Chapter Twenty
Elizabeth traversed the familiar path, her stride so long and quick, she nearly ran through the whipping October wind.
She would revel in her freedom, did she not lament the cause.
She had not been permitted to see them, but Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy had called the previous afternoon to say their farewells, for both had departed this morning, one to London and the other to Scotland, both claiming business.
They had conveyed Miss Darcy’s sentiments as well, including her sorrow at being too indisposed to come in person, for she would leave for London in the afternoon.
Elizabeth’s younger sisters all bemoaned the loss of her company, Mary hinting that Miss Darcy was being removed from Elizabeth’s bad influence before corruption could set in.
Elizabeth rather thought Miss Darcy’s departure might have to do with Mr. Wickham but had told no one of the younger woman’s connection to the man.
Her middle sister’s unsubtle accusation would anger Elizabeth, were she not so weighed down by Fitzwilliam’s departure.
Sorrow ached within her, almost numbing in intensity.
Sorrow, and anger, for they had hardly had time to come to know one another.
She had only the hope of him holding her in affection, not the promise, and she longed for more.
Nor had she been permitted to bid Fitzwilliam farewell.
Her father only lifted his restriction on her walking alone and being present for callers after word reached them of Fitzwilliam’s carriage passing through Meryton early that morning, taking the north road.
She had not once seen him since the morning she’d brought him to Mr. Wickham, a circumstance that made her heart ache.
Now, even though she had not decided if she should convey the locket and Mr. Wickham’s message, or know if she would be permitted to see Miss Darcy, Elizabeth hastened to Netherfield Park.
Had she any chance of carrying out Mr. Wickham’s request, she must do so now before Miss Darcy, too, was away.
Elizabeth would have called on Miss Darcy sooner, had such ridiculous, unfair, restrictions not been placed upon her.
Elizabeth pulled her cloak tighter and ducked her head against the wind, the weather a fitting companion to her ire.
Like the desiccated brown leaves spiraling about her, her thoughts tumbled with memories of the morning she’d brought Fitzwilliam to Mr. Wickham.
Papa had heard her out in his study and, though he believed her, he was not impressed with Elizabeth’s logic, or with her choices.
He, perhaps rightly, felt she should have reported all to him from the start.
So saying, he’d called in Mary and Mr. Collins to witness his edict. The two had stood proud and condemning, nodding along as Mr. Bennet set out Elizabeth’s punishment and his stipulation against letting word get out as to why she’d received one.
Mary had felt very special indeed, based on how smug she’d been, but at least she and Mr. Collins were discreet.
Likely because they enjoyed being in Mr. Bennet’s confidence and did not want to share the privilege, rather than out of any consideration for Elizabeth.
Whatever their reason for keeping Elizabeth’s secret, Mrs. Bennet had not found out the nature of the transgression, which would have led to both embarrassment and, likely, scandal, as the Bennet matriarch attempted to force Fitzwilliam’s hand.
The most aggravating part of it all was that Elizabeth had done nothing wrong.
At least, not very. She truly had met Colonel Fitzwilliam by chance that first day, and they had not actually arranged their subsequent meetings.
Only the final one, and not for the purpose of any sort of tryst but because a man’s life hung in the balance.
A life Elizabeth did not even know if she had saved, as she hadn’t been permitted to speak with either Fitzwilliam or his cousin and no word of Mr. Wickham had reached Longbourn.
Were she permitted to see Miss Darcy, and if the conversation allowed, should she ask after Mr. Wickham?
She did not care to bring up the man who had broken Miss Darcy’s heart, but she could hardly pass along his words and the locket without mentioning him.
If she decided to do so. How she would make that decision, Elizabeth had no idea.
She possessed a vague hope that, if they spoke, she would be able to tell if doing so would assuage some of Miss Darcy’s sorrow, or worsen her burden.
Perhaps if she made the correct choice, if she helped Miss Darcy in some small way, that miss would mention as much to Fitzwilliam.
Not that Elizabeth sought the other woman for that reason alone.
She felt true sorrow for Miss Darcy’s heartbreak.
She would be taking the locket to the other woman with the intention of deciding whether or not to give it to her even if Miss Darcy’s cousin were someone horrible… like Mr. Collins.
Who, along with Mary, had made it so that Elizabeth had not been able to say goodbye to Fitzwilliam.
Who was gone.
Elizabeth halted, rubbing at the ache in her chest. Surely he would return? He would want to see her again?
Looking about, she realized with a start that she stood in their meeting place.
Her feet would bring her to Netherfield Park via this route, where her foolish heart wanted to go.
She looked up the hill, not the one that led to the old shack on Mr. Grason’s farm, but in the other direction.
The hill she hadn’t climbed that first day she’d met Fitzwilliam here because to do so would be to spy on an occupied Netherfield Park.
Today she did not mean to spy, but to call, so she started upward.
Elizabeth achieved the low crest to the splendid vista of Netherfield Park’s garden and manor house.
Smoke rose from but a few chimneys, and she imagined that Mr. Bingley and his sister were suddenly quite lonely.
The Hursts had departed the previous week, without a word of farewell to anyone, proving once and for all what they thought of the local populace.
Mr. Darcy and Fitzwilliam had departed that morning, the first reputedly in the company of half the militia stationed in Meryton.
Presumably to keep him safe from abduction while on the road.
The man was certainly talented at getting special treatment.
As she started down the hill, Elizabeth caught sight of a hunched form, small in the distance, seated on a bench in the back part of the formal garden.
Though her face was hidden in her hands and distance rendered any sounds she made mute, Elizabeth could see the woman’s shaking shoulders.
Could read the wretchedness of her crumpled posture.
She felt certain the person below was Miss Darcy.
Elizabeth’s hand strayed to her pocket. Her fingers found the little heart.
The one thing she had not spoken of to her father was Miss Darcy’s heartbreak.
Who Mr. Wickham was to Miss Darcy cast no light on Elizabeth’s behavior, and was not her secret to share, even to Mr. Bennet.
A strong line existed between knowledge and gossip, and Elizabeth always endeavored not to cross it.
She had nearly told Jane, though, by manner of apology. Her sister was rather cross with her for all the secrets Elizabeth had been keeping. As if Jane ever gave Elizabeth the opportunity to tell her anything, of late. All Jane wanted to do was whisper about Mr. Bingley.
But Elizabeth was very fortunate to have Jane. To have all her sisters. No matter how aggravating they could be, Elizabeth would not want to be like Miss Darcy, who had no one. Resolved to do her best to soothe the other woman, Elizabeth started down the hill.
Miss Darcy kept sobbing, her face downturned, as Elizabeth made her way into the garden. Drawing near the bench, she said softly, “Miss Darcy?”
The other young woman’s head popped up to reveal a pink, white splotched, rather wet face.
Elizabeth proffered her handkerchief. “Are you well?”
Hand trembling, Miss Darcy took the square of fabric. “I…I…” She started sobbing again.
Not knowing what else to do, Elizabeth sat down beside Miss Darcy and wrapped her arms about her.
Miss Darcy went rigid, then sobbed louder and collapsed, burying her face in Elizabeth’s shoulder. Murmuring soothingly, Elizabeth held her tight.
After a time, Miss Darcy’s sobs grew softer, then tapered. Finally, she pulled away, turning from Elizabeth while she applied the handkerchief. Elizabeth rubbed her back soothingly.
“I am sorry,” Miss Darcy murmured.
“You do not need to be.” Elizabeth hesitated, for none of this was any of her concern, not truly.
Except, Miss Darcy seemed very alone, her relations scattered, and Elizabeth had the locket.
“I know I am not meant to know anything about your struggles, and truly I do not, but I do know that your heart was broken and by whom.”
Miss Darcy whirled to stare at her through red-rimmed eyes. “Y-you know about me and Mr. Wickham?”
“I found him, injured, and told your cousin, who reacted—” How to describe the incandescent hatred Fitzwilliam had revealed? “He reacted with unexpected dismay, which he explained by informing me that Mr. Wickham had broken your heart.”
“Broken my heart?” Miss Darcy’s voice held a surprising amount of bitterness. “Yes, that is what my brother and Richard like to tell people. That a man broke my heart.”
Elizabeth studied her, confused. “Did he not? I must admit that you seem quite heartbroken.”
Gripping it in both hands, Miss Darcy twisted Elizabeth’s handkerchief tightly, straining the delicate fabric. “Mr. Wickham did break my heart, but first he…he married me.”
Elizabeth gaped at her. “Married you?”