Chapter 16
The early light had only just begun to shine through the curtains when Elizabeth’s eyes opened the following morning, washing the dingy walls in a pale gray glow. She blinked slowly, the heaviness of sleep still clinging to her limbs.
The memory of the night before washed over her in quiet waves.
His anguish had come without warning, as sudden and fierce as a storm tearing through the branches. She had not known what to do, not at first. It had been dark. Quiet. And then, from beside her, the sharp sound of a breath caught. Another. A choked sob that he tried—and failed—to suppress.
He had turned from her, burying his face in the pillow, shoulders drawn taut with effort.
She had hesitated, not wishing to call attention to his tears and embarrass him, as she imagined would be the case with most of the opposite sex.
Not that I have slept beside many weeping men.
But she had sisters. She had seen the trembling of a mouth that wished to hide its hurt. The stiffness of a body fighting to keep control.
She had known, and she could not remain still.
Her first touch had been hesitant—just her hand, resting lightly on his back. He had flinched. For the briefest second, she nearly withdrew it, fearing she had only deepened his distress. His breath caught and then quickened as his grief intensified, his frame wracked with sobs.
So she had come closer. Slipped her arm around him, her cheek pressing softly to his shoulder, her fingers splayed over the ribs that still shook from the force of his grief.
And there, in the quiet dark, she had held him.
Prayed for him.
Willed, with every fiber of her being, that some of the ache in his chest might lift.
Now, in the stillness of morning, her own eyes stung with tears.
She had never imagined he could break so completely.
Always he was composed. Controlled. Sharp-witted and strong-jawed and, yes, occasionally overbearing—but never this.
Never undone.
Was it only exhaustion? she wondered. Not merely from the physical toll of five days in a carriage, but the emotional weight he bore.
The loss of Pemberley. The failure to protect his tenants. The uncertain fate of Georgiana.
She sighed softly, her gaze drifting over the worn ceiling above them.
She needed to rise. Her bladder was making its needs increasingly known. But she remained where she was, unwilling to disturb him.
Not when he needed rest so badly.
Instead, she closed her eyes again, listening to the soft rhythm of his snores, and let her thoughts drift into quiet prayer.
Dear God… please. Ease his burden. Give him peace, even for a little while. Let today bring clarity. Let it bring hope. Let us do what we came here to do.
Let him know he is not alone.
After some minutes, her body gave her no further grace. She bit her lip and exhaled, her need to rise growing too insistent to ignore.
Easing back slowly, one inch at a time, she did her best not to disturb the man sleeping beside her. She moved with the same care one might give a skittish colt—cautious, gentle, and without sudden motion.
But just as she slipped from beneath the coverlet, his breathing hitched.
He stirred. She stilled at once.
After a long, suspended moment, he merely turned his face slightly into the pillow, murmuring something incoherent, and settled again.
Blessed reprieve.
She hurried behind the folding screen where the chamber pot waited, then splashed her face from the pitcher with what little water remained.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she wiped her hands on the towel and caught sight of herself in the mirror.
Her reflection looked far older than the girl who had left Longbourn for Hunsford only a few weeks prior—worn not by time, but by emotion.
And yet... her eyes held something steadier now. Something resolute.
When she returned to the bedside, Darcy was awake.
He did not speak at first, only met her gaze with a quiet that was somehow more meaningful than words. There was no mention of the night before. No acknowledgement of his tears or her embrace.
But something had shifted.
She saw it in the way he looked at her—as though she were something solid. Safe. A lighthouse on a storm-beaten shore.
“Good morning,” he said softly, voice still rough with sleep.
“Good morning.”
The simplicity of the greeting, the civility of it, was somehow more intimate than anything they might have said.
He sat up slowly, stretching out the stiffness of a poor mattress and days of travel. She turned to busy herself at the basin again, allowing them both the small dignity of pretense.
Soon after, they shared a modest breakfast of toasted bread and weak tea in the inn’s small dining room. The innkeeper’s wife brought it with a tired smile and a murmured hope for finer weather.
It had snowed in the night—only a dusting, and already melting—but the morning remained grey and heavy. The kind of cold that settled deep in one’s bones.
Still, Darcy seemed better. Not cheerful, but upright. Ready.
“So,” Elizabeth said lightly, sipping her tea, “what do two vagabonds do on the morning after their arrival in a near-abandoned market town?”
He glanced at her over the rim of his cup. “I believe they walk five miles to a ruined estate on the off chance it remains open to tourists.”
She laughed, and the sound warmed her own heart.
“I suppose we could have simply asked someone in town,” she said, “but where would the romance be in that?”
“Indeed,” he said with dry amusement. “Not nearly as dramatic.”
He hesitated, then set his cup down.
“I do not wish to overburden you, Elizabeth. The walk is a long one. If you prefer to rest—”
She waved a hand. “Mr. Smith,” she said archly, “have you forgotten what an excellent walker I am? Even Miss Bingley was forced to admit my accomplishment, and as you well know, she was usually my severest critic.”
His smile came slowly—genuine, if still touched by fatigue. “Very well. But if you expire from exertion, I shall take no blame.”
“None at all,” she said. “I shall simply haunt you until your dying day.”
“Comforting.”
She tilted her head, her eyes twinkling. “As ghosts go, I daresay I would be more charming than most.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
They rose together then, gathering cloaks and gloves, preparing for the cold outside. Their footsteps echoed down the stairs and out into the street, past shuttered shops and empty windows.
The road to Pemberley lay ahead.
And though the path might yet end in heartbreak, Elizabeth could not help but feel a quiet thrum of anticipation in her chest.
Darcy was beside her.
They were walking together.
And that, at least, was something.
∞∞∞
They left Lambton just after breakfast, the air cold enough to nip at Darcy’s ears, though the sun made a valiant effort through the clouds. Elizabeth walked beside him, her cheeks pink with wind and exertion, her pace brisk despite the many miles ahead.
Darcy had not expected to feel nervous.
But as the road curved away from the village and into the countryside he knew so well, tension crept into his limbs. The road had more holes than he remembered, and the hedgerows more wild. Yet the shape of the land had not changed.
It still knew him, even if those who lived upon it did not.
“I imagine you traversed this road often?”
Elizabeth’s question broke through the silence. He nodded. “As a child, I used to visit Lambton with my parents—my father particularly valued the weekly visits. He believed in paying accounts promptly and ensuring the Pemberley estate supported the town's merchants.”
She hummed her approval. “Wise of him.”
Darcy allowed himself a small smile. “He thought it dishonorable to do otherwise. Lambton was thriving then. One of the larger market towns in the north, though still far smaller than Meryton, to be sure.”
“Is this Pemberley land already?” Elizabeth asked, craning her neck to look at the gentle hills.
“Nearly. The home woods begin just beyond that bend. The house sits within a natural bowl, surrounded on three sides by hills and trees.”
“I cannot wait to see it,” she said. “It sounds like something out of a novel.”
He smiled at that. “You will find no ruined towers or tragic abbeys. My mother insisted upon symmetry.”
“As any woman of sense would.”
Their pace slowed as the trees thickened and the land sloped more steeply. Here was the stone wall he had scaled as a boy to pick blackberries. There, a twisted oak he had once named Wellington for its sturdy limbs. The past tugged at him with every step.
“This is the home wood,” Darcy said softly. “We are close now.”
“Is it a large estate?” she asked.
Had it been anyone but Elizabeth, he would have refused to answer. Knowing her curiosity stemmed from genuine curiosity rather than mercenary ambition, he instead softly said, “Ten miles around.”
She whistled softly. “Many trails, then. That would satisfy even my unladylike fondness for walking.”
“In time, I could show you every one.”
He had not meant it as a promise, but once said, it lingered between them.
He cleared his throat. “My father used to walk the boundaries with me. Once each spring. He said a man should know what he owns. And who depends upon him.”
“How many families live here?”
The fact that she cared more for the people of Pemberley than its grandeur warmed his heart. “In total? here are nearly two hundred tenant farms under Pemberley’s care, some upwards of a hundred acres each.”
Her eyes widened. “Two hundred? That is—far more than I imagined.”
“Most are generational. Sons inherit from fathers. The families know every stone and stream on their plots. I grew up knowing their names, their crops, their worries. My father saw to it that I understood—truly understood—that we are not masters of the land. We are its stewards. Its servants.”
He glanced away, the memories too sharp for a moment.