22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

D arcy dismounted his horse with a grunt of effort, handing the reins to the waiting stable hand. The early morning ride had done little to ease the ball of anxiety that had built in his chest. His muscles ached from the cold, and his breath came in shallow pants, but none of it was enough to clear the fog that had settled over his thoughts. He was stuck—mired in frustration, unable to move forward, no matter how desperately he longed to.

He had lost count of how many nights he had stood outside Elizabeth's door, staring at the dark wood as if it held all the answers to his unspoken questions. Each night, something pulled him toward her, an invisible thread tugging at him to step across that threshold. Duty, desire, even the hope of her simple companionship.

And yet, every night, something equally strong held him back—guilt, hesitation, fear. What if he could never overcome this barrier in him? What if, despite all the growing feelings he harboured for his wife, he was incapable of bridging the gap between them?

His steps quickened as he crossed the threshold into the house, shrugging off his damp riding coat before retreating to his chambers. Once inside, he let out a long breath and began to unbutton his waistcoat, peeling away the cold, wet layers of his ride. He paused halfway through, glancing toward the window where the grey sky threatened more rain.

Perhaps he had been going about this all wrong.

In his mind, he had been picturing the sort of formal arrangement his parents had lived—civility outside the bedroom, each playing their roles but with little warmth or true affection obvious between them. He knew there had been some measure of love there—his father's grief after his mother's death had been the proof of that. But they never showed it to anyone.

It was what he knew, what he had always assumed was "correct." And yet... that life felt so distant from the one he truly wanted. What he wanted—what he longed for—was not just duty. It was love, honest and powerful feelings that would draw him and his wife together naturally, irresistibly. He wanted her to want him, to feel something real between them before he asked for anything physical.

And that was why he had been so ill at the thought of marrying her in the first place. He had thought, at the time, that he was giving up any modicum of choice he had in his partner—that all those things he wanted for his life were now dust and ashes. He expected to be saddled with an unholy burden, the sort of heedless strumpet he had imagined must be the case if all his other assumptions were true.

But instead, he had found her . How had Heaven blessed him so immeasurably? In regards to fortune and connections, she had none. Less than none, truly. She was a liability in every sense of the word. But what she had brought into his world more than compensated for any inconveniences in that regard.

Did she know that she was the reason he had not swallowed a pistol after Harry's death? All the guilt, all the shame that were his, and she was the one he had to be strong for. The one he wanted to live for, even when he did not understand her. Could she sense any of that?

Darcy pulled on a fresh shirt, trying to piece out what she did know and understand. She had warmed to him, in her way. Their conversations were easier with each passing day, their shared moments in the drawing room more frequent. The way her face had exploded with joy when he brought her the puppy—he had never seen her so delighted. She had named the little creature "Little Fitzy" just to tease him, and every time he saw her playfully chasing the dog, his heart swelled with a strange mixture of pride and affection. She did appreciate him—he was certain of that.

But did she desire him? Did she love him?

He just… could not know. And his pride had not yet permitted him to ask.

He fastened the last button of his waistcoat and ran a hand through his still-damp hair. Perhaps... perhaps he needed to change his approach. If what he wanted was more than just duty, he needed to show her that. A small smile tugged at his lips. Perhaps romancing her during the day, finding small ways to make her smile, would make their nights… warmer.

Darcy paced across the room, thinking. What could he do? He could take her on walks more often, perhaps to her favourite spot by the lake. Or bring her small gifts—not extravagant things, but thoughtful ones, things that showed he paid attention to her likes and needs. He could even join her in some of her activities—sitting with her when she read, playing a piece of music together again.

Yes, he thought, finishing his thoughts with a sense of resolution. He could start slowly, quietly, but intentionally. He did not want a life of formality and distance. He wanted love. And perhaps, if he could draw her closer to him in these small, tender moments, she would feel that same pull toward him.

With a deep breath, Darcy decided. Today, he would begin.

His resolve, freshly made, buoyed his spirits slightly. But as he stepped into the hallway, his eyes were drawn to something that spiked his blood like ice. Harry's room—its door open.

He stopped dead in his tracks, a wave of anger rolling over him. He had ordered that room to be left undisturbed. No one was to set foot inside without his explicit instruction. His fists clenched at his sides as he strode purposefully toward the door, his earlier intentions momentarily forgotten. When he entered, he found a young maid dusting the bookcase, her back to him as she worked.

For a brief moment, a rational part of him understood—this was her job, after all, the daily maintenance of the house's many rooms. But that rational voice was quickly drowned by the deeper, more visceral part of him that refused to accept the invasion. Harry's room was not just another room. It was sacred.

"Stop that at once!" Darcy snapped.

The maid jumped, nearly dropping her duster. She turned to him, her face pale with fright, and bobbed a quick curtsy. "I—I was only doing as instructed, sir. Mrs Reynolds said—"

"I do not care what Mrs Reynolds said," he interrupted, his tone clipped. "Leave this room immediately."

The maid fled without another word, her footsteps barely audible in her haste. Darcy's jaw tightened as he scanned the room, his eyes lingering on Harry's belongings. How dare they touch any of it? His mood darkened further. Had he not made it clear that this room was to be left untouched? It seemed he would have to set the matter right.

Striding through the house, Darcy's steps were heavy with purpose, his mind spinning with indignation. Harry's things—his books, his letters, the remnants of his life—were not for others to see, let alone disturb. The very idea filled Darcy with a storm of emotions he was barely able to contain. He would speak to Mrs Reynolds and have this nonsense stopped immediately!

Reaching the housekeeper's quarters near the kitchens, Darcy pushed open the door without waiting for an invitation. But instead of the solitary figure of Mrs Reynolds, his eyes were met with Elizabeth standing next to her, both women mid-conversation. Darcy's words crammed together in his throat, his frustration growing until they came out in a rush.

"Mrs Reynolds," he barked, his voice rough, "why are the maids cleaning Harry's room when I specifically ordered it to be left alone?"

The housekeeper's eyes flicked nervously to Elizabeth, who was staring back at him with an expression that was far from placid. She looked... irritated. Darcy's anger bristled, but before Mrs Reynolds could answer, Elizabeth spoke first.

"Mr Darcy," she said, her tone calm but with a hint of frustration lacing her words, "we discussed this more than a fortnight ago. The maids dust the room once a week, as they do with every room that is not currently occupied. I brought the matter to your attention before telling Mrs Reynolds to continue the practice."

Darcy swallowed hard. How dare she defy him with… And then, with a sudden flash of memory, he recalled the conversation. Yes, she had brought it up—while he had been still ruminating over a letter from Richard. He had given a distracted reply, barely paying her any heed. A wave of heat crept up his neck, a combination of frustration and embarrassment.

His jaw tightened, his gaze falling momentarily to the floor before snapping back to Mrs Reynolds. "Desist the practice at once. No one is to enter that room until I say otherwise."

Mrs Reynolds glanced uneasily between Darcy and Elizabeth, but she nodded. "As you wish, sir."

Without another word, Darcy turned and left, his steps hard and quick, the sting of his own lapse gnawing at him as he walked away.

E lizabeth found him in his study, seated behind the large mahogany desk, but not truly working. Papers were scattered before him, ink drying on a forgotten letter, but his pen remained idle. His jaw was set, his brow furrowed, and his entire posture exuded frustration. She hesitated in the doorway for a moment before stepping forward, determined not to let this go.

"Mr Darcy," she said, her voice calm but firm. He did not look up. "I need to speak with you."

He sighed heavily, finally raising his eyes to meet hers. "I am busy, Elizabeth."

"That did not seem to be the case when I walked in," she replied, stepping closer. "And what you said to Mrs Reynolds earlier—it was uncalled for. You have never once, in all your life, raised your voice to the staff. Why would you shatter that trust now?"

Darcy's eyes flashed. "I do not wish for that room to be disturbed. That is the end of it."

Elizabeth's lips pressed into a hard line. "You are being unreasonable, sir. What was so great an infraction that you would wound Mrs Reynolds so deeply? She has only ever served you loyally. Are you hiding something in Harry's room?"

Darcy's hand clenched into a fist on the desk. "No!" he barked, standing abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.

"Then what is it?" Elizabeth challenged, stepping forward. "What are you so desperate to protect? Do you think Harry had anything to hide?"

"No!" Darcy nearly shouted, his face twisting with emotion.

"Then why?" she demanded, her voice rising in exasperation. "Why are you being so obstinate?"

"Because my brother is dead, that's why!" The words exploded from him, raw and anguished. "My brother is dead, and it was my fault!"

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then she thinned her lips, stepping closer still. "At last," she said quietly, "we have reached the crux of it."

Darcy's shoulders slumped, his face contorted in a mixture of sorrow and frustration, but she pressed on. "All this time, I wondered if it was simple grief that controlled you, but it is much more than that, is it not?"

He looked away, but she followed his line of sight, unwilling to let him retreat. "What did you do that day? What did you not do? Do you honestly believe a rational man could accuse you of being at fault?"

Darcy's voice was thick with emotion. "It does not matter. I was there! I should have been able to make it right. To save him. To do something . Instead, my brother died in my arms!"

"You could have done nothing," Elizabeth retorted, her voice trembling with anger. " Nothing would have changed what happened."

"You do not know that! You were not there!"

"No, I was not," she admitted, her voice cold. "But it is obvious now. Why you are so frigid, why you refuse to allow yourself any joy. You are punishing yourself, Fitzwilliam Darcy. And you are punishing me along with you."

Darcy's face flushed, but he stubbornly shook his head. "That is not true."

Elizabeth crossed her arms, staring out the window for a moment, trying to compose herself. "Is that why you really married me?" she asked in a quiet voice. "Not out of some noble sense of duty, fulfilling Harry's vow for him. But because you felt guilty? I was your penance?"

Darcy said nothing, his jaw tightening.

Elizabeth turned back to him, her eyes burning into his. "If that was your motivation, why stop at marrying me? Why not right all of Harry's other wrongs, too?"

Darcy stilled, his expression narrowing. "What do you mean by that?"

"If you are guilty of Harry's death, then why not answer the charges of treason against him yourself? Be the sacrificial lamb, face society and all their excoriation. Heavens, you could even don his uniform and stand at the block in his place! Would that not appease your guilt?"

"That's preposterous!" Darcy scoffed, his anger rising again.

"Is it really so preposterous?" she shot back. "There were accusations against him. Evidence. I heard it myself—he was in fear of being ruined but he was going to speak the truth, whatever it was. Is it really so shocking? He would not be the first good officer to make the wrong call. So, if it will appease your sense of wrongdoing, stand in his place and take the brunt of public opinion!"

Darcy's face flushed red with fury. "Harry was innocent! And besides, you are making a mockery of military law with your simplistic quid-pro-quo histrionics."

Elizabeth stalked forward, refusing to back down. "Very well, but what about the girl?" she demanded. "The one in the letter? Did you even try to find her?"

Darcy stiffened, his hand tightening on the back of his chair. "That would be like finding a needle in a haystack. There was no name—no way to trace her."

"Because you did not try! " she shouted, her voice breaking. "Harry had friends, people who knew his activities in Town. People who could have given some indication of the families he knew, the places he frequented. You at least owed her the dignity of trying!"

He bit down on his response, but she could see the battle waging behind his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, laced with heated wrath. "How do you even know there was any truth to that letter? It was not like Harry to dishonour a lady."

Elizabeth's eyes flashed. "You were willing enough to believe it when it suited you—when it gave you a reason to punish yourself by marrying me! But the moment you were off the market, you stopped looking. You made no more attempts."

Darcy's expression darkened. "Perhaps I should put myself back on the market," he snarled. "File for that annulment we both thought was unnecessary. But look at us! It is a sham of a marriage anyway. Two months wed, and you still do not even call me by my name. And I have yet to…" He gestured crudely with his hand, his face a contortion of aggravation. "Very well, then! Let us end it. Would that make you happy?"

Elizabeth paled, the words hitting her harder than she expected. He would really suggest that? Now, after all this time? But they had been starting to become closer! "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It would not."

He glared at her, but she pressed on, her voice trembling. "And it would not be sufficient anyway. How do you know there is only one?" She held her head high, though her heart pounded. "There is a tenant girl."

He froze. "Which tenant girl?"

"Clara Henshaw. Last July, she was either seduced or attacked—she refuses to say which. All anyone can tell me about her is that she always fancied Harry with some unreasonable degree of fondness, and she took his death ‘especially hard.'"

Darcy scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Now you are being outrageous. Harry dabbling with a farmer's daughter? Besides, he was in London all summer."

She shook her head. "No, he was not. The day after I met him, in fact, he was to journey to Leicester on an errand for his commander. He had just got through telling me that he came from Derbyshire and had a brother he would relish surprising, if he got the first half of his errand done swiftly enough. Do you not think it possible?"

His face hardened in disgust. "No, I do not. You are grasping at straws, madam. Harry detouring from Leicester to seduce a farm girl? It's ridiculous. One has to try to entertain such a fantasy, but perhaps it is not so difficult a thing for you."

She stiffened. "What is that supposed to mean?"

His features had twisted into a scowl, and he was raking his hands through his hair. "It means that I managed to marry the most ridiculous woman alive. A silly tradesman's niece who does not have the sense to stay out of things that do not concern her!"

Elizabeth's face flushed with white-hot anger. "Ridiculous? Silly? Is that what you think of me?" she spat. "Perhaps I should not be surprised. I had started to think of you as a generous-minded man. One who saw people for their qualities rather than their station, but I see that at the first opportunity, you fling my uncle's occupation in my face. How very petty of you, sir!

"Elizabeth—"

"No! You may make whatever excuses for your words you like, but they have been said and cannot be unsaid."

He extended a hand, as if he meant to reach forward to touch her arm, but his desk was between them. "Forgive me, I did not mean—"

Elizabeth drew back. "Forgive, I can, but forget? I shall not. You have been punishing yourself for Harry's death," she said, her voice shaking with emotion. "And now you are punishing me too. But I won't be part of it."

With that, she turned on her heel, fury burning in her chest as she stormed out of the study, the door slamming behind her.