13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

E lizabeth's breath trembled as she sat on the cold ground, knees tucked beneath her chin. Her cheeks were raw, her eyes swollen from the torrent of weeping she had unleashed—grief and fury, all tangled in knots so tight she could scarcely unravel them. The whole world had twisted around her, suffocating her beneath the weight of betrayal. Not only Darcy's cruel words but the realisation of Harry's duplicity ravaged her mind, leaving her hollow.

How could Harry have done that to some girl? And then laughed and charmed her just as if he were the finest gentleman ever to kiss a lady's hand?

She exhaled slowly, wiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hand, and at last, something tugged her from her despair—the biting chill of the evening air. She glanced up. The world had darkened without her noticing. It must be growing late, and the maze, with its towering hedges, now loomed around her like a shadowy cage. For a moment, panic flared. She could no longer see any sign of the house lights. Just the rising moon, casting its pale glow over the maze.

A huff of a laugh escaped her, bitter and faint. "Well done, Elizabeth," she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling as she rubbed her arms, trying to stave off the cold. "Lost and stranded in the middle of a garden maze. Brilliant idea."

Her thin gown was no match for the evening air, and without her pelisse or cloak, the chill was starting to seep into her bones. She had dashed out here in a blind rage, seeking refuge from the pain coursing through her, and now it seemed she was paying for that impulsiveness. It was as if the world itself was mocking her foolishness.

For a moment, she stayed there, eyes closed, trying to summon the energy to stand. There was no one to blame but herself, was there? She was entirely alone, no one to come searching for her—no one who would care, truly. She had brought this on herself, after all.

But she was not about to freeze to death out of sheer stubbornness. Huffing again, she pushed herself up to her feet, though the world swayed slightly with exhaustion and emotion. She had to get back, find the house somehow, even if she dreaded every step back towards it. The maze was vast and unfamiliar—she hadn't even explored it yet, had hardly walked Pemberley's grounds at all, and now she had the distinct feeling she had taken more than a few wrong turns.

She glanced up at the moon, casting its pale light across the garden. There were no stars visible beyond the clouds, but at least the fixed position of the moon gave her some sense of where north might be. But she had no idea where the house lay in relation to that. Would she even find her way back?

Why bother?

The thought crept in before she could stop it. The sharpness of it sent a dull ache through her chest. What was the point in struggling back to a house that could never be a home? Where she was unwelcome—reviled, even. The chill in her heart ran deeper than the night's cold.

Her husband didn't want her. She was bound to him, yes, but only because of some mistaken sense of duty. And her family? They had all but cast her out, their letters distant, concerned only with the potential for further disgrace. Who did she have now? Where could she find refuge?

Elizabeth's legs began to tremble, not from the cold but from the weight of all that she had lost. She hadn't even realised she had stopped moving until she was huddled against the base of one of the hedge walls, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees.

The path forward—back to the house, to her marriage, to her family—felt utterly bleak. She rested her head on her knees and let her eyes flutter closed. And curse it all, those blasted hedges were dense enough to block her view of the house, but not enough to keep out the evening wind. A change of weather, no doubt—an icy breeze was dipping through the branches and biting at her skin as it picked up.

What was the use? Who would care if she never found her way out?

"Just let me be lost," she whispered. She curled up tighter against the base of the hedge, hoping its thick branches would at least shield her from some of the wind—enough to find some rest.

It was so tempting to give in to the darkness around her, to let it consume her. After all, wasn't it easier than continuing to fight a battle she had already lost?

H ow could I have been so stupid?

The question circled endlessly through Darcy's mind, refusing to be silenced. His thoughts ran like a vicious current, too powerful to escape. He had been so certain, so sure he understood every facet of the situation. Yet, here he was, undone by his own misjudgment.

Had his grief for Harry clouded his reason? Had it driven him to act too hastily? The unsettling truth was staring him in the face—he had rushed ahead, abandoning the careful judgment that had always been his safeguard.

He brooded in the dim light, the shadows of the room stretching long and cold around him. His glass of brandy sat untouched beside him. He couldn't bring himself to drink it. The taste of his own failure was enough.

But all the signs were there! Bingley sent him on that wild goose chase, pleading with him to address that… chit… in person. Mr Gardiner had fairly puddled to the floor in relief when Darcy had tendered his offer. Now, what other cause could there be?

But Elizabeth herself had provided the strongest clues. Her desperate grief when he told her about Harry—how much of that had been genuine sorrow for his brother and how much sheer panic that her golden goose was gone? But that did not even matter. It should have, but it did not. What mattered was the material fact he had supposed.

She hardly ate on the journey. She had an odd, greenish cast to her skin. The loosely fitted clothing he kept seeing her in—granted, her travel gown seemed to fit well enough, but Darcy had known women in their sixth month who could conceal it all beneath the bulky folds of a heavy travelling cloak.

But the sickness when she had reached Pemberley… That, he could not so easily explain away.

Travel fatigue, she had said. The disturbance of all that motion and unravelling equilibrium. Gad's teeth, but who simply toppled over and vomited after they had already got out of the carriage? No one but a pregnant woman.

Or someone caught in a lie, perhaps. Was that it?

But no… Darcy had been wracking his memory all evening. Had she ever explicitly said… even implied…? He curled his fist by his hand, biting into his knuckles as if the pain could help him recall.

"You know?"

That was all she had said in reference to her situation. No leading statements, no overt hints. Just an acknowledgement that there was something shocking to be covered up. If it was not a pregnancy, what was it?

Whatever it was, he had not found it out. And that left him with one inescapable conclusion: no one was at fault for his own misery but him. Much as he longed to place the blame squarely on Elizabeth, on Bingley, on Mr Gardiner and even Harry, it was his own rashness, his failure to gather all the facts before diving into this ill-fated marriage, that had landed him here.

Why had he been so eager to believe that fantasy? Because it gave him some means of action? Since he could not save Harry, he had to try to save something , even if that thing were merely a figment of imagination and coincidence? What a fool he was!

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Darcy clenched his jaw, unwilling to entertain any company, least of all Richard. He ignored the knock, hoping his cousin would take the hint and leave him in peace.

But the knock came again, more insistent this time. Darcy remained silent, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

The door creaked open, and Richard's voice broke the stillness. "Darcy?"

Darcy did not answer, his eyes fixed on the window, his back to the door. The soft shuffle of boots across the floor told him that Richard was not planning to leave.

Richard came fully into the room, first pacing toward the bed and then coming back around until he stood before Darcy's chair in the darkness. "There you are. What the devil are you doing?"

Without looking up, Darcy muttered, "Trying to drink the cellar dry. And I need no assistance."

Richard snorted. "Well, that will have to wait," he said, tossing Darcy's coat toward him.

The coat landed in Darcy's lap, but he made no move to put it on. "Why?" he asked tersely, feeling little inclination to entertain whatever Richard wanted.

"Because Mrs Darcy is not in the house."

Darcy's head snapped up, the words jolting him to his feet. "What do you mean, she is not in the house?"

Richard's expression darkened as he glanced towards the window. "The housekeeper cannot find her. Her maid has no idea where she has gone. She has been missing for some time now, and it's starting to look like rain."

Darcy shot up from his chair, his limbs suddenly tingling with urgency. Elizabeth, out there, alone? The grounds were vast, and she had no real understanding of them. She could be lost, hurt—anything could have happened to her. His anger dropped to a dull simmer, tamped down by a surge of worry so intense it left him breathless.

He grabbed his coat from the floor and yanked it on, moving toward the door without a second thought. Richard followed, his own coat already on. They reached the hall, but just as Darcy was about to plunge down the stairs, he paused.

"Wait," he said, abruptly turning back toward his room.

"What are you doing? We need to go!"

Darcy ignored him, striding quickly back into his room. He crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a second heavy cloak. Elizabeth would be cold when he found her. The autumn chill was well upon them for the season, and she had run out without any proper protection from the elements.

With the cloak in hand, Darcy returned to the hall, his expression grim. "Let's go."

D arcy took long, measured strides across the front lawn, his heart thrumming in a rhythm of controlled urgency. The wind had picked up, the air heavy with the scent of rain, and though he kept his face composed, his thoughts tumbled in relentless pursuit of where she might have gone.

Richard had already sprinted toward the lake, a quick exchange between them deciding their separate paths. Darcy had hesitated for a moment, feeling the pull to follow. Water seemed to calm Elizabeth—or at least occupy her thoughts. She had admired the lake earlier that day, as well as the stream outside the coaching inn on their first day of travel. It was entirely possible she might have gone there. What if she had slipped in the mud, lost her footing, and fallen in?

But no, if she had been at the lake, surely someone would have seen her. The grounds were not deserted—even now, the footmen were spreading out in search of the mistress. He had questioned them all, and apart from an undergardener saying he had seen Mrs Darcy on the lawn earlier, no one could provide any clues.

Which meant she had hidden herself. How very fitting—her deception found out, her lie exp….

Darcy sighed as he gripped a tighter fist, his eyes scanning the bobbing lanterns around the grounds. Whatever else might be said of her, he could not for certain say that she had lied.

In fact, it could be said that she came to him with the truth as soon as she had discovered his misapprehension. She had looked somewhat overwrought when she asked to speak with him. Or was she simply a good actress who only came to confess because the midwife would have exposed the truth? And because Elizabeth Bennet, now Mrs Darcy, had already got what she wanted?

His knuckles ached and he forced himself to shake out his hand, draining some measure of his wrath away with it. None of that mattered now. He would not leave the worst woman in the world out by herself in the night to face a storm alone.

Suppose she had got into a drayage cart and run away to Lambton? No, that made no sense. Why would she leave her conquest behind so easily?

Darcy tried to recall the exact look on her face, her manner when they spoke those heated words. She had been… he squinted up at the clouding sky. What had she been?

Furious. Quaking in rage and humiliation, almost as violently as he was. And she claimed she wanted nothing to do with him or with Pemberley… said she even would have refused him, if she'd had that choice.

Could he believe any of that? Darcy cast another look around the darkened grounds—the open areas, the pleasure gardens, the folly on a distant hill—all places ladies fancied for a few moments of quiet. But if he were right about her feelings the moment she fled the house, she would have sought none of those. They were too exposed. After their last encounter, she would have sought the very opposite.

She had been too raw, too frantic.

It was a test, he supposed—a test of his ability to interpret her feelings, assuming he was operating with facts at this point. Others were searching the places that made sense, where a normal lady might have wandered. Only a fool would stumble into something close and dark with nightfall approaching.

A fool, or someone so desperate for privacy that they cared nothing for their own safety.

He turned toward the maze, its tall hedges looming ahead, shadowed under the dull, thickening sky. A place to hide. It made sense. If she had felt anything like the riot of wrath and confusion that raged within him, the maze would offer solitude, a place where no one could see her—where she could storm her feelings out in peace.

The entrance yawned before him as he stepped inside, the slightly taller grass here swishing softly against his boots. The branches reached high overhead, cutting off much of the fading light, leaving only the faintest outline of a path stretching ahead. Darcy pressed on, his mind circling like the twisting corridors around him.

How far had she gone? How long had she been out here?

He moved quickly through the narrow walkways, taking each turn with purpose, only to be met by more endless hedge walls. His breath grew more laboured as he forged ahead, sweeping his eyes over every nook, every corner, his heart thumping harder with each wrong turn.

He had searched the maze many times as a boy. He remembered the frustration, the helplessness of feeling trapped within its tall boundaries. How had he forgot just how vast this place was? But this was no child's game—this was different. If she were lost in here, alone in the growing darkness, what state might he find her in?

That was when the rain began. It started as a faint drizzle, soft and barely noticeable, as Darcy moved deeper into the maze. He hardly registered it at first, so focused was he on the search. But as he pressed on, the drizzle thickened, the air growing colder, heavier, the dampness seeping into his skin.

Another wrong turn. Egad, this was his home. His maze! He knew it like the back of his hand, but in the darkness, the path looped back on itself, leading him in circles. If even he could become lost so quickly, what hope would she have? If she were truly out here. His pulse quickened, anger flaring at the thought of her wandering aimlessly, at his own inability to make sense of this labyrinth.

"Elizabeth!" His voice carried down the twisting paths, swallowed by the dense walls of the hedge. There was no answer.

He stopped, leaning against the hedge for a moment, the rough branches scratching his palm. His mind throbbed with every worst possibility. Had he overlooked a turn somewhere? Was she elsewhere, at the lake, or even inside the house now, safe and warm while he bumbled in circles like a fool?

He started forward again, his foot catching awkwardly on a root, his balance slipping so that he very nearly dropped his lantern.

"Blast!" He barely kept himself from falling, his hands catching the hedge, breathing hard as the irritation simmered into something hotter.

He cursed under his breath and pressed on, turning left this time, trying to recall the maze's layout. He was losing time, losing even the moonlight behind gathering clouds—losing patience. Perhaps this was madness. Perhaps—

What if she had fallen somewhere? What if, blinded by tears or rage, she had slipped into one of the many ditches along the path? Or worse—what if she had found her way to the lake with the mud so treacherous? No one would see her in the dark. Perhaps not ever again.

The rain pelted his face, soaking through his shirt and dripping from his hair, but he didn't care. Elizabeth was out here, somewhere, and he could not leave her. His breath was heavy, a mix of exhaustion and anxiety, and just as he considered turning back—perhaps he had gone the wrong way after all—his foot collided with something soft.

Elizabeth .

He lifted the lantern to shine on her. Her small, curled form was huddled against the base of the hedge, barely visible in the deepening shadows.

Darcy simply stared, the sight of her stealing his breath. She was drenched, her dark hair matted and tangled from the rain, her face pale and drawn. Her knees were pulled tightly to her chest, her arms wrapped around them in a feeble attempt to shield herself from the cold.

Darcy dropped to his knees beside her, his heart hammering in his chest. "Elizabeth!"

She did not stir. Rainwater trickled down her face, her lips pale and trembling.

His hand closed over her shoulder, shaking her gently. "Elizabeth, wake up!"

A low groan escaped her, and her eyes fluttered open, though her gaze was unfocused, distant.

"Mr... D-Darcy?" Her voice was faint, nearly swallowed by the relentless downpour.

Relief washed over him, though it was quickly overshadowed by fear. She was far too cold—her skin icy beneath his fingers, her body trembling uncontrollably. He shrugged off the extra cloak he had brought and draped it over her, enveloping her in the heavy, soaked fabric.

"You're freezing," he muttered, his brow furrowing as he tucked the cloak more tightly around her. "You should never have come out here."

"I... g-got l-los-st..."

"What were you thinking, wandering into the maze alone just before dark? No lantern, no cloak? What a stupid thing to do!"

She lifted her head fractionally, her eyes glittering in the weak light of his lantern even as her teeth chattered uncontrollably. "W-want-ted t-to g-g-get aw-way ffr-from-m y-you ."

Darcy stiffened, his mouth frozen. He tried to make some reply, but there was… nothing.

And no time to examine it now. He shook his head.

"We need to get you back inside." Without waiting for a response, Darcy bent down and scooped her into his arms, lifting her easily. Her body trembled violently, and her legs were likely so numb from the cold that he doubted they could support her weight. She certainly would have no powers to coordinate her limbs.

The rain continued to fall in sheets, soaking them both through, but Darcy paid it no mind. He held her close, shielding her as best he could, and moved through the maze as quickly as the uneven paths allowed, the cold biting into his skin with every step.

The path twisted and turned, and he cursed the complexity of the maze under his breath. Elizabeth had got her arms around his neck, and though he was grateful that she was in some part, at least, helping him by holding tight, he was nearly afraid she was going to choke him. But every muscle in her body was rigid with cold—she probably could not have slackened her grip on him even if she tried.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the maze gave way to the open lawn, and Darcy spotted the faint glow of lights from the house in the distance. Thank Heaven! He had finally remembered which turns to take. He clutched her closer, her body still shuddering in his arms, and carried her inside.