Chapter 17
ELIZABETH
I woke in my husband’s arms.
Morning light filtered through the curtains. Fitzwilliam slept on his back, one hand still resting on my waist. His hair was disheveled. Without his usual watchful gaze, his face appeared younger, almost vulnerable.
I traced the line of his jaw with my finger.
His eyes opened.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice husky.
“Good morning.”
A slow smile transformed his face.
“Are you in pain?”
I moved cautiously. An unfamiliar soreness between my thighs reminded me of every detail of the night.
“A little.”
His smile disappeared.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
I leaned in and kissed him.
He gently turned me beneath him, then stopped the moment he felt me tense.
“Not now.”
“I wasn’t going to do anything.”
“Liar.”
“I was only going to kiss you. Thoroughly.”
“And then?”
“Suffer with dignity.”
I laughed. He buried his face in my neck and kissed me until my laughter became a sigh.
I could have told him then.
I loved him.
The certainty didn’t arrive like lightning.
It was more like the light filling the room: present before I’d looked at it, revealing everything that had already changed.
I loved him in his hard-fought humility, in his patience, in the way he had put my wishes above his rights.
I loved him when he laughed with Georgiana, when he knew the name of a farmer’s child, when he gave me the truth at the risk of losing my esteem.
I loved him, and the simplicity of this discovery terrified me.
I wanted to choose the right words. I didn’t want him to think it was gratitude born of pleasure, or a reward for the night we’d shared. I wanted to tell him in a moment that would give back everything he had given me.
So I postponed the confession until evening.
The mail arrived at breakfast.
Jane’s letter bore handwriting so hurried I barely recognized it.
I read the first line.
The world changed.
“Lydia has left Brighton with Mr Wickham. They did not go to Scotland. Colonel Forster is searching for them in London.”
The cup slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor.
Fitzwilliam stood.
“Elizabeth?”
I couldn’t speak. I held out the letter to him.
He read it standing. His expression shuttered as he read.
“When?” he asked.
“Three days ago. Jane writes that Forster’s message arrived last night.”
“Your father has left for London?”
“Yes. My uncle Gardiner is to join him.”
I stood, but my legs gave way. Fitzwilliam caught me before I fell.
“This is my fault,” I said.
“No.”
“I knew what Wickham had attempted with Georgiana. I should have spoken to my father, insisted, prevented Lydia from leaving.”
“I spoke to Forster. He assured me he would watch Wickham.”
“Then he failed.”
“Yes.”
He didn’t shield the colonel out of politeness. That unexpected honesty allowed me to breathe.
“Lydia is lost,” I murmured. “If he doesn’t marry her… Kitty and Mary… Jane… your name…”
“Look at me.”
I raised my eyes.
“I will find them.”
“How? London is immense.”
“Wickham has neither money nor discipline. He’ll seek out certain acquaintances, certain creditors, certain places where he thinks he can disappear. I know some of his habits.”
“You cannot do this alone.”
“I’ll work with your uncle.”
“I’m coming with you.”
He hesitated.
“Elizabeth…”
“Don’t leave me here to wait for news of my sister while you repair my family’s faults yet again.”
“I don't consider Lydia a mistake to be fixed.”
“Then don't treat me like a child who needs protecting from the world.”
His gaze fixed on me. Then he nodded.
“We leave in an hour.”
I remained by the window, the letter clutched in my hands.
Fitzwilliam returned with my shawl.
“Georgiana will stay with Mrs Reynolds. I told her we need to help your family.”
“Does she know Wickham is involved?”
“Yes.”
“It must remind her…”
“She's afraid for Lydia.”
He placed the shawl around my shoulders. His hands lingered for a second.
“You don't have to do this,” I said.
“Yes, I do.”
“Because I'm your wife?”
“Because you're suffering.”
I turned toward him.
The words were there, at last. I could feel them on my lips.
I love you.
A servant entered to announce that the carriage was ready.
The moment shattered.
Fitzwilliam took my hand.
“We'll find her.”
No reproach. No mention of the scandal now attached to the Darcy name. He rang, gave orders, sent a letter to his cousin and another to London. In less than thirty minutes, the entire household sprang into action.
In the carriage, he unfolded a map of London across his lap. He had already drawn up a list of names: Wickham's former acquaintances, creditors, officers, keepers of furnished rooms, gaming houses. The handwriting was firm, but I caught the almost imperceptible tremor in his hand.
“You're afraid for Georgiana,” I said.
He looked up.
“I fear what he might attempt if he feels cornered. Wickham wields secrets the way others wield weapons.”
“Then don't hide anything from me to protect me.”
“I had no intention of doing so.”
“Really?”
He refolded the map with a sigh.
“My first impulse is still to keep you away from danger. My second reminds me you would hold it against me until the end of my days.”
“The second is much wiser.”
“It's also much louder. It speaks with your voice.”
I placed my hand on his.
“Lydia often wrote to Kitty from Brighton. She mentioned the places where the officers went to drink and dance. Jane may have kept those letters.”
He looked at me with renewed interest.
“That could help us.”
“She also spoke of a Mrs Younge she met by chance. Does that name mean anything to you?”
His face closed.
“Georgiana's former companion. The one who facilitated the meeting with Wickham at Ramsgate.”
A chill ran through me.
“Then Lydia may not have been chosen for her naivety alone.”
“No. He may have anticipated that I would pay to avoid a second scandal involving the same woman.”
His voice had grown so calm that I understood the depth of his anger.
“We'll find him,” I said.
“I promised you that.”
“It's not a promise you have to carry alone. We'll find him.”
He turned his hand and intertwined our fingers.
During the long hours of the journey, we worked side by side.
I recalled insignificant details from Lydia's letters; he wrote them down without ever mocking their frivolity.
We compared dates, places, officers' names.
For the first time, I was neither the woman he protected nor the one whose affection he hoped for. I was his partner in the search.
At the first stop, he wanted me to eat. I refused. He ordered bread, cheese, and tea anyway, then sat across from me until I swallowed a few bites.
“You're giving orders again,” I murmured.
“Your body needs strength to contradict me in London.”
“Self-interested argument.”
“Entirely.”
Night fell before our arrival. I drifted off despite myself, my head against his shoulder. When I woke, the carriage was crossing the first lamplit streets of the capital. Fitzwilliam hadn't moved. His cheek rested against my hair.
“We're here,” he murmured.
I tightened my fingers around his.
“Together.”
I still hadn’t said what burned in my heart. In the carriage, every attempt had felt out of place among the maps, the names, and the fear.
He stepped down first and offered me his hand in the cold street air.
Standing before Darcy House, I realized that these words would pull him away from the search to answer me while Lydia remained missing.
I kept them until the moment they would be neither a distraction nor a debt.