Chapter 17
Seventeen
Elizabeth slept long and dreamlessly. When at last she stirred, the sun had climbed high in the sky, spilling bright shafts of light through the parted curtains. A dull ache pulsed faintly at the back of her skull, but is was the hollow emptiness in her chest that weighed upon her most.
She rose with a start, chiding herself for the late hour, and hurried through her morning toilette. There was no time to waste. She meant to return to Rosings at once, to meet Mr Darcy face to face and, if her courage did not fail her, make known the change in her heart.
Her steps quickened as she descended the stairs, her mind fixed on the task ahead. But as she passed the breakfast room, she was drawn up short by the sound of Mr Collins’s voice, holding forth with his usual vigour.
“—a most fortunate coincidence indeed,” he was saying, with a self-satisfied air. “Had I not chosen to survey the early state of my turnips, I might have missed the opportunity entirely. As it was, I was able to pay my respects to both gentlemen as they passed.”
Elizabeth paused just inside the doorway. Charlotte sat at the table with her customary expression of forbearance, Maria at her side, as Mr Collins spoke, but all eyes soon turned in her direction.
“Ah! Cousin Elizabeth. Just in time. I was relating to Mrs Collins the intelligence of Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s departure. They left Rosings not a quarter of an hour ago.”
At Mr Collins’s words, Elizabeth’s heart gave a sudden jolt. “Left?” she repeated, scarcely above a whisper. “So soon?”
“Indeed. With most commendable promptness,” Mr Collins returned, heedless of the dismay in her voice.
“It is always edifying to behold the punctuality of gentlemen of rank. I am also gratified to report that they both appeared to be in excellent health and tolerable spirits. Though Mr Darcy struck me as a trifle melancholy, no doubt due to the pain of parting with his esteemed aunt and cousin.”
Elizabeth said nothing, though her fingers tightened on the back of the nearest chair.
“Pray, excuse me,” she murmured at last. “I find I have a slight headache. I believe I must lie down.”
Charlotte looked up, concern evident in her expression. “Shall I come with you?”
“No, no. I only need rest.”
She turned and left the room, ascending the stairs with all the outward calm she could muster. But once the door to her bedchamber was closed behind her, her resolve crumbled, and she pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing shallow.
He was gone. She had missed her chance.
A gentle knock sounded moments later, followed by Charlotte’s voice. “Lizzy? May I come in?”
Elizabeth hastily brushed at the corners of her eyes before calling for her friend to enter.
Charlotte stepped across the threshold, closing the door quietly behind her.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, but I wished to be certain you were well. You look pale. Shall I send for Dr Latham?”
“No,” Elizabeth answered quickly. “It is nothing of consequence.”
Charlotte hesitated before coming to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. “Lizzy… I know much has happened, but you have not seemed yourself these past few days. And—” she paused, then added more gently, “I cannot help but wonder whether Mr Darcy has something to do with it.”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched. “Mr Darcy! Why should he?”
“Well, I only thought… That is, he did call here more than once, and I wondered if perhaps—”
“There is nothing between me and Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, too quickly. “Nor will there ever be.”
Charlotte studied her for a moment, her expression unreadable, before offering her a single nod. “Very well. If you say so.” And then, with a pat to Elizabeth’s hand, she concluded, “I shall leave you to rest.”
She had just risen when Elizabeth’s voice brought her up short.
“Charlotte—wait.”
Her friend turned back, brows lifting in silent enquiry.
“Have you seen my locket? The one I purchased in Bromley? You remember it, do you not?”
Charlotte frowned. “Yes, of course. You have scarcely taken it off since your arrival. But I do not think you were wearing it yesterday, when we returned from Rosings. Perhaps it was lost in the storm, when you fell?”
Elizabeth nodded, though unease twisted her stomach. “Yes. Perhaps.”
“Shall I ask Mr Collins to look for it?”
“Oh! No. Pray, do not trouble him.”
Charlotte offered her a wry smile. “Very well. But I do hope it turns up. I know how fond you were of it.”
With that, she slipped from the room.
Elizabeth remained where she was, her hand drifting absently to her throat.
The locket was gone. And so was he.
The week that followed passed in a haze.
Elizabeth moved through each day as if in a dream, speaking when addressed, smiling when expected, and doing her utmost to appear unchanged. But beneath the surface, her thoughts never strayed far from Mr Darcy and all that had been lost.
She had read his letter so many times the folds had begun to soften and the ink to smudge.
Yet, each re-reading revealed something new: a phrase she had missed, a tone she had misjudged, a truth she had once rejected but now clung to with all her heart.
And yet, even that precious letter could not anchor her against the slow erosion taking place within her.
Her memories of the past fortnight were fading.
At first, it was only little things—a word, a gesture, a fleeting moment she could not quite summon.
But then entire stretches of time began to recede.
She could no longer recall the exact sequence of events that had brought her and Mr Darcy to the secluded garden.
The sharpness of his expression, the cadence of his voice, these too had begun to dim.
She remembered that he had kissed her, but not precisely how it felt.
She remembered that she had once lived another life, but the details were slipping from her mind like a dream upon waking.
Only her love for him remained unchanged.
That, and the aching conviction that she had glimpsed, however briefly, a happiness that would never be hers.
She had gone back to the grove twice, searching amongst the trees for the missing locket. But it was nowhere to be found. Perhaps someone had taken it. Or perhaps it had vanished by some design beyond her understanding. She could no longer say with any certainty.
At last, the day of her departure arrived.
Their trunks had been strapped atop the carriage, and Maria was already seated inside.
Elizabeth stood in the parsonage doorway, saying her farewells.
Mr Collins, full of pomp and pride, delivered a speech of no fewer than a dozen sentences regarding the honour of her visit.
Charlotte, serene as ever, embraced her with quiet composure.
“I hope you will rest while you are in town,” she said quietly. “And write when you are able.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I will.”
She climbed into the carriage, settling beside Maria and leaning towards the window as the driver gave the horses their signal.
There, standing just beyond the gate, were Mr and Mrs Collins—he, waving with great enthusiasm, she, still and watchful beneath the brim of her bonnet. The image of them remained fixed in Elizabeth’s mind as the carriage turned and carried them away.
A knot rose in her throat. She was leaving Kent, and with it, any hope of a future with Mr Darcy.
She closed her eyes, letting Maria’s cheerful chatter wash over her. But her heart remained behind.
Elizabeth stirred as the carriage slowed, the jolt of the wheels rousing her from uneasy dreams. Blinking against the afternoon light, she turned to her companion.
“Forgive me. I did not realize how tired I was. I fear I have been poor company.”
“Oh, not at all,” Maria replied merrily. “I was content to enjoy the passing scenery and reflect on all that has happened since we came away.”
Elizabeth responded with a weak smile. “A great many things, indeed.” She glanced out of the window. “It seems we have reached the Bell. Shall we go in for some refreshment?”
The carriage door opened a moment later, and Mr Gardiner’s manservant appeared with his customary efficiency. The ladies descended, stretching stiff limbs as they took in the familiar bustle of the coaching yard.
“There is the market again,” Maria said, indicating the line of stalls along the high street. “Shall we have a look? Perhaps we might find the same stand where you bought your locket. Then you could purchase a replacement.”
Elizabeth hesitated. She had no true hope of recovering what was lost, yet curiosity prompted her to agree.
Together they crossed to the row of vendors. Elizabeth’s eyes swept the familiar stretch until they came to rest on the spot where Madame Hercaud’s cart had stood. To her disappointment, it was no longer there.
In its place stood a drab canvas booth, its table crowded with brass buttons and dull belt buckles. A thin man with red-rimmed eyes and a long jaw haggled with a customer over a chipped snuff box.
“Oh,” Maria murmured, her forehead creasing in frustration. “She has gone.”
Elizabeth nodded, her eyes drifting across the lane. There, just as she remembered, stood the bookseller’s stall.
Upon an impulse, she crossed the street, weaving past a group of children clustered around a basket of kittens. The bookseller was finishing with a patron, wrapping a worn volume in brown paper. When the man at last looked up, Elizabeth greeted him with cautious familiarity.
“Good afternoon. I do not know whether you remember me, but I was here some weeks ago, on my way to Hunsford.”
The bookseller peered at her for a moment, then broke into a crooked smile. “Indeed, I do remember! You purchased a copy of The Wild Irish Girl, if I’m not mistaken.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. “Yes, I did.”
“Ah! There, you see? I never forget a face. I remember thinking you looked like the sort of young lady who would appreciate Miss Owenson’s politics.” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I wonder…” Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder towards the opposite side of the street. “That day, there was a cart set up just there, across from you. A woman selling charms and trinkets. As I recall, Madame Hercaud was the name on the sign. Do you remember it? Does the lady come here often?”
The man followed her gaze, squinting in the direction of the button vendor. “Can’t say as I do,” he said slowly. “Mr Elver’s been in that spot for…oh, years now. Bit surly, but he’s got a good eye for military brass.”
Elizabeth turned back to him. “Are you certain? No other vendor, not even for a short time, set up there six weeks ago?”
The bookseller shook his head. “I never leave this corner. Too much chance of losing my pitch if I do. I’d have noticed a new face.”
Elizabeth darted a glance at Maria, who looked equally perplexed.
“I see,” Elizabeth murmured. “Well then, I am sorry to have troubled you. You have been very kind.”
He nodded, tipping his cap. “Safe travels to you both.”
Elizabeth and Maria returned to the Bell in silence, the familiar scent of roasting chestnuts failing to stir any sense of comfort.
As they neared the doorway, Elizabeth cast one last glance towards the market.
The red-and-white awning of the bookseller’s stall stirred faintly in the breeze.
But the charm-seller, and her cart of impossible wonders, was nowhere to be seen.