each morning has given me something to look forward to, and your kindness in bringing me books has been a gift I did not expect but have cherished.
I confess to you now what I have not shown openly: though I cannot hear, I am not entirely ignorant of what is said around me.
As a youth, I had a teacher who taught me to read lips to a considerable extent.
It is an imperfect skill, and I do not catch every word, but I understand more than most people realize.
I do not often reveal this ability. Being unable to hear makes people careless about what they say in one's presence.
They speak freely, assuming no comprehension.
This carelessness has taught me much about human nature—and has, I believe, kept me safe in a world that is not always kind to those with impairments.
I tell you this now because I believe you deserve to know.
You have poured out your heart to me, thinking I could not hear you.
And while it is true I could not hear your words, I have understood them.
Not every syllable, perhaps, but enough.
Enough to know that you are a good man struggling with matters of the heart.
Enough to know that you love a woman who once refused you, and that you have encountered her again here in Bath.
I do not know the totality of your story, Mr. Darcy. I do not know what passed between you and this lady to cause such pain on both sides. But I know this: love is a rare and precious thing. When it is real—when it runs deep enough to survive rejection, distance, and time—it is worth fighting for.
I speak from experience. I too was once in love.
I married young, and my wife was the joy of my life.
We had a son together, and for twenty years we were happy.
When she died, I thought my life had ended as well.
For a long time, I wished it had. But my son needed me, and so I carried on.
And in time, I learned that love does not die simply because the beloved is gone.
It changes form. It becomes memory, and gratitude, and the knowledge that one has been blessed.
You still have the chance I lost. Your lady lives. She is here, in Bath, within reach. Whatever mistakes you made, whatever words were spoken in anger or pride, they can be amended. But only if you are brave enough to try.
Do not let fear keep you silent. Do not let pride keep you distant. If you love her still—and I believe you do—then tell her. Not in grand gestures or eloquent speeches, but simply. Honestly. Give her the choice, and trust that she will make it wisely.
I am an old man, Mr. Darcy, and my time grows short.
I do not know if we shall meet again on that bench.
But I want you to know that our mornings together have meant more to me than I can say.
You treated me with kindness when you thought I could not understand you.
That speaks to the man you are—the man I believe this lady will see, if you give her the chance.
Do not waste the time you have been given. We have so little of it, in the end.
With my deepest regards and best wishes for your happiness,
Thomas Hewitt’
Darcy sat motionless, the letter trembling slightly in his hands.
He had thought himself alone in his confessions. Had thought his words disappeared into the silence, unheard and unwitnessed.
But Hewitt had known. Had understood. Had listened—truly listened—to every stumbling confession, every admission of failure and longing.
And rather than judge him, the old man had offered him grace.
Darcy set the letter down carefully, pressing his fingers to his eyes as emotion threatened to overwhelm him.
If you love her still—and I believe you do—then tell her.
But how? How could he tell her when she had made it so clear that his affections were unwelcome? When she had refused even to read his letter, to hear his explanations?
Give her the choice, and trust that she will make it wisely.
Perhaps that was the answer. Not to demand. Not to assume. But simply to offer—to lay his heart before her once more, without pride or pretense, and let her decide.
It terrified him. The thought of facing another rejection, of seeing that same disdain in her eyes—
But the alternative was worse. To say nothing. To let these days in Bath slip away, to return to Pemberley with his feelings still locked away, unexpressed and unresolved.
He could not do it. He could not go through life wondering what might have been if he had only found the courage to try.
Darcy stood, folding the letter carefully and tucking it into his coat pocket. He moved to the window and looked out at the Bath morning—golden and bright, full of promise he had not noticed before.
Do not waste the time you have been given.
He would not.
Less than a week remained before Elizabeth returned to London, and then to Hertfordshire. Less than a week to show her that he was not the man she had once believed him to be. Less than a week to earn—if not her love, then at least her respect.
It would have to be enough time.
It would have to be.