Chapter Twenty-four
Elizabeth
Elizabeth blinked against morning brightness, disoriented, her mind struggling to piece together fragmented recollections from the previous evening.
After a lengthy conversation with her sisters, she had returned to the bedchamber, where she stayed awake reading by candlelight until exhaustion claimed her.
She’d waited up for him after leaving her sisters to their rest but eventually, fatigue had overpowered her and she’d decided to wait for him in bed.
However, it was obvious now that Fitzwilliam had never come to bed.
The linens on his side of the bed remained undisturbed, pillows still arranged tidily. It was clear that he had not merely arrived late and departed early before she woke. He had not joined her in their shared chambers throughout the entire night.
Concern twisted within her. Where had he spent the night? Had some crisis with the estate required his attention through the dark hours?
She dressed quickly, choosing not to ring the bell for a maid to assist her with her clothes. She was overcome by a need to find her husband, ensure he was well, and understand what had kept him from bed.
The corridors stretched empty and silent around her, too early yet for most of the household to be stirring but sufficient for the servants who had begun their morning routines in the distant reaches of the great house.
Elizabeth followed instinct towards the library, the conservatory, anywhere Fitzwilliam might have retreated when sleep proved impossible.
She found him in the small study off the main corridor, still wearing the previous day’s clothes, his cravat long since discarded and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He sat slumped in a chair near the cold fireplace, staring with a blank, tired expression.
“Fitzwilliam?”
He flinched at her voice but did not turn or acknowledge her presence.
For a long moment, he sat motionless, shoulders rigid with tension that radiated across the space between them.
When he finally moved, it was to reach for something on the side table.
A letter, she realised with mounting horror, its seal already broken.
He extended the pages towards her without meeting her gaze. “Is it true what Lady Catherine claims? Have you been corresponding with Annabelle Sempill?”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet, the world narrowing to those pages in his outstretched hand. She crossed on unsteady legs and accepted the letter. The script was indeed Annabelle, damning in this context.
Each phrase was innocent in isolation. Yet, arranged before someone who lacked context, they formed a narrative of deception.
“Fitzwilliam, I would like to explain—”
“Can you? I find myself curious what explanation might justify secret correspondence with the women who attempted to trap me. What possible reason could prompt my wife to aid fortune hunters whilst concealing such communication from her husband?”
“She was a friend of sorts.” The words tumbled out desperate and inadequate.
“Years ago, at finishing school. We were not exactly close but we knew one another. We were friendly. Recently, I received an unexpected letter from her, explaining her circumstances. And I... I responded with compassion. One letter, offering support and promising I would not ignore her desperate situation. There’s nothing beyond that single correspondence. ”
He finally looked at her directly, his eyes red-rimmed from sleeplessness and agony. “That is all? Is that what you are choosing to characterise this as? Mere compassion for a former friend?”
“Yes. I know how it appears and I know the timing seems suspicious. But I promise you, on everything I hold sacred, that is the truth.”
He rose abruptly, moving away as if proximity to her had become unbearable. From the agonised look on his face, it was clear that he was struggling with emotions too raw for articulation. She waited, wanting to say more, but also dreading hurting him further.
“I need time. I cannot think clearly whilst you stand there looking at me as though your world is ending. Perhaps it is. Perhaps mine has ended as well. But I need space to determine what I believe, what I can accept and whether trust once broken can ever be truly restored.”
A wave of panic gripped her. “Please, let me explain properly—”
“Not now. I am asking you, begging you even, to leave me alone. Give me time to think without your objections making coherent thought impossible.”
The dismissal stole breath from her lungs.
She opened her mouth to protest, to plead for the opportunity to make him understand what truly occurred, but the look on his face stopped her.
He was not merely upset or angry. He was shattered, barely holding himself together, and her continued presence was only making his pain worse.
“I am sorry,” she managed through the tears now streaming unchecked down her face. “For the secrecy and for failing to trust you with the truth when I should have.”
“Please just go.”
She fled, her vision blurred by moisture that would not stop no matter how fiercely she blinked. Doors and windows passed in a smear of wood and light as sobs rose in her chest with increasing pressure.
She reached her chambers through sheer instinct, her feet carrying her along familiar paths as her mind remained trapped in that study, replaying Fitzwilliam’s devastated expression.
She collapsed on the floor as the first true wave of grief broke over her. She had shattered her husband’s trust through her cowardice and misguided compassion. All the progress they had made was now rendered meaningless due to her own actions.
The door opened behind her and suddenly Jane was there, arms wrapping around her as Elizabeth sobbed into her sister’s shoulder.
“What has happened?” Jane’s voice carried alarm. “Lizzy, you are frightening me. What is wrong?”
The story emerged in fragments between gasping breaths: Annabelle’s letter, her response and subsequent concealment. And the devastation of Fitzwilliam’s reaction, closely followed by his dismissal.
By the time she finished, a few of her family members had gathered in response to her sister’s summons. Jane and Mary sat on either side of her on the bed providing physical support. Mr Bennet stood near the window with uncharacteristic gravity while Mrs Bennet hovered anxiously wringing her hands.
“He will come round,” her father said with quiet conviction.
“Mr Darcy strikes me as a reasonable man. Once he has had time to ruminate this information, to consider the full context rather than merely the damning surface, he will recognise your actions stemmed from compassion rather than conspiracy.”
“You do not know that,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice hoarse from crying. “You did not see his face. He glanced at me like I was a stranger.”
Mr Bennet crossed to sit beside her, taking her hand between both of his. “Then you must give him time to realise that perception is false. You acted foolishly in concealing the correspondence, but not maliciously. A few days of reflection will make that distinction clear to him.”
“And if it does not?”
“Then we shall address that circumstance when it arrives. But I do not believe it will come to such extremity. Have faith in your husband, Lizzy. And perhaps more importantly, have faith in yourself.”
“He loves you,” Jane added softly. “Anyone observing you two these past days could see it plainly. Such feeling does not evaporate because circumstances complicate it.”
“Love without trust is meaningless,” Elizabeth countered through fresh tears. “And I have given him every reason to doubt whether I can be trusted.”
Mrs Bennet finally approached, settling on Elizabeth’s other side with uncharacteristic tenderness that suggested even her usually self-absorbed mother recognised the gravity of this situation.
“Come back to Longbourn with us, dearest, until this matter is resolved. You need not remain here facing his coldness when your own family can provide comfort and support.”
The offer was tempting, indeed. To retreat to familiar surroundings where she had grown up and avoid the agony of proximity to Fitzwilliam as he decided whether their marriage could be salvaged.
But retreat was what had created this disaster in the first place. Retreating, maintaining silence and letting fear govern her choices rather than facing difficulties with honesty.
“No. I am done running from difficult situations and done allowing cowardice to dictate my actions. If our marriage can be saved, it will not be through my absence. I must stay and prove to him that I am willing to fight for the continued growth of the bond between us.”
“Lizzy…”
“I mean it, Mama. I have never felt this way about anyone, nor wanted something so desperately as I want our marriage to succeed. If that means enduring discomfort and uncertainty, then I shall endure it. But I will not abandon him merely because circumstances have become painful.”
“Then we shall leave you to do what must be done.” Her mother said, embracing her tightly, “And know that we’ll always remain available should you need us. You need only send word, and we shall come immediately, no matter the hour or circumstances.”
The family gradually dispersed to prepare for departure. Meanwhile, Elizabeth remained in her chambers, composing herself through force of will and steeling her spine for the farewells soon to come.
The entrance hall bustled when she finally descended.
Trunks were being loaded, servants scurrying about with final arrangements.
The Bennets gathered in loose clusters exchanging last pleasantries in a maintenance of the fiction that this was an ordinary departure rather than one occurring under the shadow of crisis.
Lord and Lady Matlock stood near the door, their expressions neutral in ways that suggested they had been briefed on at least the broad outlines of what had occurred. They embraced each Bennet warmly, expressing pleasure in having hosted them and hopes for future visits.
Georgiana appeared at Elizabeth’s side, her young face troubled. “Whatever has happened and whatever complications have arisen, please know that I value you as a sister. That will not change regardless of present difficulties.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth managed, overcome with gratitude for this unexpected support. “That means more than I can adequately express.”
The Bennets began filing towards the waiting carriages and Mr Bennet paused to embrace Elizabeth. “Be brave, love. And remember that love worth having is love worth fighting for.”
“I will remember, Papa.”
Jane hugged her fiercely. “I shall write every day until this is resolved. You are not alone in this, Lizzy.”
Mary offered reassurance about the power of honest communication and time to heal wounds and Lydia embraced her with surprising gentleness, whispering that she thought Mr Darcy was stupid if he could not see how much his wife cared for him.
Kitty was last, her eyes bright with emotion as she clung to Elizabeth.
“Richard promised he would visit Hertfordshire soon,” she announced with forced cheer, trying to offer distraction from present misery.
“He said he wishes to know my family better, to understand where I come from. Is that not wonderful?”
“Very wonderful. I am so happy for you, dearest.”
“Everything will be well,” Kitty insisted. “You shall see. Mr Darcy adores you too much to let this destroy what you have built.”
As her family members climbed into the carriages and horses were given the signal to depart, Elizabeth stood watching as the vehicle rolled away down the long drive. Soon it disappeared from view, swallowed by distance and the estate’s extensive grounds.
She turned to find Lady Catherine standing several feet away, her expression carrying contempt so pure it was almost artful in its perfection.
Cold satisfaction in the older woman’s features met devastation in the younger woman’s as Lady Catherine glared in disdain.
“I told Fitzwilliam you were unsuitable and your family’s vulgarity would bring only shame and disappointment. How gratifying to be proven correct, even if the vindication brings me no particular joy.”
Elizabeth met that contemptuous gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She would not give Lady Catherine the satisfaction of a response, nor engage in defence or explanation that would only provide additional ammunition.
After a long moment, Lady Catherine turned and swept back into the house with her usual imperious bearing, leaving her standing alone in the courtyard.
“Mrs Darcy?”
She turned to find Colonel Fitzwilliam approaching, his expression sympathetic. The viscount stood behind him, appearing to show similar concern.
“I do not know the full truth of what has transpired,” he murmured. “But I have observed you these past weeks, and I believe you genuine in your regard for my cousin. I trust that you shall find means to overcome this obstacle together.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said gratefully. “That is very kind.”
The viscount nodded his agreement to his brother’s statements. “Darcy is not a man who abandons those he cares for lightly. Have patience and give him time to think and recover from the initial shock.”
They offered additional quiet encouragement before retreating indoors, leaving Elizabeth once more alone in the courtyard. She stood there for several more minutes, staring at the empty drive where the Bennet carriages had disappeared.
A movement in an upper window caught her eye. Fitzwilliam was standing there—she recognised his silhouette even at this distance—watching the departed carriages.
Then he turned away, disappearing into the house’s interior, leaving Elizabeth staring at an empty window and wondering if she had just lost him forever.