2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

One Week Later

F itzwilliam Darcy stepped from the carriage onto the cobblestones of his London townhouse. The air was sharp with the late autumn chill, but it did little to stir him as he ascended the steps, his boots tapping against the stone with a quiet, steady rhythm. The streets of London, once so familiar, felt distant now, their hum muted by the suffocating presence of grief that clung to him like a shroud.

The door opened before he reached it, and Thompson, ever precise in his timing, stood ready with a deferential bow. Darcy glanced up only briefly, unwilling to meet the butler's gaze for more than a moment. The warmth of the townhouse beckoned, but it could not touch the cold that had settled inside him since that awful day.

"Welcome back to London, sir," Thompson said. "We did not know to expect you, but I shall call for refreshments at once. Your rooms are, of course, ready. Do you require anything, sir?"

Darcy stepped inside, the familiar scent of polished wood and soap wafting toward him. The fire burned in the hearth, but it felt like a hollow gesture, no comfort to be found in its warmth. The servants had gathered in the hall, faces expectant, as they always did upon his return. This time, however, their presence was unbearable. Every sympathetic glance, every gesture of respect, grated against the raw wound that had not yet begun to heal.

Without preamble, he turned to Thompson. "Have black drapes hung for the windows and place a hatchment over the door."

The butler inclined his head. "Yes, sir. At once." He hesitated for a moment, his brows knitting slightly before he spoke again, softer now. "May I ask, sir... for whom are we mourning?"

Darcy stared ahead, the question slicing through the quiet like a blade. His throat tightened. He had not spoken the words aloud in days, had scarcely allowed himself to think them. It had been easier, somehow, to carry on in silence, to push the truth to the corners of his mind where it might not overwhelm him.

"It was Harry," he said at last. "My brother."

The hall fell into a hush. Thompson's face, usually so composed, shattered with a grief he tried and failed to hide. Harry had been more than a master to the staff. The younger Darcy had always possessed a warmth, a vitality that reached even the most reserved among them. The suddenness of it, the cruel finality, struck them just as deeply.

Thompson opened his mouth, likely to offer some words of condolence, but Darcy cut him off before they could form. "No." His tone came out sharper than intended, and he sighed, softening. "Not now. No words."

He glanced at the gathered servants, their faces shadowed with sorrow and confusion. They all looked to him for direction, for guidance, as they always had, but the weight of their expectations crushed whatever strength remained. Harry had been loved here, in ways Darcy never had been. His brother's absence would linger in every corner of this house, a reminder of what had been lost.

"Do not place the knocker on the door," Darcy ordered. "I am not at home to anyone."

Thompson bowed again, and the others followed suit, their quiet obedience filling the space where words might have been. The fire crackled faintly behind them, but it offered no warmth, only a reminder of the quiet that would soon engulf the house.

Darcy turned from them, his steps purposeful but heavy as he made his way up the grand staircase. He needed the silence, the solitude. There would be no visitors, no platitudes, no more words. Not today. Not for some time.

H ooves echoed on the narrow streets as Darcy's carriage wound its way through the quieter parts of London. The weight of the black-edged envelopes sent out earlier that morning still hung over him, heavier than the deepest grief. One had gone to Lady Catherine, a duty he could not avoid. Her fury at being informed in such an impersonal manner would likely arrive before any letter she could dispatch in response. The other express had been addressed to Richard in Chatham… and Heaven only knew what his cousin would have to say.

The Earl of Matlock, he had to face in person. The visit had been brief, filled with formalities and hushed tones, the Earl's face darkened by the weight of sorrow. His uncle had spoken little, nodding at each of Darcy's words, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the walls of the room. After a strained embrace, Darcy left. He would receive no further solace there.

Harry's commanding officer had been next. Colonel Frederick Halton was a man of stone-faced authority, yet even he could not entirely mask the sorrow that crossed his features at the news. Darcy had delivered the message with military precision, keeping his emotions locked beneath the surface, and then he had left, feeling no lighter for it. All the formalities, the hushed exchanges, none of it made any difference to the truth. Harry was gone.

Now, seated in the carriage alongside Harry's batman, a quiet, stoic fellow by the name of Corporal Simmons, Darcy was bound for his brother's flat. The thought of entering Harry's private world, of sorting through his belongings, was almost too much to bear. But it had to be done. Every piece of his brother's life must be gathered, each object boxed and taken to Darcy House for review. It was his duty now, the final act of care for the brother he had never fully understood.

As they arrived at the building, Darcy's steps felt leaden as he approached the door, the stark reality of the task ahead tightening around him. The batman followed in silence, which was one of the few mercies allotted him this day. Harry had always spoken well of the man, trusting him with more than just the care of his clothing and provisions. Now, the corporal remained solemn, his loyalty clear even in grief.

The door creaked open, revealing the stillness of the flat—untouched since Harry had last walked its halls. The faint scent of pipe tobacco lingered in the air, and a jacket, casually thrown over a chair, hung there as if its owner might return at any moment. Darcy paused, taking in the quiet that had settled over the room, a silence pressed against him with each passing moment.

"Let us begin," Darcy said quietly, more to himself than to Corporal Simmons.

The batman nodded and moved efficiently, collecting Harry's personal effects—clothing, boots, mementoes. Darcy, however, found himself drawn to the desk—Harry's desk—littered with papers, books, and scattered correspondence. He had always meant to sit down with Harry one day to understand the world his brother inhabited when he was away from Pemberley. But the chance for that conversation had long passed, and now only the cold facts of paper and ink remained.

He gathered the letters, keeping his hands steady despite the tremor of emotion that threatened to break through. He could not afford that now. Not here.

The hours passed in heavy silence, interrupted only by the occasional sound of a drawer being opened or a trunk being closed. Darcy's mind wandered to memories of Harry—his carefree smile, the way he had filled rooms with his laughter. There had always been something light about Harry, something that Darcy himself could never quite capture, no matter how hard he tried. Now, that light was extinguished, leaving behind only shadows.

Corporal Simmons worked quietly beside him, packing away the last of Harry's belongings with the same dutiful care he had shown to his master in life. There was respect in every motion, a silent acknowledgement of the man they both mourned. When all was packed, Simmons stood by the door, awaiting Darcy's final command.

"It will all go to Darcy House," Darcy said, his voice steady despite the ache that threatened to rise. "I will review it there."

"Of course, sir," the batman replied softly.

Darcy gave a nod of dismissal. Simmons would see the trunk to the carriage, thus discharging his final duty. For now, he needed a moment to himself. He let his gaze sweep the flat one last time before turning on his heel and stepping out into the cooler air of the hallway.

He had thought the task's bitterness would ease now that it was done, but it had not. The truth still tore at him, raw and unyielding. Harry was gone, and there was no sense of closure, no peace to be found in the empty rooms he had left behind.

As Darcy made his way back to the carriage, a new thought struck him with sudden clarity. Bingley . He had not yet spoken to Harry's closest friend, the man who had understood his brother's light-hearted nature better than any. The man who, more than anyone else, deserved to hear the news in person. Darcy could not bear the thought of writing Bingley a letter, of allowing the news to reach him in such a cold, impersonal manner.

No. This, too, must be done face-to-face.

With the decision made, Darcy instructed the driver to take him to Bingley's townhouse. His weariness lingered, crushing the very heart within his ribs, but there would be no respite until this, too, was done.

E lizabeth Bennet's fingers faltered on the keys of the pianoforte, the melody she had been attempting dissolving into a dissonant jumble of notes. She sighed in frustration and pressed the keys again, harder this time, but the chords still rang hollow. Music had never been her solace, not in the way it was for Mary, who played out her deepest thoughts with sombre grace. Elizabeth, by contrast, found herself only agitated by the exercise, the trembling in her hands betraying her inner turmoil.

Harry would return. Of course, he would. She mustn't doubt him. Yet the panicked thoughts clawed at her—unbidden, unwelcome.

She barely knew him. Their acquaintance, though filled with charm and laughter, had been brief, too brief to warrant the depth of feeling she had allowed herself to develop.

But he had promised.

After everything that had happened, Harry stepped up, and he promised. He had spoken of settlements, of engagements. He had done the honourable thing in the wake of the scandal. Surely, surely, he would not abandon her now! Her fingers trembled again, striking an off-key note that grated against her ears.

"Oh dear, I thought it was Mary who played out her dark feelings on the pianoforte," came her aunt's gentle, teasing voice from the doorway.

Elizabeth jerked her hands from the keys, feeling the faintest flush rise to her cheeks. "Aunt Gardiner," she said with a shaky breath, "I— I just needed to think. Reading was unsettling me today."

Her aunt crossed the room and stood beside the pianoforte. "Well then, perhaps a walk with Jane would do you more good. You know walking always cheers you."

Elizabeth gave a rueful smile and glanced out the window, where the streets of London stretched out beyond the glass. "At home, it does," she murmured. "But I have never been quite at ease walking about in London, and even less so now."

There was a pause. Her aunt's gaze lingered on her, and Elizabeth felt the weight of her unsaid thoughts hanging between them. " Especially now," Elizabeth added quietly.

Her aunt sat beside her, resting a hand on Elizabeth's arm. "Dearest, you are about to marry a man who will make his home here. If he is lucky, that is. If not, you might find yourself in Portugal or India or some far-flung outpost. Have you given thought to that?"

Elizabeth turned her eyes to the keys, her fingers hovering uncertainly above them. "I have," she said. "But the duty would not be so hard with Harry… I mean, Captain Darcy for company."

Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. It was true, was it not? She had fallen for his easy manner, for the way he had made her feel safe, even amidst the whispering crowd. His promises had held weight then, binding her future to his, despite the uncertain footing on which she stood. The rumours had already begun to swirl—quiet, cutting whispers about her reputation. A trollop… a tart, an easy conquest… If Harry did not return soon, if he failed to formalise their engagement, those whispers would only grow louder.

Aunt Gardiner gave her arm a gentle squeeze. "He will return for you, Elizabeth. I have no doubt of it. Captain Darcy is not the kind of man to leave a promise unfulfilled. He is an honourable man. Those whispers will be forgot in time, once you are safely wed. And then, my dear, you will be able to get on with your life—without these anxieties clouding your mind."

Elizabeth nodded, her smile growing a little steadier, though it still did not reach her eyes. "Of course," she agreed softly. "I can trust him to come back for me."

Her voice sounded almost convincing. She wanted to believe it—she truly did. Harry had spoken of duty and honour, had reassured her that all would be well once he spoke with his brother and finalised the arrangements. There was no reason to doubt him. He would return. He had to.

But her fingers trembled still as they hovered over the keys.

D arcy knocked firmly on the door of Bingley's townhouse, his mind dull and weary from the unrelenting business of the last few days. The butler opened the door swiftly, bowing crisply, and before Darcy could utter a word, Bingley himself appeared in the hallway, his face brightening at the sight of his unexpected visitor.

"Darcy!" Bingley's voice was full of unrestrained cheer. "Come in, come in! What brings you to London this season? Harry said you were firmly lodged at Pemberley. By Jove, had I known you were here, I should have called."

Darcy hesitated for a moment. It was never easy to deliver such news, but he had promised himself he would do this much for Harry. As much as he wanted to leave and bury the grief under the weight of duties and logistics, this visit was necessary.

"I am afraid this is not a social call, Bingley."

Bingley's face faltered, the smile wavering as he sensed the gravity in Darcy's tone. "What is it, man? Come in—sit down."

Darcy followed him into the drawing room but remained standing, staring down at his gloved hands. He did not wish to linger here, not in the warm comfort of a home that had no business housing such news.

"It is Harry," Darcy began, bracing himself.

"Harry?" Bingley repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What of him? Has he returned with you from Pemberley? He was supposed to—"

"He is dead."

The words froze on the air, colder than the autumn chill Darcy had just left outside. For a moment, Bingley stood there, blinking at him, as if he had not heard correctly.

"I—what?"

"Harry is dead," Darcy repeated, his irritation rising despite himself. He had hated saying it once, and now twice felt like twisting the knife. "A horse accident… a week ago."

"No." Bingley shook his head, backing away, his eyes wide with disbelief. "No, that cannot be. Not Harry. We—we were supposed to…" His words cluttered to a halt, as if he had forgot how to speak. "We were meant to spend the autumn shooting—I was looking into leasing an estate, and he was going to join me there!"

Darcy looked away, pressing his lips together as Bingley's voice broke. He hated this—seeing others fall to pieces when he could not afford to do so himself. His own grief was buried deep, cold and tightly locked away. It had to be. His hands clenched at his sides as Bingley stumbled over to the window, his back to Darcy.

"We'd planned it all out," Bingley muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "He… he was so looking forward to it. He told me he had not been out shooting in ages." Bingley's voice cracked, and his hand covered his face. He collapsed inward, his usual exuberance reduced to a fragile shell of the man Darcy knew.

Still standing, Darcy stared at the floor, wishing to leave—wishing to escape the room before he was forced to confront the feelings he had spent the last week avoiding. He shifted his weight, ready to excuse himself, when Bingley's voice broke the silence.

"We ought to drink to him," Bingley said abruptly, his words thick with emotion as he moved to the sideboard, fumbling with the decanters. "A man like Harry deserves that much, at least."

Darcy opened his mouth to decline, to tell Bingley that he had no wish to sit and toast his brother's memory—not yet, not in someone else's drawing room where he had not the leisure of shattering as he pleased. But something in Bingley's trembling hands, the sheer nakedness of his grief, made Darcy pause. Bingley needed this. And perhaps he needed it too, though he'd been refusing to admit it.

Without a word, he accepted the glass Bingley handed him.

"To Harry," Bingley said, his voice unsteady, tears spilling freely down his cheeks as he raised the glass. "To the best friend a man could have."

Darcy swallowed hard, his throat tight as he clinked his glass against Bingley's. He had not allowed himself to shed a single tear since that horrible day. There had been no time. No room. He drank, letting the burn of the liquor slide down his throat, and for a moment, the sharpness of it threatened to break through the stoic facade he had built around himself.

Bingley shoved his glass down, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked up at Darcy with a sudden expression of shock, as if something had only just occurred to him.

"Miss Elizabeth," he gasped, stepping forward, his face stricken. "Has—has she been told?"

Darcy blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt mention of the name. His brow furrowed. "Miss Elizabeth?"

"Yes, Elizabeth Bennet," Bingley stammered, his voice rising in urgency. "Does she know? Have you told her? Surely, Harry mentioned her. That was his whole purpose in going to Pemberley early."

Darcy shifted uncomfortably. "Harry mentioned her," he said carefully. "I know of the lady, yes."

Bingley stared at him with wide, pleading eyes. "Darcy, she must be told. She will be expecting Harry's return. You… you do know what she meant to him, don't you?"

Darcy exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with deliberate care. Oh, of course Harry had mentioned that proposal, but he had never written of the lady, never told Darcy how they met, never left any serious direction for her family. Darcy had assumed he would find something of her in the papers from Harry's flat—letters, something in his journal… if not, he was still prepared to assume that Harry's attentions were casual, the flirtation of a young officer enjoying his leave in town and speaking on a whim. Excitement, some desire to impress his older brother with such a large personal step.

But at Bingley's urgency, Darcy realised he might have underestimated the connection.

"I had hoped," Darcy began, "that you might speak to her. You are better acquainted with the lady. She would take the news better from a familiar face."

Bingley, his face streaked with tears, shook his head quickly, almost violently. "I—I cannot, Darcy. You do not understand. I… I am already in a delicate position with her family." He swallowed, wringing his hands. "But you… you are his brother. It should come from you."

Darcy frowned, his patience wearing thin. The last thing he wanted was to spend the day delivering more painful news, especially to a young woman he did not know. "I am not acquainted with Miss Bennet," he said, his voice clipped. "Nor have I the stomach to face a grief-stricken female today."

Bingley took a step closer, his expression imploring. "Darcy, please. You must understand—this is not just about grief. Her reputation… it's…"

Darcy raised an eyebrow, but Bingley's words faltered, his voice choking on his grief. Darcy remained silent, trying to piece together Bingley's disjointed ramblings. Surely, Bingley was referring to the usual consequences for a lady who had entered into an engagement. With Harry gone, Miss Bennet would face the unfortunate prospect of being considered unchaste—or, at the very least, unable to attach herself to another man until enough time had passed for mourning.

"It seems unfair," Darcy muttered, more to himself than to Bingley. "But time will heal the situation. She will move on once the appropriate period has passed."

Bingley, pacing the room in agitation, suddenly stopped and turned back to Darcy with renewed urgency. "No, it is more than that," he insisted. "You must go to her. Please, do not make me do this."

Darcy sighed heavily, pressing his fingers to his temple. Was not Bingley involved with the sister? Of course, he would not wish to make himself the bearer of bad tidings. But Darcy had come here to discharge his duty to Harry, not to become embroiled in Bingley's emotional entanglements. He did not wish to argue or press for details. It no longer mattered.

"Very well," he relented, though every muscle in his body resisted the idea. "I shall call on her tomorrow. But not today. I have not the strength for it."

Bingley opened his mouth to protest, but seeing the hard set of Darcy's jaw, he closed it again and nodded. "Thank you," he whispered, collapsing into the chair beside him, his face buried in his hands.

Darcy stood, his hand tightening briefly on the back of the chair as he steadied himself. He had to leave. The walls of the room felt too close, the air too thick with grief. He gave Bingley a short nod and turned toward the door.

"I shall see to it in the morning," Darcy said, his voice heavy as he stepped into the hallway. "Good day, Bingley."

Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the house.