Chapter 14 #2
He looked down at their joined hands, as though startled by the comfort it offered.
“I made mistakes,” he said quietly. “A great many.”
She said nothing, waiting.
“Georgiana was twelve. She hardly knew me. I had been away at Cambridge, then abroad. I tried to manage her like a steward—dutifully, distantly. I listened to my aunts. I sent her to school. I thought… I thought it was what she needed.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed.
“She hated it,” he said simply. “She never said so in her letters, but she came home thinner. Quieter. She started writing poems with endings that never resolved. Just faded out.”
The image hurt. Elizabeth gripped his hand tighter. “And that is when you sent her to Ramsgate.”
“Yes,” he said in a rough whisper. “The worst mistake of them all.”
“You saved her,” Elizabeth countered, her voice low but firm. “That matters more.”
They sat in silence for a while after that, the rhythm of the road lulling them both into quiet thought.
Eventually, the mood lightened again—almost imperceptibly. He told her a fond story about Fitzwilliam falling off a donkey in Germany and swearing in five languages while village children applauded.
“You and your cousin are quite close, it seems.”
“He is my most cherished friend,” he replied. “You would love him… well, in our world, at least. I am not certain who he would be here. Everything is so changed.”
“You have had a great impact on those in your life.”
“I suppose,” he said, looking down at his hands.
Perhaps she realized that he was close to breaking, for she deliberately turned the topic of conversation with a light voice. “I have never been anywhere.”
Grateful for the reprieve, as his eyes were suspiciously wet, he asked, “Kent was your first time away?”
She nodded. “Unless you count visiting my Aunt and Uncle in Cheapside. Which I do not.”
“You ought to,” he said gently. “London is a worthy destination. And your uncle is a man of great sense.”
“He is,” she agreed. “But it is not the continent. I have never seen the Alps, or the sea, or even a castle beyond what I have read in Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.”
He looked thoughtful. “Would you like to?”
“To what? Travel?”
He nodded.
Elizabeth exhaled. “More than anything. I have always longed to see the world. But Papa never cared for exertion or expense. He preferred his books and his fireside—and I understand. He has every right to be content. But I always hoped… perhaps one day.”
Darcy’s eyes flicked toward the window. The pale, wintry landscape passed by—bare trees, sheep huddled against hedgerows, snow-patched fields under an iron sky.
“You never know,” he said. “You may marry a man with the means to travel.”
“I care more about his character than his pocketbook,” she said, “and it would not matter if we remained in England our entire lives, so long as we are together.”
Darcy was quiet for a moment, watching the frost-glazed trees blur past the window. Then, almost casually, he said, “Perhaps his affairs will make it possible. For example, I have an estate in Scotland I try to visit every other year.”
He held his breath, waiting for her response.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth’s heart fluttered. Her breath caught, though she tried to cover it with a slight laugh. “Is that so?”
He turned toward her, a half-smile on his lips—but his eyes, they were intent. “It is remote, and often wet, but the mountains there are green and ancient. The lochs are still as glass, and the sky feels closer, somehow. I think… I think you would like it.”
Their eyes met and held.
Warmth bloomed in her chest, spreading outward until her fingertips tingled. It was not the promise itself, not even the place, but the way he said you. Like he was already picturing her there. Like he wanted her there.
She said nothing at first. She could not. The feeling swelled too large to be named. But then, softly, she replied, “I think I would, as well.”
And though nothing more was spoken, the quiet between them was rich with possibility.
Together felt like more than a word.
It felt like a future.
∞∞∞
They reached the posting inn near dusk, the light fading quickly beneath a sky heavy with clouds. It had not snowed that day, but the threat of it hung in the air, and Elizabeth was glad for the warmth of the fire as they stepped into the modest common room.
Their dinner was a simple affair—thick mutton stew with crusty bread, and a small pot of weak tea that tasted faintly of smoke. She did not mind. She was far too tired to be particular.
They spoke little over the meal, both weary from the road and, perhaps, from the undercurrent of anticipation that neither dared give voice to. Tomorrow they would reach Lambton. Tomorrow the strange, uncertain future would finally become the present.
Their room was no different than the others they had shared—narrow bed, drafty window, a worn hearth with a crack in the mantle.
But it was private, and it was theirs for the night.
Elizabeth changed into her nightdress while Darcy tended to the fire, then slipped beneath the blankets and turned to face the wall.
He joined her shortly after, careful as always to keep his body a respectful distance from hers, though she felt the dip of the mattress as he settled beside her, the faint shift of the bedclothes, the comforting sound of his breath just behind her ear.
For a while, there was only silence.
And then, softly, he said, “We will reach Lambton tomorrow.”
She blinked in the dark, her fingers curling around the edge of the blanket. “Oh?”
“I know,” he said, his voice low. “It feels as though we have lived a thousand lives since we left Kent. But the journey is nearly done.”
She turned slightly, just enough to glimpse his profile in the firelight. “Do you have a plan?”
He hesitated. “I do.”
She waited.
“I cannot simply arrive at Pemberley’s gates and announce myself. Not if they do not recognize me, and there is no evidence to suggest that they would. Such an arrival would invite chaos… suspicion. And if Georgiana has been harmed, it could place her in even more danger.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “So, what will we do?”
“Lambton is close—less than five miles from the estate. And the inn there is small, but decent. We will stay a day or two, ask careful questions. Most of the townsfolk have family at Pemberley: cousins, uncles, siblings. I hope we may learn something of the household’s state.”
“That is clever,” she said quietly.
He gave a faint, humorless chuckle. “I am desperate. But thank you.”
“What is our story?”
“That we are newly married,” he said, “and that I grew up in the area. I wished to show you my childhood home on our wedding journey. Pemberley has always welcomed visitors. It is not uncommon for tourists to request a walk through the gardens or a view of the house. If nothing else, I hope to gain entry that way.”
Elizabeth nodded, though her heart had begun to pound. They were so close now. And yet what lay ahead felt vast, unknowable, and heavy with consequence.
Darcy exhaled, long and quiet, and the bed shifted again as he turned to face the ceiling. She could sense his unease.
“Are you worried?” she asked.
He did not answer at first.
“Yes,” he admitted at last. “More than I care to say.”
She reached across the space between them, her hand finding his beneath the blankets. Their fingers twined without effort.
He did not speak again, and neither did she.
But they held each other’s hands until sleep claimed them both.