Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Darcy
The lodgings Darcy had taken in Bristol were modest but clean—a far cry from what he was accustomed to, but proximity to the hospital mattered more than comfort.
He had been there nearly a fortnight now, and he knew his continued presence was unusual.
Mr. Hewitt's son had arrived from London days ago, a kind-faced man in his forties who had thanked Darcy profusely for his care of his father.
"You need not stay, sir," Thomas Hewitt the younger had said more than once. "I can sit with him now. You have already done so much."
But Darcy could not leave. He told himself it was obligation—that he owed the old man this vigil after all those mornings of patient listening.
But it was more than that. In the past weeks, Mr. Hewitt had become something Darcy had not expected to find: a friend.
Perhaps the truest friend he had ever had, save Bingley.
The physician had been blunt: Mr. Hewitt’s heart was failing, and it was only a matter of time.
After hearing the verdict, Darcy arranged for him to be moved from the crowded general ward to a private room.
It was a small, spare space with whitewashed walls and a single narrow window that let in the gray Bristol light.
There, Mr. Hewitt lay in the bed, his breathing labored and uneven.
Darcy sat in the chair beside the bed, as he had for hours each day.
Sometimes he spoke—about nothing in particular, just to fill the silence.
Sometimes he simply sat. Mr. Hewitt's son came and went, attending to arrangements, speaking with physicians, managing the practical matters that Darcy was quietly helping to fund.
On the fifth day of Darcy's vigil, as afternoon light slanted through the window, Mr. Hewitt's eyes opened. They were clearer than they had been in days, though his face remained deathly pale.
His hand moved weakly, making a gesture Darcy had learned to recognize—come closer.
Darcy leaned forward, taking the old man's hand in his own.
Mr. Hewitt's fingers moved against his palm—slow, deliberate. He was trying to sign something.
His son, sitting on the other side of the bed, leaned forward as well. "Father? What is it?"
The old man’s gaze was not upon his son.
His eyes were fixed on Darcy’s face. Slowly, his trembling hands began to move—weak, familiar gestures Darcy had picked from a handbook on sign language.
He pointed toward Darcy, then touched his chest, then mimed holding something fragile and letting it slip away.
The girl. Love. Lost.
“I know,” Darcy said quietly, leaning close and speaking slowly so the old man could read his lips. “I know you understood everything I told you. I know you could read what I said all along.”
A faint change crossed Mr. Hewitt’s expression—something that might have been a smile, had he possessed the strength.
“I have begun to take actions,” Darcy continued, his voice steady though his throat ached. “In the direction you advised. As soon as…as soon as you are well enough, I will go to her. I will find the words. I will—”
Mr. Hewitt’s hand dropped weakly beside him. His head moved in a small, deliberate shake. No.
“Father—” Thomas began, but the old man raised his other hand, bidding him to be silent.
Again his frail fingers moved, this time with greater urgency. He pointed at Darcy, then toward the door, then back to his own chest. His fingers tapped insistently.
Thomas watched, his eyes bright with tears. “He says... now. Go now. He’s—” Thomas’s voice faltered. “He’s saying he’s tired. Ready. That you should go.”
“You need to recover first,” Darcy said quickly. “I cannot leave while you—”
But Mr. Hewitt was shaking his head again, more insistent now. His hands moved in a rush of signs, directed to his son though his gaze never wavered from Darcy’s face.
Thomas swallowed hard. “He says you should go. That you should not wait. Do not waste time.” He paused, his voice breaking. “He says... tell him. Go find her. Do not let her go.”
The words struck Darcy like a physical blow. They were the same words the old man had written in his letter, the same counsel he had given when Darcy had thoroughly confessed his feelings for Elizabeth.
“I will not,” Darcy whispered. “I promise you, I will not let her go. Not this time.”
Mr. Hewitt’s eyes softened. For a long moment, he held Darcy’s gaze—a look filled with understanding and paternal affection that closed Darcy’s throat entirely.
The old man’s fingers squeezed Darcy’s, weak but sure. Approval. Blessing. Farewell.
Then his eyes drifted closed.
For several minutes his breathing continued, shallow and rattling. Thomas held one hand, Darcy the other. Neither spoke.
When the breathing ceased, it was so soft that Darcy at first did not realize it had happened. Then Thomas made a sound—half sob, half sigh—and Darcy knew.
Mr. Thomas Hewitt was gone.
***
Darcy sat in the chair long after the physician had come and gone, long after Thomas had left to make arrangements, long after the room had grown dark with evening.
He had lost his mother when he was thirteen.
Had held her hand as fever consumed her, had watched her slip away despite every physician's effort, every prayer.
He had lost his father six years ago—suddenly, without warning, a stroke that had taken him in his sleep.
Darcy had arrived at Pemberley to find him already cold.
And then there had been Elizabeth's rejection. That loss had been different—not death, but the death of hope. The death of a future he had allowed himself to imagine.
Each loss had carved something out of him. Each had left a hollow place that never quite filled.
This felt like all of them at once.
He had known Mr. Hewitt such a short time.
A few weeks of morning walks, of one-sided confessions, of companionable silence.
And yet the old man had given him something no one else had: the freedom to speak his heart without fear of judgment.
The wisdom to see his mistakes clearly. The courage to hope that he might deserve a second chance.
And now he was gone.
Darcy pressed his fingers to his eyes, feeling the sting of tears he had not shed since his father's death.
"Sir?"
He looked up to find Thomas standing in the doorway, his own eyes red but his expression composed.
"I wanted to thank you," Thomas said quietly. "For everything you did for my father. For bringing him here. For sitting with him. For—" His voice caught. "For being his friend when he needed one."
"He was a good man," Darcy managed.
"He was. And he was fond of you, sir. Very fond." Thomas stepped into the room. "He wrote to me about you last month. Said you reminded him of himself when he was young. He said he hoped he could help you avoid some of the mistakes he made."
Darcy's throat tightened further.
"Did he?" Thomas asked gently. "Help you, I mean?"
"More than he knew," Darcy said. "More than I can adequately express."
Thomas nodded. "Then he would be glad of that.
" He paused. "There are arrangements to be made.
The funeral will be in three days' time, here in Bristol.
After that, I will take him home to be buried beside my mother.
You need not stay for all of it, sir. You have already given more time than anyone could ask. "
"I will stay," Darcy said immediately. "For the funeral, at least. I would—I would like to be there."
"Then we would be honored to have you."
***
The funeral was a small affair. Thomas and his wife, a few distant relatives, some acquaintances from Bristol. And Darcy, standing at the back of the church, listening to a vicar who had not known Mr. Hewitt speak platitudes about eternal rest.
Darcy had paid for it all—the funeral, the burial plot, the headstone that would bear the old man's name. Thomas had protested, but Darcy had been firm. It was the least he could do.
After the service, after the burial, after the last mourners had departed, Darcy stood alone beside the fresh grave.
"Thank you," he said quietly to the turned earth. "For listening. For understanding. For giving me the wisdom I was too blind to find on my own."
The wind moved through the trees overhead. A bird called in the distance.
"I will go to her," Darcy continued. "As you advised. I do not know if she will hear me. I do not know if I can make her understand what I feel. But I will try. Because you were right—love like this is too rare to let slip away without a fight."
He stood there for a long moment more, then turned and walked back toward the waiting carriage.
Thomas was there, looking tired but grateful.
"Where will you go now, sir?" he asked.
Darcy pictured the road that would take him back to Bath, from Bath to Derbyshire, and then to Hertfordshire. To Netherfield, where Bingley waited. To Longbourn, where Elizabeth was.
"I have business in Hertfordshire," he said. "Business I have delayed too long already."
Thomas smiled faintly. "The young lady my father–?"
"Yes."
"Then I wish you well, sir. And I hope—" He paused. "I hope you find what you are looking for."
"So do I," Darcy said quietly.
He climbed into the carriage and gave the driver his instructions. As they pulled away from the churchyard, Darcy looked back one last time at the grave beneath the trees.
Do not let her go.
He would not.