Chapter 15 #2
“You forget,” she interrupted gently, “that while I am a gentleman’s daughter, I come from a much humbler estate than yours.
At Longbourn, we do not have so many servants that we can afford idleness.
I have often acted as my sisters’ maid, helping them dress or do their hair, and I have spent more than a few mornings in the kitchen when someone was ill and I wished for breakfast, or the fire had gone out in my room and I was too cold to wait for help. ”
She gave him a wry smile. “I assure you, the idea of labor does not offend me—especially if it means aiding someone in need. Besides, in this world, I am a married woman with no money and no connections. I cannot afford to be proud.”
He flinched. “Still, I cannot abide the thought of you—”
“It is not forever,” she said. “And it is not for just anyone. You care for your sister. And I care for you. That is all the reason I need.”
The words hit him like a blow to the chest. For a moment, he could not speak. He simply stared at her—this remarkable woman, who had once rejected him with righteous fury and now offered to toil in a stranger’s kitchen for the sake of a sister she had never met.
She looked away then, her cheeks coloring faintly. “Besides,” she added in a lighter tone, “if your fear is that I end up in the kitchens, you need not worry. I can make a respectable biscuit—and I promise I shall only poison Mr. Wickham.”
He stared at her in astonishment, uncertain whether to laugh or be alarmed. Fortunately, a soft knock at the door spared him from determining whether she was a talented cook—or a budding murderess.
“Remind me to never anger you,” he muttered as he crossed the room and opened the door.
He heard her giggle behind him as he looked down at a young girl of around ten years. “My father said that supper is ready. He wishes to know if you would like it to be brought up on a tray for a farthing.”
“We will come down directly,” Elizabeth said from behind him.
Below-stairs, they ate their meal in silence, side by side on a bench by the fire. The stew was hot, if plain, and the tea weak enough to see the bottom of the cup through it. But it filled the aching hollow in his stomach, and Elizabeth’s presence at his side helped ease the one in his heart.
As they returned upstairs, Darcy held the candle while Elizabeth undid her braid and changed behind the screen. He stared into the fire until she slipped beneath the covers.
Then he changed quickly and slid in beside her, careful not to disturb the blanket.
But he could not sleep.
Not tonight.
He lay on his side, facing the wall, and listened to the wind howling outside the shuttered window, but rest would not come. The smell of smoke from the hearth was faint, mixing with the scent of lavender from Elizabeth’s hair.
He had hoped—so foolishly hoped—that coming here would feel like a homecoming. That he would find something familiar, some piece of his former life preserved.
Instead, he found ruin, all because he had never been born.
And in his absence, everything had suffered.
His mind spun with fears and doubtsHe had no notion if all was truly lost—if his home, his sister, his very purpose in life had been swept away by one foolish, selfish wish.
Had he ruined the lives of hundreds by vanishing from their memories?
Were his tenants, his servants, the entire village of Lambton suffering because of his pride and thoughtless words?
But worst of all—had he lost Georgiana?
It was unbearable. Every image of her—her bright eyes, her timid smile, the way she clung to his hand when she was small—rose before him like ghosts.
He had failed her.
And the knowledge of that failure carved him open.
He shut his eyes against the pain, but it surged up behind his ribs. Would he ever see her again? Would she know him? Or had he consigned her to misery, abandoned in a cold world without protection, without affection?
The weight of it pressed on his chest, relentless and suffocating.
Guilt churned in his stomach until he could scarcely breathe, and the pain gathered behind his eyes like a storm.
He fought against it, swallowing hard, willing the tears away—but it was no use.
Like a dam that had cracked beyond repair, the sorrow surged forward.
He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to stop the tears he felt gathering.
He would not cry. He was a man—he had always controlled himself, always borne pain in silence.
He had grieved for his parents behind closed doors.
He had buried his doubts about Georgiana’s care for years.
He had held back every sign of weakness since he was twenty-one and the weight of Pemberley fell on his shoulders.
But now... now, the burden was too great. The cracks splintered, and the storm broke loose.
His throat tightened, and his chest began to shake. He pressed a fist to his mouth, but a single sob escaped before he could stifle it. Another followed, raw and unbidden. He turned his face deeper into the pillow, desperate to muffle the sound, but it was no use.
Then, he felt it —a touch. Gentle. Steady.
Elizabeth’s hand, resting on his shoulder.
He froze.
A thousand instincts screamed at him to turn away, to bury his shame, to apologize for his weakness. But he could not speak. Her fingers remained—firm, warm, unafraid.
And that was what undid him.
Her tenderness.
Her presence.
The fact that she did not recoil, but leaned into his pain.
Tears slid hot and fast down his cheeks. His shoulders trembled. His chest ached with the force of it, as if his body could no longer contain the despair.
He wept.
He wept like a child lost in the dark.
And still the tears came.
He wept for Georgiana—raised by the cold earl and his equally frigid wife, stripped of music and laughter and sunshine, her spirit dimmed by duty and disdain.
He wept for his tenants, their livelihoods in shambles, the shops shuttered, the homes falling to ruin—for the men who had once tipped their hats with pride, and the women who had smiled from garden gates.
He wept for the steward’s son, for the young man with the crooked, carefree grin who had turned into a monster, drunk and cruel and unchecked.
He wept for the butler who had once carried him on his shoulders, for the maid who would sneak him sugared plums, for the horse groom who taught him how to ride.
He wept for Lambton, for Pemberley, for everything his ancestors had built.
He wept for his father—who had died without a son. Who had died never knowing he had one. Who had once believed in honor and duty, and whose legacy was now nothing more than shuttered windows and unpaid debts.
He wept for the man he had been. For the pride that blinded him. For the bitter wish that had brought all this to pass.
He wept for Elizabeth, for the world she had lost, for the burden she now carried beside him with such grace.
And somewhere, buried deep beneath it all, he wept for the fear that none of it could ever be put right.
That even if they reached the house, even if they found Georgiana…
It might already be too late.
Time became meaningless. The ache in his chest surged and surged, hollowing him out.
Slowly, silently, Elizabeth drew close and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in the space between his shoulders, holding him with such quiet strength that it stole his breath.
The weight of his guilt did not vanish—but it lightened, eased by the steady cadence of her breathing at his back.
The jagged ache in his chest dulled where her cheek pressed into his back.
Her nearness did not fix what had been broken—but it reminded him that all was not lost. That he was not lost.
She was there. With him. Still.
In spite of his weakness.
The rhythm of her breathing and the safety of her arms began to still the storm inside.
Her palm stayed firm over his heart, a silent promise that she would not let go.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in what felt like days—perhaps longer—his mind did not race with worries and concerns.
Instead, the images of Lambton faded. The hollow eyes of shopkeepers, the shuttered doors, the ruined fields… they receded like a nightmare before the morning light.
And in their place was only her—soft, steady, warm.
As he lay there, basking in the warmth of her body against his, sleep crept in at the edges of his thoughts, slow and heavy.
His limbs, tense for so long, began to uncoil.
The last thing he knew was the hush of her breath on his neck, and the memory of her voice saying, “I am here. All will be well.”