27

Fitzwilliam Darcy knew naught but torment and exhaustion. From the night he departed Kent in April, his life was no longer his own. For twelve weeks he poured everything he had into his mother, his sister, his four-year-old niece, and his home. His every moment, every thought was for them. Though he had never been raised to be the heir of an estate five times the size of Rosings, he had certainly been taught to put family and duty above all. But had not been taught how to keep from hating himself all the while.

The disarray of estate affairs at Pemberley was not his fault. His father had struggled with these matters after the death of his steward and the decline of his health. Marcus had helped, but he had never possessed a mind for such things, nor the inclination to rise to the challenges of being the heir. And he had hardly helped by bringing another estate into their holdings when he had married Anne de Bourgh. But Darcy blamed himself nonetheless, for he felt himself drowning in all that he had to learn to become the master Pemberley required.

It would have been a massive undertaking even if he had no other concerns to claim his attention, and he certainly did. Georgiana had been wretched since learning that George Wickham had preyed upon her trust and vulnerability, and after the scoundrel was hanged for murdering their brother, a chilling silence had fallen over her and never dispelled.

Lady Anne had not even begun to recover from losing a beloved husband before burying her firstborn. She, too, was but a ghost of her former self, and Darcy knew not how to bring her back to him. His sister needed their mother, and his mother needed his sister’s gentle sunshine, but each was too withdrawn to be of any comfort to the other. Darcy was all that they had, and he knew he was not enough. The worst of it was, he also needed comfort but had nobody at all.

About a month after his departure from Kent, he wrote to Elizabeth. He debated whether or not he ought to be truthful with her, and share the full extent of his soul-searing despair. In the end he elected not to cause her any worry on his behalf. Just writing to her, imagining her smile and the twinkle of her eyes as she read his words of love and promises of a brighter future – this alone was a balm to his spirits.

The letter must have gone astray, for he could imagine no other reason for her to ignore it. After weeks of waiting for a response that never came, he wrote again. This time he told her more of his woes, desperate for the succour that her indomitable spirit could effortlessly provide him. He poured his every thought, every fear, every frustration into page after page. And through it all he smiled sadly at the images where his own tears fell and blurred the ink, knowing how she would touch those places with her perfect pale fingertips, sending a piece of heart out to him across the distance that separated them.

He could not fathom how two letters could go astray. He might have suspected the servants at the parsonage of some foul play, but he had personally aided Collins in hiring them; none of them were Lady Catherine’s creatures. Which left him facing the unthinkable possibility that Elizabeth Bennet no longer cared for him.

Darcy wrote a third letter at the end of July, throwing himself on her mercy. He had felt himself honour bound to her, and she to him. They had made each other promises, and he had believed in them. He had thought of the feel of her lips on his during a thousand difficult moments that threatened to break his will. He had lain awake in bed remembering every detail of her face, hoping it would follow him into his dreams, and often woke up reaching for her. He had wept over this woman, and cursed himself for not marrying her the night of their parting, for not begging his friend to perform the office that would bind him to his love right then and there. And he had repudiated himself for the selfish desire to tie her to his current woes merely for the blessing of her comfort.

And then Richard had written to him of Elizabeth’s own anguish, and Darcy had not understood. If she had given him up, if she no longer loved him, how could she be unhappy? He resolved that he must have answers, as much as he wished to see her again. Even if she scorned him, even if she despised him for abandoning her, he would at least have the peace of knowing – and the painful pleasure of seeing her one final time.

The morning that Darcy planned to depart for Kent in all haste, Georgiana attempted to end her suffering the only way she knew how, by taking her own life. She failed, and he thanked God for it, but she had consumed such an inordinate amount of the sleeping draught as to weaken her health considerably.

Lady Anne was finally roused from her sullen stupor, and she and Darcy spent weeks nursing Georgiana back to health. Her spirits remained dejected, but she was no longer a danger to herself.

And fool that he was, Darcy told her everything. He told her how desperately he loved Elizabeth Bennet, and how that love was eating him alive. Not knowing if she still loved him back made him wish for the same easy escape as she had sought, and it was this understanding that moved his sister to let go of her anger and despondency. Instead, she became fascinated with his troubles; all these months he had feared letting a moment of his own misery show, and all in the end it was this weakness that brought his sister back to the land of the living.

When more letters from Richard arrived, it was settled upon at once. Darcy would travel with his mother, sister, and niece, and the plan seemed to breathe new life into them all. Lady Anne adored Elizabeth, and the desire to bring the vibrant young woman into their family lit her from within, after some many months of being a living shadow. She shared this sentiment with Georgiana, giving the girl a renewed hope that romance could exist in this world, and that she might have a sister and friend ere long.

They arrived at Rosings Park mere hours after Elizabeth’s departure. Darcy wanted to roar at the heavens for playing such a cruel trick. He would have saddled his horse and ridden to Brighton at once, but for his aunt. She fancied herself deathly ill, though Richard encouraged Darcy’s doubts on the matter. It was surely some ruse to keep him from Elizabeth, and to bend him to her will, for still she lamented that he had not wed Lady Amelia.

But Lady Catherine’s illness was not of her own invention, nor had she exaggerated its severity. Darcy’s own physician confirmed that the dowager had perhaps another three months. It was merely circumstances that conspired against him on the occasion, for he was detained for a fortnight at Rosings, assisting Richard with business and doing his duty in attending his aunt.

He arrived in Brighton on the twentieth of September, after riding the last five miles in torrential rain. He was wet through when he reached the inn on North Street, and when he reached into his coat pocket to look at the scrap of paper where Collins had written the Gardiners’ direction, the ink was all but washed from the paper. Still, nothing short of taking his death from the chill of his journey to Brighton would stop him from finding Elizabeth.

He recalled Miss Lydia’s fondness for the regiment, and sought out Captain Forster. The man wished to help more than he was able to; he had only Lydia’s address, the home of Caroline Darcy. He could not bring himself to speak to the woman, and would not have trusted her to assist him at any rate. Darcy was obliged to send an express to Hunsford, and another three days passed before he received an answer from his friend. Finally in possession of the address where he might find Elizabeth, he was instead told that the family had left the place two days before, and the lodgings had been let to a new family who knew nothing of the Gardiners’ whereabouts.

He resolved to scour London for them if he must, for his efforts had culminated in an obsession that demanded satisfaction. To town he went, and was even prepared to throw himself on Bingley’s mercy, but his friend was not in London. He finally resorted to simply wandering Cheapside, asking any half-respectable stranger he encountered where he might find the Gardiners, and on the first of October, Darcy finally found himself ascending the steps of 257 Gracechurch Street.

Fool that he was, he allowed himself to believe that this was the moment all would be put right in the world. She had to be here, for Collins had told him that Elizabeth had resolved never to return to Longbourn, and he could not imagine that she would ever go within twenty miles of Cameron Court in Yorkshire.

But he was met with more disappointment and confusion, for the family was not at home, and the maid refused to divulge anything further. Darcy was left grasping at straws, until he recollected that Olly had taken a post in London at the Office of the Admiralty. He went to his old friend’s lodgings, and here at least he was met with more forthcoming servants. Olly had departed London three days prior. Of course he had, for fate despised Fitzwilliam Darcy.

But William Collins was his faithful friend, and finally sent word that Olly Lucas had brought Lydia Bennet to Hunsford, and would return directly to Hertfordshire, for the Bennets were in crisis.

But so too were the Fitzwilliams, for Lady Catherine de Bourgh had left her sickbed at the dower house and travelled to London to make her dying wishes known. Another week was wasted in heated arguments amongst his relations, the most explosive fracas resulting in Lady Catherine publishing a notice of his engagement to Lady Amelia in the papers. She had known of his pursuit of Elizabeth, somehow even knew of the letters he had written, and how he had pursued Elizabeth to Brighton. She had even been aware of Georgiana’s dalliance with Wickham, which he had taken great care to conceal in the aftermath of that fateful duel.

“I know it all,” she had shrieked at him, when Darcy took the dowager to task for her presumption. Darcy had bellowed as he never had before, until his aunt had perished from the power of her own self-righteous outage.

Richard brought the ladies from Rosings to London, along with a letter from William Collins. Thomas Bennet had died. And if Darcy was not downcast already at the guilt of feeling himself to blame for his aunt’s apoplexy, he was devasted by the contents of his friend’s communication. Elizabeth was engaged to be married – to Oliver Lucas.

He was obliged to return to Kent to assist Richard with the arrangements for his aunt’s funeral, and pursued thither by all his relations, and most assiduously by the earl and Lady Amelia, who continued to insist that Darcy honour his aunt’s final request.

But all he could think of was Elizabeth. How had she come to be engaged to his dearest friend? Could it have been a reaction to seeing news of his own supposed engagement? But he had printed a retraction, albeit belatedly – if she had seen one, she must have seen the other. He looked over the paper that contained his announcement, stating the error in reporting the alleged alliance between himself and his cousin. And just below it, there was another item that caught his eye. John Drake, Olly’s beloved, had married a Scottish heiress, and their elaborate wedding was described at length.

Olly’s betrayal was the final straw for Darcy. For six weeks he had pursued Elizabeth Bennet about the country, only for his most trusted friend to win her hand as some sort of consolation prize. Olly had lost his own love, and had stolen Darcy’s. The exhaustion, the desperation, and a year of grief and longing washed over him so intensely that he was ill for a week, unable to leave his bed. It took another week beyond that to convince his mother that he would not be the next death to devastate her.

It was the first of November by the time estate business and family matters had been resolved in Kent. Darcy had anguished over whether or not he ought to seek Elizabeth out at Longbourn when his family travelled back to Pemberley. He had not fully recovered his health, and had nearly resolved against it, until he called at the parsonage to bid his friend farewell.

Darcy had seen little of William Collins in the weeks he had been back at Rosings, for Mrs. Collins’ delivery of a healthy baby boy had been a difficult ordeal; the grief of losing her father had brought the labor on early, and Collins despaired over his wife’s recovery.

She was not well enough to travel to Longbourn yet, and she remained sequestered upstairs with Miss Lydia during Darcy’s visit. Collins was as serious as Darcy had ever seen him, and though he knew none of the particulars of Elizabeth’s engagement, he knew the wedding was to be held soon, a small affair while the family was in mourning.

Darcy felt himself the greatest coxcomb in England. He might have done the same, might have been wed while still in mourning. Damn and blast, why had he not just married her? Where he feared the wedding might have offended his bereaved mother, the addition of Elizabeth to their family would more likely have brought joy into a house that desperately needed it. He was the profoundest of failures.

And then William Collins utterly shattered Fitzwilliam Darcy. He cleared his throat nervously, and began to explain that when he first heard of Thomas Bennet’s illness, he chose to conceal the severity of the situation from his wife, fearing the distress it would cause her in such a delicate condition. He had spoken of it to nobody, not even Lady Catherine. It was their maid who had let something slip in Mrs. Collins’s hearing, causing a fit of nerves that brought the babe a fortnight early.

It was not until weeks later that Collins considered the matter, and realised the maid must have read his letter. “I confronted her about the matters, and she confessed that Lady Catherine had purchased her services back in April. She told her ladyship at the time that you had written a letter to Miss Elizabeth, and that in it you expressed the intention of deceiving your aunt and cousin, allowing them to believe Elizabeth was betrothed to Captain Lucas.”

Darcy recollected the letter, and how Elizabeth feared that the rumours of such a betrothal might complicate matters in Meryton. Good God, had that been why she was to marry Olly? Had she been forced to protect her family’s reputation? And it was all because he had capitulated to Jane’s plea that he conceal her duplicity.

“There is more,” Collins prompted him, drawing Darcy from his reproachful reverie. “In an effort to preserve her employment, the maid confessed to having concealed the receipt of three letters that you wrote to Elizabeth after leaving Kent in April. She admitted that she had given them over to her ladyship – and here I must beg you will forgive me, but after Lady Catherine departed for London, I embarked upon some intrigue of my own, and was able to retrieve them.”

“Forgive you? I could kiss you!” Darcy grinned.

“Sir, you shall make me blush,” Collins said in a high-pitched voice, attempting levity which warmed Darcy’s aching heart. Here was his truest friend, offering him salvation; Collins presented him with a small wooden box set with pearl and silver filigree, containing the three pilfered letters. The seals were broken, and Darcy’s blood boiled with rage. Still, he embraced his friend and thanked him profusely.

Darcy had never known such a sense of urgency as the journey to Hertfordshire. They were obliged to stop in London, but on the second day he rode ahead of the ladies’ carriage. He was besieged by memories as he hastened toward Meryton, the golden trees adorning the rolling hills of the countryside just as they had done a year ago, when he had ridden in his curricle with Elizabeth.

He had just crested one of these hills, with the village in sight before him, when the sound of church bells rang out, and he thought it an odd thing to occur on a Thursday morning. And then he saw the church. A small crowd was assembled in front of the old stone building, and Darcy reigned his mount in, stopping when he could see the scene clearly.

He knew Elizabeth the moment he spotted her walking arm in arm with Olly, and understood with horror that he was witnessing the conclusion of her wedding. The couple was approaching a flower-bedecked carriage, but stopped amidst the throng of onlookers. Elizabeth’s hair had come loose, and Olly was pinning it back into place, his body pressed up against his bride’s. Elizabeth looked up at Olly, and even from a distance Darcy recognized that expression of glowing adoration that she bestowed upon him. Elizabeth’s hands came up, and she wrapped her arms around Olly as he fussed over her, and then – Darcy’s stomach lurched – the couple shared a passionate kiss, eliciting a chorus of joyful cheers.

It was the most horrific moment of his life, and he had seen three family members perish before his eyes in the last year. But all his grief paled in comparison to the soul-rending agony of watching Elizabeth kiss her husband. Her husband. Darcy could barely dismount his horse before he cast up his accounts, weeping as he wretched. He had been an hour too late. Not days, this time – minutes, perhaps. And now the woman he loved was forever lost to him, and bestowing his affections upon a man he had once trusted with his life.

He got back on his horse, and hastened to intercept the Darcy carriage, which was making its way toward Longbourn. He was not too late in this, at least, sparing him the shame of having it known that he had been in Meryton on this cursed day. And as he and his family made their way onward to Pemberley, he was obliged to confess all to his mother and sister.

It was a relief, however fleeting, to unburden himself, and they welcomed the distraction from their grief over so many deaths in a year’s time. But as much as they commiserated with his desolation, their words of comfort soon lost all meaning to him. He was beyond comfort, beyond any words that could convey the depth of his despair, and beyond any hope for the future.

When they returned to Pemberley, Darcy asked for several days of privacy as he mourned this newest loss. When he could finally bear to look upon it, he unpacked the little box Collins had given him, containing the letters Elizabeth had never received. He read them all, reliving every sentiment that he had written to her of, and lamented that she had never known of his enduring love and insurmountable wretchedness. And then he placed the box in the same drawer where he still kept the red scarf she had left at Netherfield. He held the scarf to his face, desperate for the lingering smell of her, and then Darcy wept as he never had before in all his life.