Chapter Nineteen
The next day
Something was wrong.
Elizabeth noticed it the moment she entered the breakfast room—the particular quality of silence that surrounded Fitzwilliam as he sat at the table, his newspaper folded beside his untouched plate.
His posture remained correct, and his expression was composed, but she had learned to read the subtle signs of his distress.
The tightness around his mouth and the way his fingers rested too still against the table's edge.
"Good morning," she said, taking her seat across from him.
He looked up with what appeared to be effort. "Good morning, Elizabeth. I trust you slept well?"
"Very well, thank you." She accepted tea from a maid and waited until they were alone before continuing. "Is something troubling you? You seem preoccupied."
"I am quite well." The words came too quickly, accompanied by a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Merely thinking through some estate matters that require attention today."
She did not believe him, but she recognised the deflection for what it was—a polite request not to press further. Still, she could not simply let it pass. "What sort of estate matters?"
"Nothing of consequence." He reached for his coffee, but he made no move to drink it. "Routine business, really. Nothing you need to concern yourself with."
The dismissal stung, though Elizabeth suspected it was not meant as such. He was protecting her from something, shielding her from whatever burden he carried. Noble, perhaps, but also frustrating. They were meant to be partners, were they not?
She tried again, keeping her tone light. "The weather looks favourable today. Perhaps we might take a walk through the grounds later?"
"Perhaps. I may be occupied for much of the day. I have some affairs to attend to—matters I have been putting off that can no longer be delayed."
"Of course. If there is anything I might—"
"Thank you, but it is nothing that requires your involvement." The words emerged more sharply than he likely intended. He seemed to catch himself, his expression softening with visible effort. "Forgive me. I am poor company this morning."
They continued breakfast with stilted conversation—comments about the weather, and brief exchanges about household matters.
He made attempts to engage, asking about her plans for the day, mentioning some book he thought she might enjoy from the library, but his attention was clearly elsewhere.
After a couple of minutes, he set down his napkin with barely concealed restlessness.
"If you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to before I must depart. I may be away for most of the afternoon."
"Certainly." She watched him leave, concern knotting in her chest. Something was definitely wrong, and his determination to bear it alone only made her more uneasy.
After he departed, she remained at the table for several minutes, trying to make sense of his behaviour. The distance, the withdrawal—it was so unlike the easy companionship they had developed these past weeks. What could possibly have changed overnight?
Mrs Reynolds appeared in the doorway as Elizabeth was preparing to leave. "Mrs Darcy, if I might have a word?"
"Of course. Is something amiss?"
The older woman's expression held some sympathy as she spoke. "I could not help but notice Mr Darcy seemed rather withdrawn this morning. I thought you should know. Today is the day the memorial will be unveiled."
"Memorial? For the two miners who died in the mine collapse?"
Mrs Reynolds nodded, moving further into the room. Her voice was kind as she continued, "The nearby village commissioned a memorial stone to honour them. The unveiling ceremony is this afternoon. Due to an inexplicable reason, Mr Darcy only received notice of it earlier this morning."
Understanding crashed over Elizabeth like a wave. "He did not mention it to me."
"He would not, ma'am." Mrs Reynolds's tone carried gentle reproof, though whether directed at Fitzwilliam or at Elizabeth was unclear.
"Mr Darcy has never been one to share his burdens with others.
He considers it his duty to bear such things alone, without troubling anyone else with his difficulties. "
"But we are married—"
"Indeed, ma'am. Which is precisely why I thought you should know. The guilt he carries over those deaths weighs heavily upon him, despite everyone assuring him he was not at fault. And now, with his memory so fractured from the injury..."
"He likely does not even remember the men who died," She finished quietly, the full weight of his distress becoming clear.
"Precisely. He will attend the memorial because duty demands it. But he will do so alone, bearing that burden as he believes he must bear all such weights. Unless someone convinces him otherwise."
The implicit suggestion was unmistakable. Elizabeth felt it settle over her like a challenge. She should have noticed. In addition to that, she should have insisted on being allowed to share whatever difficulty he faced.
"Where is he now?"
"In his study, I believe. Making preparations to depart within the hour."
Elizabeth did not wait for further information.
She made her way swiftly through the corridors, her mind racing.
It was clear that her husband wished to manage his emotions on his own, but they were married now, and she was never one to mind her own business.
Marriage was a partnership. How could they succeed at it if he insisted on facing every difficulty in isolation?
She found him at his desk, dressed for travelling and reviewing what appeared to be notes for a speech. His hand stilled on the paper as she entered, and something defensive flickered across his features.
"Elizabeth. I thought you were occupied with household matters."
"Mrs Reynolds told me about the memorial." She closed the door behind her, moving to stand before his desk. "You should have mentioned it."
“It’s a duty I must fulfil, nothing more."
"Is that what you truly believe? That your burdens are yours alone to carry? We are married, Fitzwilliam. Yesterday you asked for my help reviewing tenant correspondence, and you trusted my judgment on estate matters. Why can you not trust me with this?"
He set aside his notes with careful precision. "Two men died in a mine I own. I cannot even remember their faces, cannot recall anything about them beyond what others have told me. That shame is mine to bear."
"Then let me help you bear it." She drew closer to the desk. "I want to come with you to the memorial."
"There is no need—"
"I insist."
He looked up at her then, truly looked at her, and she saw the war playing out in his eyes. A desire to maintain his solitary burden fighting against what looked almost like relief at the prospect of not facing it alone.
"It will not be pleasant," he said finally in a low voice.
"The families will be there. They will expect me to say something meaningful about men I cannot remember.
I will have to stand there knowing I should recognise their widows, their children, and feeling nothing but this terrible guilt that I do not. "
"Then I will stand beside you." Elizabeth's voice was firm. "And if you falter, I will be there. You need not face this alone."
For a long moment, he said nothing and simply studied her as though searching for something in her expression. Then, so quietly she almost missed it: "Thank you."
The gratitude in his eyes was unmistakable—a flicker of vulnerability quickly controlled but which rang true. He rose from his desk, collecting his notes and the speech he had prepared. "We should depart shortly. The ceremony begins at two."
The journey to the village passed in near silence.
Fitzwilliam sat rigid beside her in the carriage, his jaw set, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.
Elizabeth wanted to offer comfort, to say something that might ease his visible distress, but the words felt inadequate before they even formed.
Instead, she simply remained present, allowing him to know through her proximity that he was not alone.
The village church was small but well-maintained, its stone walls weathered by time and elements.
A crowd had already gathered in the churchyard when they arrived—miners still in their work clothes, their families dressed in sombre Sunday best, local gentry, the vicar in his vestments.
Elizabeth saw how Fitzwilliam's shoulders tensed as they approached, how his expression became a careful mask of composure that could not quite hide the strain beneath.
The memorial itself was simple—a stone marker bearing two names: Davis Ayles and Emanuel Conolly. Below, an inscription read: In Memory of Two Faithful Workers, Taken Too Soon. May Their Sacrifice Not Be Forgotten.
The vicar spoke first, offering prayers and words about God's mysterious ways and the comfort of eternal rest. Then he turned expectantly to Fitzwilliam, inviting him to address the assembled mourners.
Elizabeth watched her husband step forward. She saw him gaze at those names as if willing them to spark some flicker of recognition. His throat worked as he swallowed, his hands clasping behind his back—a gesture she had come to recognise as one of extreme discomfort.
"Davis Ayles and Emanuel Conolly," he began, his voice steady despite the visible strain. "I stand here today to honour their memory, however, I confess my injury has stolen from me what I most wish I possessed—the ability to remember them as they deserved to be remembered."
A sympathetic murmur rippled through the crowd.
"What I do remember," he continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled faces, "is the urgency of the rescue efforts.
The determination of every man who worked through the night to save their fellows.
And I remember making a promise to myself that such a tragedy would never happen again at Pemberley. "