Chapter 28
Darcy stood in the corridor, the murmur of voices behind him growing faint as he moved toward the tall window at the end of the passage.
The morning light lay pale upon the floor, dust motes floating in the still air.
He could hear laughter—a soft, uncertain kind—from the breakfast room below.
Richard’s voice, calm and confident, and Georgiana’s gentler reply.
He should have felt nothing but gratitude. His cousin had stepped forward to take control of Georgiana’s future, offering her both protection and dignity. For the first time since that terrible Christmas night when the fae had unmade his existence, Darcy’s sister was safe. Truly safe.
Yet what filled him was not peace. It was emptiness.
For months he had thought of nothing but survival—of repairing the damage his reckless wish had wrought, of setting the world to rights again. Each day had been defined by a single purpose: to protect Elizabeth and to rescue Georgiana.
Now all of it was done.
And there was nothing left.
He stared out over the frost-streaked lawns, the familiar hills of Pemberley stretching in the distance. It had always been his world, his duty, his home—but not here. Not in this shadow of a life where the name Darcy carried no meaning, and where his sister no longer even knew him as her brother.
Elizabeth’s footsteps came softly behind him. “Are you well?” she asked.
He turned, forcing a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I am relieved,” he said quietly. “More than I can say. But—” His voice faltered. “Forgive me. I do not know what to do now.”
She frowned gently. “What do you mean?”
“Everything has been made right,” he said, each word heavy.
“Georgiana has her future secured. Richard will be an excellent husband, and she will be safe at Pemberley. But what is left for us, Elizabeth? We cannot go back to Longbourn—by now, your family must have discovered the deception. And we cannot remain here. I cannot endure living in my own home as a stranger. So what purpose remains to me?”
Her hand reached toward him, but stepped back out of reach.
“You should stay here. Georgiana could take care of you in a way that I cannot.”
“What?” He heard her gasp, but he could not meet her gaze.
“I am truly sorry, Elizabeth” he muttered. “You have lost your family because of me. It is my fault. All of it. My foolish wish—my arrogance—has destroyed more lives than it ever mended.”
“Fitzwilliam—”
He shook his head. “Please. I must go. If I stay another moment, I shall say something I regret.”
She did not stop him. Only watched, wordless, as he turned and descended the stairs.
Outside, the air was cold and sharp against his face. He walked without direction, his boots crunching over the frozen gravel of the path that led toward the river. The pale sun was low above the trees, the air so still that the smoke from the chimneys hung unmoving in the sky.
He felt hollow. Every purpose that had driven him these past months had dissolved with Wickham’s death and Georgiana’s safety. What remained was only the dull ache of failure.
Yes, they had succeeded in saving her—but at what cost?
Elizabeth had lost her family, and he had lost his.
Even if they stayed, what future could they claim?
Would they marry here, in this false world, and bring children into a life that was never meant to exist?
Could he condemn her to that—to living as the wife of a man who no longer existed in truth?
A bleak thought settled in his chest. Perhaps he should leave. Go to the Americas, or farther still. Leave Elizabeth here, where she could remain as Georgiana’s companion and friend. She would be safe, cared for, and perhaps one day she might find a kind of peace.
As for him—he was accustomed to solitude.
The river’s edge was quiet, the water dark and slow beneath a veil of mist. He stared into it until his reflection blurred and vanished, and the thought came unbidden: I have ruined everything again.
He drew a shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and let the cold wind strike his face.
It was as though he had become what the fae had made him—an absence, a hollow man in a hollow world.
And for the first time since that cursed night, he began to wonder if he was meant to stay lost forever.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth stood frozen in the corridor, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing in her ears. For a long moment she could not move. His words still hung between them, sharp and bewildering.
No purpose. Nothing left.
Her lips parted as if to call him back, but no sound came. Then, from somewhere below, a faint creak of hinges carried upward—the sound of the front door closing behind him.
She moved at once. Heart pounding, she crossed the corridor and slipped into a small drawing room whose tall windows overlooked the gardens. She pushed the curtain aside and pressed close to the glass.
There he was—striding across the frosted lawn, his greatcoat dark against the pale morning. He did not look back. The path he took led toward the woods beyond the east terrace, the very one they had walked together so many times before.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She stood there for a moment, watching him until the trees swallowed him from sight. At first all she felt was shock—cold, heavy, and incomprehensible. But as his last words replayed in her mind, something else began to stir.
Anger.
How dare he say there was no purpose left? What of her? Did she mean nothing now that Georgiana was safe? Did he think their time together—their long nights of fear and planning, their small victories, their companionship—counted for nothing?
Her pulse quickened, heat rising in her chest. He had spoken as if all his worth were measured by what he could mend, what he could control. As if being with her were not enough, not reason enough to live and fight.
She pressed her hand against the glass, her reflection shimmering faintly in the morning light. “You foolish man,” she whispered. “Do you not see what you have done? What we have done together?”
They had built something between them these past months—something fierce and unspoken, forged through hardship and shared purpose. Though neither had named it aloud, she had believed they understood one another.
But now he would simply walk away? Leave her behind with words of regret and ruin, as though all they had endured together were meaningless?
The anger grew, bright and burning. She turned from the window, her skirts brushing sharply against the chair by the wall. “No,” she said aloud, her voice shaking with indignation. “He does not get to do this.”
Without another thought, she gathered her shawl from the back of the settee and strode from the room. The air in the corridor was cold, but her resolve was hotter than any fire.
If he meant to lose himself again in those woods, she would find him there—and she would tell him exactly what she thought of his talk of purposelessness and ruin.
Whatever he believed, she was not about to let Fitzwilliam Darcy vanish from her life.
Not when they had finally found one another.
Elizabeth followed the path Darcy had taken through the garden and into the trees, her breath sharp in the cold afternoon air. The sun would be setting soon, and the shadows from the trees only served to increase the cold.
The woods were quiet save a few chattering squirrels and the faint rustle of bare branches above.
Ahead, through the trees, she caught sight of him—his tall figure standing along the bank of the stream.
Just as he had at Rosings, he was throwing pebbles into the creek with as much force as he could muster.
“Fitzwilliam!” she called, her voice ringing across the stillness.
He turned slightly, surprise flickering across his face before he looked away again. That small gesture—so resigned, so weary—only deepened her anger.
“How dare you!” she cried, striding toward him. “How dare you speak as if everything you have done means nothing! As if your life, your choices, are so meaningless that you can simply abandon them!”
He halted but did not turn. Elizabeth’s fury rose at his silence.
“You speak of having no purpose left. What of me? Have I no place in your world now? Do I not count for something? After all we have endured—after all that we have done together—you would cast it aside with one despairing speech and a walk into the woods?”
Her voice trembled, but she pressed on. “You have risked your life for your sister, for me, for us! You have set right what was broken and protected those you love. And now you would tell me it was all for nothing? You foolish, foolish man!”
He turned then, his expression tight with pain. “Elizabeth—”
“No,” she said fiercely, cutting him off. “You do not get to speak until I am finished.”
He fell silent, his jaw clenched.
“I believed,” she continued, her breath unsteady, “that we had an understanding. That we were a team—equals. I thought we had begun to trust one another. And now you talk as though I am nothing to you, as though all of this was a mistake to be undone!”
He flinched, and the anguish in his eyes nearly broke her, but her anger burned too brightly to stop.
At last, he spoke—low, bitter, almost a whisper. “You are right about one thing. It was a mistake. I wish none of this had happened. I wish I had never spoken those foolish words that morning in Kent. I wish I could take it all back.”
Elizabeth went utterly still. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she barely felt it.
“I do not,” she said.
His head snapped up. “What?”
“I do not regret it,” she repeated, her voice trembling but sure.
“How could I? This strange, broken world has given me something no other could have done. It has given me you. It has shown me the real Fitzwilliam Darcy—proud, yes, and impossible, but good and brave and kind. I have seen your heart.”