Chapter Twenty-Five #3
She kept her gaze lowered, her fingers brushing lightly over the shell in an effort to steady herself.
The memory of the garden lingered with vivid clarity—the feel of his grasp, the restrained intensity of his voice, the truth at last spoken between them.
It felt like she had stepped from one world into another and been returned too quickly to the former, expected to carry on while pretending nothing had changed.
She could still feel the warmth of his hand at her wrist—constant, deliberate. She had not mistaken nor imagined it.
How am I to sit here and speak of ordinary things, when everything has altered? That was the truth. And she could not say it. She reached for her teacup and found it untouched, the surface gone cold.
“Lizzy.” Jane’s voice, gentle but unmistakably curious, drew her from her thoughts.
Elizabeth looked up.
Jane was watching her with a look that combined affection with a growing, unmistakable interest. There was no censure in it, no sharpness, but neither was there any lack of perception.
“You were gone a very considerable time,” Jane smiled coyly.
Elizabeth attempted a composed smile. “The gardens are diverting.”
“And now,” Jane returned lightly, “I cannot recall their being quite so absorbing as to detain you both for so long.”
Warmth rose to her cheeks. “We walked longer than I expected,” she said. “And the morning was very agreeable.” It was a hollow excuse. Even as she spoke it, she knew Jane would not believe her.
Jane’s smile deepened, though she did not immediately reply. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her gaze still fixed upon Elizabeth with unshaken persistence. “And what do you think of our neighbor now?” she asked.
Elizabeth’s composure wavered for the briefest instant.
“The Count of Vendicarsi,” Jane pressed, as though clarifying the question for one who might have misunderstood it. “He appears most attentive.”
Elizabeth clasped her hands together in her lap. “He is…very polite.”
“Only polite?” Jane’s brows lifted, though her tone remained gentle. There was no accusation in the question, but it pressed gently all the same.
Elizabeth hesitated. “It is too soon to say what his intentions may be,” she said at last, choosing her words with care. She kept her gaze constant, though she felt anything but composed.
Jane tilted her head, her expression mild but thoughtful. “Too soon, perhaps, for certainty. But not, I think, too soon for impression.”
Elizabeth did not answer.
Jane watched her for another moment, then reached across and lightly touched her hand. “I knew,” she said, “that your heart was not lost forever.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She looked up, meeting Jane’s gaze fully for the first time since returning from the garden. There was no teasing in her sister’s expression now, only a calm, certain kindness that saw more than Elizabeth had intended to reveal.
“I never believed,” Jane continued, “that you would remain unchanged, however determined you appeared. Time does not extinguish such feelings entirely. It only waits.”
Elizabeth felt her composure shift once more, not toward disarray, but toward more openness and vulnerability than she had allowed herself in years.
She sees too much. But how can I deny it now? “I do not know what may come of it,” she said.
Jane smiled. “No. Nor can you. But I am very glad that something has come at all.”
Elizabeth returned the smile, though her thoughts were far from settled. Before she could speak further, the door opened.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth turned at once. Richard entered with his usual easy confidence, though there was a sharpness beneath it today, a keen awareness that did not escape her notice.
His gaze moved quickly from Jane to Elizabeth, and something like satisfaction flickered there before it was masked by his customary warmth.
“Jane,” he said, crossing the room and bending to kiss her cheek. “You are well, I trust.”
“Very well,” she replied, smiling. “And you?”
“Better now that I see you, dear sister.”
He straightened, then turned toward Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet.”
She rose in acknowledgment, her composure returning in part, though her heart beat more quickly at the knowledge of what must follow.
Before either could speak further, the housekeeper appeared at the door. “Lady Bramley,” she said, “if you would be so good as to come with me. There is a matter in the nursery that requires your attention.”
Jane rose at once. “Of course.” She glanced between them, her expression thoughtful but untroubled. “You will excuse me.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “Certainly.”
Jane departed, leaving them alone.
The moment the door closed, Richard turned fully toward Elizabeth.
“Well?” he said.
Elizabeth did not hesitate. “The Count has been here,” she said.
His brows lifted. “Indeed?”
“He has just left.”
Richard’s expression sharpened. “And?”
Elizabeth drew a breath, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. “He told me everything.” The words came in a whisper. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as she spoke them, the memory of the garden pressing close once more.
Richard’s face broke into a broad, unmistakably pleased grin. “Did he?” he said.
Elizabeth could not help but return the smallest of smiles. “He did.”
Richard let out a breath that might almost have been a laugh. “I had thought as much. The man could not maintain a disguise where you were concerned. His feelings were written on his face when I confronted him.”
Elizabeth looked down briefly, her fingers once again finding the shell at her throat. He tried. He truly did. But how could he think I would not know him?
“I am very happy for you,” Richard said, his tone sincere.
She looked up at him, her expression warm, though touched still with the impact of all that had been revealed. “And I for you,” she replied gently. “You have been a constant friend to him, even when he could not claim you.” Even when we thought he was gone forever.
Richard's countenance altered, a subtle indication of underlying emotion crossing his features. “He did not lose me,” he said. “He merely replaced me for a time. His ‘brother,’ Lucien makes an adequate substitute.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. They fell silent, the initial warmth of the exchange giving way to a more serious consideration.
“It is not resolved,” Elizabeth said.
“No,” Richard agreed.
“He told me what he intends,” she related. “Or rather, what he has already set in motion.”
Richard nodded. “Then you know as much as I do.”
Elizabeth studied him. “You called upon him yesterday.”
“I did.”
“And?”
Richard exhaled slowly, his earlier ease giving way to more restraint. “He has agreed, in part, to stand aside.”
Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “In part?”
“Hargrave and Langford,” Richard said. “He will not interfere further in their downfall. The Home Office has finally gathered what it needs. Thanks to our friend’s investigation, their activities are well documented, their alliances exposed. It is only a matter of time before they are apprehended.”
Elizabeth felt a sense of relief stir within her.
“Then it will be done,” she said. Until that moment, she had not fully understood how much she feared the effect these events might have upon him.
He had suffered too greatly, and with too much cause, not to be tempted by bitterness.
Even now, when justice lay within his reach, he had chosen restraint over retaliation.
The decision confirmed what she had always believed: that whatever had been done to him, the essential goodness of his character remained untouched.
“Yes.”
She hesitated. “Then all that remains is—”
“Wickham,” Richard finished.
The name settled heavily between them. Elizabeth’s expression grew thoughtful. “He spoke of him.”
“And what did he say?”
“That he does not know what to do,” she replied. “Part of him would punish his old friend. The other—” She paused. “The other remembers what they once were to one another.”
Richard’s mouth tightened. “Yes. That is the difficulty.”
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, her gaze lowering.
Wickham… She recalled the man she had seen at Darcy House, the unevenness of his manner, the strain that lay beneath his careless speech. He is not untouched by what he has done. That much is plain. “He is not beyond remorse,” she said slowly.
Richard looked at her. “Perhaps not.”
“And if he is not—”
“Darcy may not care,” Richard said bluntly.
Elizabeth met his gaze. “He must care. He said as much himself.”
Richard was silent for an instant before he spoke. “I am not certain I can prevent him from acting.” He shrugged. The words were spoken without drama, but they carried a gravity that Elizabeth felt at once.
“He was wronged,” Richard acknowledged, “in a manner few men could endure. He has held to that for years. The hope of justice has sustained him. To ask him now to relinquish it entirely—” He shook his head. “It may be more than he can do.”
Elizabeth felt a tightening in her chest. No…he said he would not lose himself. He said he is tethered—
“He will not lose himself,” she said, more firmly than she felt.
Richard regarded her steadily. “I hope you are right.”
She rose then, unable to remain seated beneath the pressure of the conversation. She moved toward the window, her gaze drifting outward though she did not truly see what lay beyond.
“I will speak to him,” she said.
Richard stood as well. “You may succeed where I cannot.”
Elizabeth turned back toward him, her expression resolute despite the uncertainty that lingered beneath it. “I must,” she said. I have him back. I will not lose him again—not to vengeance, not to grief, not to the past.
Richard inclined his head. “Then we shall hope that mercy prevails.”
Elizabeth drew a breath, fortifying herself. “Yes,” she said. “We shall.”