Chapter Twenty
Elizabeth
Elizabeth’s eyes opened to find morning light filtering through the curtains and Fitzwilliam propped on one elbow beside her, his expression watchful in an affectionate way that suggested he had been observing her for some time.
He leaned down to press his lips to her forehead, a gesture so tender it made her heart ache. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she replied, the instinctive response overriding the tangled truth of her actual state. “I... the headache has passed.”
“You missed dinner. And when I came to bed, you were already asleep. I must confess I was concerned.”
Guilt twisted sharply beneath her ribs, a physical pain that made breathing momentarily difficult.
She had feigned sleep last night when he had entered their chambers, while her mind raced with anxiety about the deception she was perpetrating and the secrets she was keeping from the man who was now watching her with such obvious concern.
“I was overtired.” She shifted beneath the covers, creating distance that felt necessary even as it pained her. “The day proved more taxing than I anticipated.”
Worry shadowed his features, belying the lightness he attempted to project. “Then you ought to rest longer. I can have breakfast sent up if you prefer. You need not exert yourself if you are still recovering.”
“No. Thank you, but I should rise. I wish to...” What? Avoid him? Escape before her guilt became visible enough that he could read it in her expression? “I wish to prepare for the day properly.”
Understanding flickered across his countenance, or perhaps disappointment that she was withdrawing again when they had only just begun to close the distance between them. He rose from the bed with the fluid grace she had come to associate with him.
“Very well. I have estate matters requiring attention this morning regardless. I look forward to seeing you at breakfast, then. Or luncheon, if you require more rest.”
The door to the room closed behind him with a soft click that felt final, leaving Elizabeth alone with the guilt that had become her constant companion since posting that letter yesterday afternoon.
She remained motionless, staring at the canopy overhead as her thoughts spun in increasingly anxious circles that offered no resolution.
Corresponding with Annabelle had seemed the compassionate choice yesterday.
The moral imperative even, extending help to someone facing harsh circumstances, regardless of past wrongs.
But in the cold clarity of morning, with Fitzwilliam’s concern fresh in her memory and his trust so newly won, the decision felt less certain. Less defensible.
She pressed her hands to her face, fighting through rising panic that threatened to subdue her.
Perhaps she ought to tell him everything now and explain the full extent of her correspondence. She could lay out her reasoning, such as the desperation described in Annabelle’s letter.
But she could already imagine his reaction with painful clarity. The hurt that she had acted unilaterally and the reasonable questions about why she felt compelled to help someone who had threatened him so deliberately.
She had no good answers. Only the conviction that mercy mattered and desperate circumstances sometimes drove good people to terrible choices.
And there was no telling that Fitzwilliam would accept that.
This would be the last letter, Elizabeth told herself. She had fulfilled her obligation to an old friendship, but further correspondence would be unwise. It would risk too much for an uncertain benefit.
She would tell Fitzwilliam...eventually. When the moment felt right and she could frame her actions in ways he might understand without feeling betrayed by her secrecy.
Just not today.
Not while her guilt still sat heavy and she lacked the courage to face his potential disappointment.
***
By the time Elizabeth descended to the breakfast room, she had determined to arrive late enough that Fitzwilliam would have already departed for whatever plans he had made with his uncle or cousins.
The mantel clock showed half past eleven, safely beyond the hour when gentlemen typically broke their fast.
At this time, the only people she’d likely encounter were ladies, who maintained more leisurely schedules.
The breakfast room proved mercifully quiet, occupied only by Mary and Jane. Her sisters glanced up at her entrance, looking pleased to see her.
“Lizzy! Are you recovered?” Jane set down her tea, the delicate china making a soft clink as it met the saucer.
“Quite recovered, thank you.” She served herself modest portions from the sideboard of toast, preserves and tea. Then settled at the table with the best approximation of normalcy she could manage.
“Mama is still campaigning vigorously to extend our stay,” Jane stated.
“She spent nearly an hour yesterday evening enumerating all the reasons why departing so soon would be premature. She has compiled quite an impressive list, actually. I believe she has reached seven distinct arguments, each more elaborate than the last.”
“Seven seems excessive even for Mama,” Mary said. “What could possibly constitute seven separate reasons for remaining at Matlock?”
“Well, she counts each daughter’s individual need for extended exposure to appropriate society as separate arguments,” Jane explained, her tone suggesting she found her mother’s logic as dubious as Mary did.
“So that accounts for four points immediately, with the exception of Lizzy, who is already married.”
“Naturally.” Mary’s dry tone matched their father’s characteristic irony. “Because surely a few additional days at Matlock will make all the difference in securing our futures. Besides, Kitty might already have made an attachment.”
“What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked but Mary waved a hand.
“Never mind. Mother also argues that departing too hastily might offend our hosts. After all, there’s still more of the estate to explore.
And Papa has not completed his examination of Lord Matlock’s library, although I suspect Papa would be quite content to leave that research unfinished if it meant returning to his own study. ”
The conversation continued, with more observations being made about family members and speculation about plans for the day.
Elizabeth listened with peripheral attention, her thoughts stubbornly fixed on the missive making its way towards Ireland alongside consequences she could not fully anticipate or control.
“Lizzy?”
She startled, realising Mary had spoken her name twice. “I apologise. I was wool-gathering.”
“I said that Miss Darcy enquired after you earlier. She wished to consult you about some music, I believe.”
“Did she?”
A glow of appreciation broke through the cloud of guilt that had been smothering every other emotion. The fact that Georgiana sought Elizabeth’s opinion felt significant, evidence of the blossoming friendship between them.
Mary nodded. “She is in the music room. She seemed quite eager to speak with you specifically.”
Elizabeth excused herself from breakfast, grateful for another purpose beyond endless contemplation. Georgiana sat at the pianoforte, sheets of music spread before her, her expression intent.
“Elizabeth!” She exclaimed, pleasure lighting her features. “I hoped you might join me. There is a piece I have been practising, but I cannot determine whether the tempo marking is correct. The notation suggests allegro, but the composition feels as if it ought to be played more moderately.”
“Show me.”
Elizabeth took a seat beside her on the bench, scanning the music whilst Georgiana played the opening bars.
The notes flowed with absolute accuracy, each one struck perfectly, but something in the phrasing felt hurried.
The emotional weight was lost beneath speed that prioritised technique over feeling.
“You are absolutely right,” Elizabeth said when she finished. “The tempo should be more restrained. The piece tells a story, I think. Longing, perhaps, or remembrance. Rushing through it diminishes the sentiment.”
Georgiana’s smile widened. “I thought so as well, but I was uncertain. The notation seemed so clear that I questioned my own judgement.” She repositioned her hands, playing the passage again with more deliberate pacing, and the difference was immediately apparent.
The melody was given space to breathe and its melancholy beauty permitted full expression.
“Perfect,” Elizabeth urged. “You have excellent instincts. Trust them.”
They spent the next half hour working through the piece together, Elizabeth offering occasional suggestions as Georgiana’s playing transformed from technically correct to truly moving. The younger woman’s face glowed with concentration and pleasure, dissolved in the shared joy of making music.
“Thank you. I value your opinion enormously. You have such sensitivity to music’s emotional qualities. So many people focus only on whether the notes are correct, but you understand that music is about feeling and communication.”
“You are very kind to say so. But truly, the interpretation was yours. I merely confirmed what you already knew.”
“Still, having that confirmation matters. Particularly from someone whose opinion I trust.” The younger woman hesitated, then added quietly, “I am glad my brother married you. I think you shall be very good for him.”
Elizabeth’s throat constricted around words that refused to form. If only Georgiana knew how Elizabeth’s secrecy threatened the very partnership that might make such goodness possible.
“Shall we take some air?” Georgiana suggested. “The morning is fine, and I noticed yesterday that the birds’ nest in the rose garden had eggs that looked ready to hatch. I should very much like to see if any have emerged overnight.”
The rose garden wrapped them in fragrance. Bees hummed drowsily amongst the flowers, their movements languid in the pleasant temperature. Georgiana led her to a particular bush where, nestled in the branches at eye level, a small nest held three speckled eggs.
“Oh!” Georgiana said, her voice dropping to a whisper of wonder. “Look, one is hatching!”
Indeed, the smallest egg showed a crack running along its surface, tiny movements visible within. As they watched in hushed fascination, the crack widened, a fragment of shell falling away to reveal a glimpse of pink skin and a tiny beak.
“It is working so hard,” Elizabeth murmured, matching her sister by marriage’s reverent tone. The hatchling’s struggle was both painful and beautiful to witness. The persistent tapping and gradual emergence from the confining shell into a broader world.
“Like being born must always be,” Georgiana agreed. “Difficult but necessary.”
They remained still, barely moving, as the tiny creature finally broke free. It lay exhausted in the nest, wet and ungainly, making small cheeping sounds that seemed impossibly loud for something so small.
“We ought to name it,” Georgiana declared suddenly, a grin brightening her features. “Since we witnessed its birth, we have that right, I think. It seems only proper to acknowledge such a momentous occasion.”
Elizabeth considered the tiny bird, its determination to emerge and its vulnerability now that it had succeeded. “How about Courage? For being brave enough to break free.”
“Courage.” Georgiana tested the name, then nodded in satisfaction. “Perfect. And when the others hatch, we shall name them as well. Hope and Joy, perhaps? To complete the trinity of virtues worth celebrating?”
They laughed together, two women in a garden, watching new life emerge and sharing a moment of simple delight uncomplicated by anxiety or the weight of choices made in haste.
For those brief moments, Elizabeth allowed herself to exist fully in the present, to forget the letter she’d written and all the complications it represented.
“I am so glad you are here, Elizabeth. You make everything feel more possible. As if the world holds more joy than I had previously recognised.”
“I am glad to be here as well. More than you know.”
And it was true. Despite the hasty marriage and complications, she was glad to know Fitzwilliam and to be a part of this family. She was grateful for the life unfolding before her with all its unexpected possibilities and joys.
The best thing to do henceforth was to prevent any more of her choices from destroying it all before that life had properly begun.