Chapter 14
Fourteen
That night, Elizabeth did not sleep.
She paced the floor of her bedchamber until the fire burned low, her thoughts chasing one another in frantic circles. How had everything she thought she knew become so hopelessly tangled?
Was it only a fortnight ago that she had stood in Mr Collins’s parlour, rejecting Mr Darcy’s proposal in the strongest possible terms?
Was she the same woman who had once been so convinced of her own judgment, so confident in her dislike, that she had answered his declarations of love with scorn?
That she had called him the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed on to marry?
But that was before.
Before her world had shifted sideways. Before an unforeseen accident had erased the past she knew and thrust her into this disordered existence, where all that was familiar seemed cruelly distorted.
Here, Jane had never been given the chance to fall in love; instead, she had resigned herself to quiet sacrifice, bound to a man who neither understood nor cherished her.
Mr Darcy, too, was poised to surrender, forsaking the hope of a true and equal partnership for the cold convenience of family duty.
And she…she was only just beginning to see how gravely she had misjudged him.
True, Mr Darcy was proud. At times, even haughty.
But he was also kind, deeply loyal, and capable of great tenderness.
She had glimpsed it in the gentle way he addressed his sister, in the fury he had struggled to contain when confronting his aunt, and in the haunted glance he had turned on her as she left the drawing room last evening.
Admittedly, his proposal had been dreadful. He ought never to have spoken so harshly of her family, nor interfered so arrogantly in Jane’s affairs.
And yet, what had he said that she herself had not, at some time, lamented? Her mother’s overbearing manners, her sisters’ improprieties—these were truths she could not deny.
And had not Charlotte once warned that Jane’s reserve might mislead others? That Mr Bingley could never be certain of her feelings? Could it be that Mr Darcy had acted not purely from arrogance but from a misguided wish to protect his friend?
The questions surged through her mind, too rapid to contain. Elizabeth pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane, the sky outside it finally paling with the first light of dawn.
In only a few short hours, Mr Darcy was to marry Anne de Bourgh. And Elizabeth had never felt so helpless, or so utterly lost.
Why was it only now, when all hope had slipped away, that she realized with such painful clarity that she might have been happy with him? That Mr Darcy, with all his flaws, was exactly the man whose disposition and talents most suited her own?
A broken sound escaped her throat. She turned from the window, sinking into the nearest chair and burying her face in her hands. Tears slid through her fingers unchecked. Too late. The words echoed through her mind: Too late… Too late…
But then, like a candle flaring in the darkness, another voice broke through the despair.
“The power of choice is still yours.”
Mrs Annesley’s words hit her with sudden force, and Elizabeth lifted her head. Was it truly too late? Or did some small chance remain? What had Mrs Annesley meant when she talked of paths, and memory, and choice?
Her pulse quickened as another recollection stirred: Mr Darcy, in the banqueting house at Fairbourne Grange. “Her strength lies in her resilience,” he had said. “She rises to meet obstacles—she does not shrink from them.”
Elizabeth leapt to her feet, shaking off the weight of her anguish. She would not sit idly by and watch her future vanish into thin air. If there was a way back, if even a fragment of hope remained, she must seize it.
Her hands trembled, but her movements were sure and deliberate as she dressed. She would find Mrs Annesley. And if a path still lay open, she would not let it slip away.
The morning air was crisp and cool, the sky above Rosings tinged with the faint light of dawn. Elizabeth hurried along the path, her pelisse drawn close, her breath rising in soft clouds. Gravel crunched beneath her boots, though she scarcely heard it; her thoughts moved faster than her steps.
As she walked, Elizabeth fretted over the impossibility of her errand.
Lady Catherine had expressly forbidden her ever to enter the house again.
And even were it not for her ladyship’s decree, what right had she to call at such an hour?
The household would scarcely be stirring; it was far too early for a proper visit.
How could she gain admittance, let alone find Mrs Annesley?
Her mind raced through one desperate scheme after another, until at last she resolved to try the servants’ entrance and throw herself upon the mercy of the housekeeper. Too much was at stake for her to be dissuaded by pride or propriety now.
She had just begun to turn in the direction of the narrow lane that led to the back of the house when a slight movement caught her eye.
A figure was emerging from the mist—tall, broad-shouldered, and striding towards her with steady purpose.
Elizabeth froze, her pulse leaping. For one breathless moment, fear tightened in her chest.
Then the fog lifted, and she saw his face.
“Miss Bennet?” Mr Darcy called, surprise evident in his tone as he closed the distance between them in a few long strides. “What are you doing abroad at such an hour? Is everything well?”
At the sound of his voice, her steps halted, a rush of feeling—relief, joy, and something dangerously close to longing—overtaking her.
She had not known how much she needed to see him until that instant.
For a brief moment, her composure wavered, and it was all she could do not to race into his arms. She could almost feel the warmth of his embrace, the soft wool of his coat against her cheek, his scent enfolding her like a balm, as if she had experienced these sensations many times before.
She shook the vision away, forcing a faint smile. “Nothing is amiss,” she replied quickly, her voice thinner than she intended. “Though I might ask you the same. What brings you out so early?”
He did not answer. Instead, he studied her, concern tightening the line of his mouth.
Elizabeth shook her head, suddenly eager to be on her way. “Forgive me, but I cannot tarry. I am bound for Rosings. There is someone I must see.”
Mr Darcy looked perplexed but fell into step beside her as she resumed her pace.
“Might I ask whom?”
“Mrs Annesley, your sister’s companion.” Elizabeth glanced up at him, a surge of determination steadying her voice. “It is a matter of great importance.”
His frown deepened as he turned to study her expression. “Mrs Annesley? I do not understand. What concern can you possibly have with—?”
But Elizabeth was already striding ahead. “I have no time to explain,” she called over her shoulder. “I must speak with her at once.”
He lengthened his steps. “Miss Bennet, forgive me, but I am afraid you are wasting your effort.”
Elizabeth scarcely heard him, her gaze fixed on the great house rising through the trees. “I know the hour is early, but I must see her. She is the only one who might be able to help.”
Mr Darcy exhaled sharply, then caught her arm with gentle firmness, bringing her to a halt. “Whatever the urgency, Mrs Annesley cannot assist you. She is no longer at Rosings Park.”
Elizabeth froze, staring back at him. “I-I do not understand. What are you saying?”
“She departed an hour ago,” he answered. “An express arrived detailing a family illness, and she set out for London directly. I saw the carriage off myself.”
The words struck Elizabeth like a blow. For a long moment, she could scarcely breathe. Then panic broke through, swift and hot. Her knees buckled, and she staggered backwards, pressing both hands to her mouth.
“No!” The word escaped her like a gasp. “No, she cannot have. She would not have left without—” Her voice splintered.
Tears spilled unchecked as she turned away, her body shaking with stifled sobs.
Mr Darcy hesitated before coming to stand at her side. With careful restraint, he slipped an arm around her trembling shoulders.
“Come,” he murmured.
Without waiting for a reply, he guided her from the lane and through the wrought-iron gate, leading her into the hushed seclusion of the park beyond.
They walked across the dew-damp grass without speaking, his hand steady at her elbow.
Patches of mist drifted low over the lawn, softening the world into stillness.
At last, they came to a small, overgrown garden enclosed by a crumbling stone wall.
Roses, long untended, climbed the lattice in wild loops, and at its centre stood a moss-covered bench beneath the shelter of an ancient tree.
Elizabeth lowered herself onto the bench without a word, her hands rising once more to cover her face. Her shoulders shook as the sobs returned, quieter now, but no less wrenching.
Mr Darcy sat beside her, close but not touching, his posture taut with restrained concern. He waited, offering the only solace he could: his steady, constant presence.
At length, he said softly, “Tell me what I might do.”
Elizabeth gave a tight, bitter laugh through her tears. “Nothing. There is nothing to be done. I have left it all too late. It is a hopeless business.”
“Then help me to understand. It pains me more than I can say to see you so affected. Whatever the cause, I would aid you if I could.”
She wiped at her face, her gaze fixed beyond the garden wall. “I hardly know where to begin. And I fear if I tell you, your good opinion will be lost forever. Indeed, you will think me fit for Bedlam!”
“I could never think that,” he answered. “Not of you.”
She looked at him, her feelings disjointed and uncertain. And then, haltingly, she began to speak. The words twisted together at first, but as she went on, they gathered force, as if the telling itself lent her strength.
She recounted their acquaintance in Hertfordshire—his insult at the Meryton assembly, their strained conversations at Netherfield, and her belief that he had wilfully thwarted Jane’s happiness.
She told him of her growing dislike, sharpened by Mr Wickham’s lies.
In a low, trembling voice, she detailed the proposal he had made at the parsonage a fortnight ago, and the bitter refusal she had given him.
And then, she spoke of the morning in the grove, of the letter he had pressed into her hand before the storm descended, and of waking not at the parsonage but in Lady Catherine’s parlour, disoriented, with the dreadful realization that everything had changed.
How her memories from the autumn to that moment had been altered, replaced by a life she scarcely recognised.
Jane was married to Mr Collins. Mr Bingley had never come to Netherfield.
And she had met Mr Darcy for the first time only weeks before; though in her heart, she remembered otherwise.
Her voice slowed, then stopped. The truth lay bare between them, incredible and unvarnished. A strangled laugh slipped from her throat as she peered up at him through damp lashes. “You must think me utterly deranged.”
But Mr Darcy only looked at her, his expression grave. “No,” he finally answered. “I believe you.”
“You…you do?”
“I do,” he repeated levelly. “Every word.”