23. Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

D arcy tossed Richard's letter onto the desk with a sharp flick of his wrist, the crumple of paper echoing through the room. His cousin's words offered no new answers—only more of the same: apologies and uncertainty. No progress. No clarity.

He leaned back, rubbing his temples, as if he could massage the frustration from his thoughts. Everything—Harry, Elizabeth, London—felt like an impossible tangle he could not unravel. He had been trying, in vain, to push forward, to find a way to repair the growing distance between himself and his wife. But every effort felt inadequate. Useless. He pushed his way out of his desk to wander the room—his usual path from the fireplace to the window.

Darcy paused mid-step, staring out the window at the bleak landscape beyond. He had considered, again and again, what he should do, but each answer seemed to dissolve into nothing. London was out of the question—he had already resigned himself to that. Yet he was left here, trapped by his own indecision. He felt as though he were watching everything unfold from a distance, helpless to alter the course of events.

The accusations against Harry, the tension with Elizabeth—it all seemed to circle back to the same maddening question: what was his next move? He could not continue like this, merely waiting for time to ease the wounds. But every action, every decision, felt weighted by the fear of making things worse.

A sound from the hall broke his reverie, and Darcy looked up just in time to see Elizabeth pass the open door with her terrier bounding at her heels. His heart gave a little jump at the sight of her, dressed in a simple gown, her figure framed by the light from the corridor. She did not see him, or if she did, she made no sign of it. Her face was serene, as if her mind was far away.

Without thinking, Darcy turned toward the door. "Elizabeth," he called softly, stepping toward the door.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder, and "Little Fitzy" careened into her legs at her abrupt halt. For a brief second, their eyes met. There was something in her gaze—was it curiosity? Or perhaps a lingering hurt from their last argument? Darcy could not tell. He swallowed. "I…" He took a breath. "Tell Cook that I prefer a lighter dinner this evening."

Elizabeth studied him for a moment, the lower lid of one of her eyes twitching before she nodded politely and continued down the hall.

He watched her go, an odd tightness settling in his chest. He wanted to speak to her, to say something—anything—but the words were so garbled in his head, he had no hope of stringing them together. How could he bridge this growing chasm between them when his own emotions were still so tangled?

He sighed heavily, leaning against the doorframe. He was a fool. A coward. Night after night, he stood at the threshold of her room, torn between desire and guilt, unsure of what to do. Each time, he turned away, leaving the door closed and his heart more confused than ever.

A sharp rap on the doorframe pulled him from his thoughts. One of the servants stood there with a fresh stack of correspondence. Darcy groaned silently and gestured for the servant to set the tray on his desk and leave him. He was not in the mood for more letters he could not answer.

His gaze drifted back down the hall, towards where Elizabeth had disappeared. His mind filled with thoughts of her—her laughter, her wit, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief when she teased him. His fists clenched at his sides, filled with an ache he could not put into words.

How had it come to this? How had he, a man so in control of his world, allowed himself to become so lost in his marriage? And here, he had almost permitted himself to believe she was a gift to him! A token of Heaven's mercies after such a cruel blow—some sign that his heart's cry had been answered and he had been granted more than he deserved.

Darcy's breath hitched as he turned back to his desk. Richard's letter lay open, reminding him of his cousin's words— no dishonour to Harry's memory if you fall in love with your wife .

Oh, that ship had sailed. Long ago—probably the night he found her shivering and frozen in the garden after their first argument. He had fallen in love with Elizabeth Darcy from the earliest days of their marriage. He just could not find a way to tell her that.

Each time he tried, each small gesture of affection, Elizabeth seemed to step farther away. Or was it him, retreating before he could be hurt?

His fingers tightened on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Perhaps it was time to change his approach. If he wanted something real—love, desire, companionship—he would need to earn it, not simply expect it to grow from duty.

But how? Darcy's head swirled with possibilities, with doubts, with a sense of helplessness he had not felt in years.

E lizabeth closed her door with a soft click, pressing her back against the wood. That argument with her husband still haunted her, playing over in her mind like a nightmare she could not wake from. His accusations, her own sharp words—they had both been so foolish. How had it come to this?

She sighed, moving away from the door and crossing to the window. The view of the snow-dusted landscape did little to soothe the restlessness within her. She longed for the comfort of a letter from Jane or some sign that the battle lines drawn between her and her husband might break. But no letter had arrived, and Darcy had remained distant ever since that day in the study.

She had seen him, of course—passing her in the halls, a nod at dinner, the occasional stiff pleasantry when they shared a room. But there had been no warmth, no shared smiles or casual conversations. Nothing to bridge the widening gap between them.

But there was still that puppy—little Fitzy—who had become her constant companion over the past week. He, at least, was a reminder that her husband had once tried to make her happy. But now? Now, she feared Darcy might regret even that small kindness.

Fitzy scampered across the room, chasing his tail before collapsing at her feet with a soft whimper. Elizabeth reached down and scratched behind his ears, her heart aching with the sense that something precious was slipping through her fingers.

How could she mend things between them when she barely understood what had gone so wrong? Darcy's guilt over Harry, his anger, his guarded heart—it all seemed so unreachable. And the argument had only built more walls between them.

Pushing the lace curtain aside, she caught a glimpse of her husband striding across the lawn, his dark coat standing out against the frost-covered ground. He was heading toward the stables, likely for another of his long, solitary rides. Should she go after him, say something—anything—that might break this silence between them? But no. Her pride stung from their last confrontation, and a small voice in the back of her mind warned her that he might not want to see her at all.

Turning away from the window, Elizabeth tried to bury herself in the letters on her desk. There was so much to do, tenants to respond to, household matters to arrange. But her gaze wandered, unfocused, and all she could think of was how deeply she missed him.

It was a ridiculous thought, she chided herself. They were in the same house, in each other's company nearly every day, and yet... she felt as though they were worlds apart.

D arcy stood by the window in his study, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared out at the wintry landscape. The snow had started falling again, light flakes swirling in the wind and settling on the grounds below. Elizabeth's favourite spot by the lake was barely visible, shrouded by the mist rising from the water's edge. He wondered if she would venture out again today, despite the cold.

He turned away from the window, restless. The silence of the house pressed in on him, a silence he had once prized but now found unbearable. His gaze landed on the stack of papers at the corner of his desk—letters from tenants, estate matters, documents he needed to review—and he sighed, knowing he would accomplish little today. His thoughts were far too tangled for business.

By now, he had torn and hacked at his conscience over the argument with Elizabeth enough, not just about the words they had spoken but about even more basic truths that lay beneath. She had come out and accused him of punishing himself, of punishing her, and he saw it in his own heart. He wrapped himself in duty, in guilt, and let those protect him from the agony of Harry's loss.But in doing so, he had distanced himself from the one person who might have helped him heal.

And now, what was left between them? A fractured bond, an ever-growing chasm he had no idea how to cross. He wanted to speak to her, to apologise, to make things right. But every time he saw her, something in him locked up. His pride, his fear—he could not tell. The mere sight of her stirred up a mix of emotions he struggled to navigate.

His eyes drifted to the doorway, half-expecting her to appear. He had grown so accustomed to her presence, to the soft rhythm of her steps down the hall, the occasional glance she would send his way when they passed each other. And yet, in all those fleeting moments, they had not truly seen one another in days.

The door opened softly, and for a fleeting moment, his heart leapt, hoping it might be her. But it was only a servant, bringing another letter. Darcy waved the man away without a word, sinking down into the leather chair by his desk.

The letter lay unopened before him, but he knew it was of no consequence. His mind was elsewhere—back on that conversation that had shattered their fragile peace, on the ways he had failed her, and on the stubbornness that kept him from making amends. He had told himself he was protecting her from his own turmoil, from the darkness of his grief, but the truth was… he had been hiding.

Hiding from the vulnerability that came with loving someone, hiding from the risk of losing again.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. He could not go on like this, pacing the halls, suffocating under the weight of his own silence. Elizabeth deserved better—better than the half-hearted attempts at conversation, better than the cold distance he kept between them.

But how could he explain any of this to her? How could he tell her that every time he looked at her, he felt the ghost of Harry standing between them, a barrier he could not surmount?

His eyes closed, and in the quiet of the room, he let himself admit it: he was in love with her. Deeply, painfully in love with her. But love, he had learned, was not enough to overcome everything.

E lizabeth lay in her bed, staring up at the canopy, her eyes wide open, unblinking, while the wind outside howled against the panes. The covers, once a comfort, now felt suffocating, as if they were holding her in place, trapping her within her own thoughts. It had been days since their argument, and every passing moment felt like a stretch of silence too vast to cross.

She could hear him again. Pacing. The rhythm had become so familiar over the past nights. Back and forth, forth and back, as if his steps could wear a chasm in the floor that neither of them could breach.

A sigh slipped from her lips as she turned onto her side, clutching the pillow tightly. Every part of her ached to go to him, to reach across the distance that now seemed to define their every interaction. It had been a foolish argument, and yet... had it really been about Harry's room? Or had they both used it as an excuse for the deeper frustrations they each carried? She missed him—truly missed him. More than she had realised was even possible in a marriage built on duty rather than affection.

The clock ticked loudly in the corner of the room, its hands inching closer to midnight, but sleep was impossible. Every creak of the house, every gust of wind outside, every footstep from his pacing brought her closer to a decision she had been too hesitant to make.

Enough.

Before she could reconsider, she threw off the covers, her feet hitting the cold floor. Wrapping her robe tightly around herself, she crossed the room with a swift determination she had not felt in days. The chill in the air bit at her exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the coldness that had grown between them.

Crossing the room, Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment before stepping toward the adjoining door between their chambers. The sound of his footsteps, heavy and restless, filled the silence.

Her hand hovered over the door handle, her heart racing. The footsteps inside suddenly paused, as though he had sensed her nearness. For a fleeting second, she considered turning back—perhaps it was a mistake—but no, she could not leave him like this.

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth gently knocked, her knuckles grazing the wood.

Her knuckles rapped against the door, once, softly, almost hesitantly. There was no answer. She knocked again, a little more firmly, then held her breath to hear better as the footsteps inside stilled.

"William?" she called softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She had never called him that before, but what else could she call him now?

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, in a rush of movement, the door swung open.

There he stood, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his nightshirt clinging to his damp skin. His hair was tousled, the evidence of his pacing clear in the tension of his muscles, in the way his shoulders slumped as if he had been carrying the weight of the world. But it was his face that made her heart squeeze—the anguish in his eyes, the desperation in the way he looked at her. He seemed... broken.

Elizabeth froze, her heart pounding at the sight of him. He looked like a man teetering on the edge of something deep and dark, and she wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull him back.

For a moment, neither of them moved. She was tempted—desperately tempted—to fling herself into his arms, to wrap herself around him and offer the physical and emotional comfort she knew he needed. But even as she took a step forward, she stopped.

That was not what he needed. Not yet.

Instead, she studied him—his eyes, full of pain, full of heartbreak. And then, without saying a word, she reached out and took his hand.

"Come with me," she whispered.

Darcy blinked, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion, but he did not resist. He let her take his hand, his fingers curling around hers as if it were the only solid thing he could grasp.