3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

" I received another letter from home this morning," Jane said quietly.

The soft scuffing of their boots on the walk was the only sound between them as Elizabeth and Jane wandered along the park's edge. The September breeze tugged at their pelisses, the crispness of the air warning of the colder months to come. It was one of the last fine days of the season, but the beauty of it was lost on Elizabeth. Walking through London's streets felt suffocating now, as if the very ground beneath her feet were ready to betray her with each step.

Elizabeth knew the contents of the letter before Jane spoke further. "Let me guess—Mama is beside herself again."

"She is worried, Lizzy. Terribly so." Jane's brow furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Her nerves have taken quite a turn. Papa says she barely leaves her room."

"When is Mama not beside herself?"

"Do not say that. You know this is different, and it is your doing. You cannot possibly make light of—" There was an edge to Jane's voice—a frustration that rarely surfaced in her otherwise serene nature. "She is right to be worried, Lizzy!"

The rebuke stung, but Elizabeth kept her expression neutral, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. "Worried about what? That I might be ruined? It seems a little late for that, Jane."

Jane sighed, her face pinched with so many unspoken thoughts. "You were not careful, Lizzy. You know how people talk in London. You—"

"I know!" Elizabeth cut in. She felt the weight of Jane's judgment as acutely as her own. "I know, Jane."

Jane seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if weighing whether to continue. When she did, her voice was sharp with frustration—a novelty for Jane. "I do not understand how it came to this. I would have almost expected it from Lydia, but not you! You… you let your feelings—"

"Run me to ruin," Elizabeth finished for her. There was no use pretending otherwise. She'd thought herself careful, thought Harry's affections were earnest enough to weather whatever scandal might follow. Now, she could hardly bear to look Jane in the eye. "I know."

Jane's lips tightened into a thin line, but she said nothing. Elizabeth could feel her disappointment, as cold and bitter as the autumn air around them. And she hated it. Hated that she'd put herself in this position, hated that her future rested on the shoulders of a man who had yet to fulfil his promise.

"He will come back for me," Elizabeth said, more to herself than to Jane. "He will make things right."

Jane was silent for a moment, her eyes on the horizon. "I hope so," she said at last. "But time is not your friend, Lizzy. What if the captain does not come—or what if he is delayed?"

The question hung between them, a heavy cloud of doubt that Elizabeth could not escape. Her chest tightened at the thought. What if Harry did not return? What if his promises, his easy smile, had all been lies in the end?

No, she could not let herself think that way. Harry had said he would come back. He had said he would make it right, and Aunt Gardiner insisted the Darcys were all known for being honourable.

"He will," Elizabeth muttered, as if saying the words aloud could make them true.

"Lizzy, you must be realistic. You have not had a single letter from him, and you ought to have by now. If Harry—if Captain Darcy —does not return… what will you do?"

Elizabeth clenched her jaw, fighting the sudden urge to lash out. "I shall not think about it," she said tightly. "Because I refuse to believe he will not."

The silence between them grew heavier, more strained. Jane had always been the calm, understanding one. But even now, Elizabeth could feel her sister's patience unraveling. Jane was trying—trying to be the kind, forgiving soul she always had been—but the worry of their situation was wearing on her, too.

And there was more than just Elizabeth's scandal to torment their imaginations.

"Will Mr Bingley call tomorrow?" Elizabeth asked, desperate to change the subject. "Uncle Gardiner has not been very… receptive to him lately."

Jane's shoulders sagged slightly, her face growing more troubled. "I do not know if he will be welcomed. Uncle Gardiner… he does not approve of Mr Bingley's—"

"Does not approve of him full stop?" Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, trying to inject some lightness into her voice, though her sarcasm fell flat. "Or disapproves of the company he keeps?"

Jane swallowed. "You know which one, Lizzy."

Elizabeth tipped her shoulders into a flippant shrug. "I am not surprised. Uncle Gardiner thinks all men from ‘new money' are beneath us. A shame, really, when we are in desperate need of one."

Jane gave her a sharp look. "It is not that. You know Uncle Gardiner values honour above station or fortune. He is only protective of us."

"Too protective," Elizabeth muttered under her breath.

"And are you saying he is wrong to be so? After everything?"

Elizabeth crossed her arms inside her muff and growled. "It took Aunt Gardiner a full week to talk him into letting us out of the house. I hardly think we deserve to be gaoled like criminals. I say, what surer way is there to own all the horrible things people are saying about me than to refuse to show my face in public?"

Jane sighed again, though this time it was Elizabeth's words that had caused it. "Lizzy, I know you are angry—at all of this. But you must admit, we are in a delicate situation."

Elizabeth stopped walking, turning to face her sister. "No. I am in a delicate situation, Jane. Believe me, I am painfully aware of just how precarious my future is."

She saw Jane's eyes soften, guilt flickering across her face, but Elizabeth could not bring herself to apologise. Not for this. She had enough regret weighing on her heart without adding more to it.

They resumed their walk, though the ugly silence between them remained. Elizabeth had always relied on Jane's unfailing kindness, her ability to see the best in people, even when no one else could. But now, with the scandal hanging over them like a dark cloud, even Jane's resolve was beginning to crumble.

"And what of home?" Elizabeth asked, her voice quieter now. "What else does Papa say?"

Jane's expression grew pained. "He… he mentioned that Mr Collins is coming to look over Longbourn."

Elizabeth felt a sharp twist in her chest. "Of course he is," she said bitterly. "The vultures are already circling. And what does our cousin have to say about me , eh? Did Papa even have the stomach to put it down on paper?"

Jane winced at her tone, but said nothing.

Elizabeth bit her lip, forcing her voice to steady. "What will become of us, Jane? What if—" She stopped herself before the thought could take root.

"Stop, Lizzy. We cannot think that way."

Elizabeth twisted her mouth in a scowl and stared at the ground as they kept moving.

The park was growing busier now, more people out enjoying the last fine days of September. Elizabeth's eyes scanned the familiar faces, most of them belonging to the same social circles the Gardiners moved in. As they passed a group of ladies just ahead, Elizabeth stiffened, recognising Mrs Whitesmith and Miss Crandall, two women she had once exchanged polite pleasantries with at several gatherings.

But as they neared, the ladies' eyes flicked toward Elizabeth and Jane, lingering for a moment before turning away with cold indifference. Mrs Whitesmith raised her chin ever so slightly, her lips pursed, and the group swept past them without so much as a nod.

Elizabeth's blood ran cold. The cut direct.

For a moment, she stood frozen, fury rising in her chest, her breath quickening as the full force of the insult struck her. It was one thing to suspect her reputation was in tatters; it was another to see it confirmed in such a blatant, humiliating way. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, her hands clenching into fists as she turned, ready to march after them.

But Jane's hand was already on her arm, tugging her gently forward. "Do not," Jane whispered, her voice urgent. "Please, Lizzy. Let us go home."

Elizabeth's jaw tightened, but she allowed herself to be pulled along, her entire body trembling with anger. How dare they? How dare they look at her as though she were already fallen, already ruined?

Well… were they wrong? She was ruined. But that admission did little to soothe her pain and anger. Her feet dragged, and she had a very good mind to march on those ladies and make them speak to her face what they preferred to whisper behind their fans.

" Please ," Jane said again, her hand tightening around Elizabeth's arm. "Please, let us go back to Uncle Gardiner's. Now."

Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to calm. But the rage simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. She could feel the stares of the other passersby on her back, whispering, watching, waiting for her to fall.

"They will see," she muttered under her breath, her voice shaking. "They will ."

Jane said nothing, but her grip on Elizabeth's arm did not loosen as they hurried away from the park, the fine day now marred by reality. Elizabeth could not help but wonder if this was all there was to her future—walking on the edge of ruin, dependent on the mercy of a man who may or may not return.

F itzwilliam Darcy lay in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but sleep would not come. Twice already, he had startled awake, gasping, drenched in a cold sweat, the terrible moment replaying again and again in his mind. The sickening thud, the way Harry's body had crumpled... each time, the nightmare tore through him, leaving him raw and heaving for breath.

He turned on his side, burying his face in the pillow, but it did no good. Sleep was a special kind of torment, an enemy he could not escape. And yet, as unbearable as his waking hours were, he could at least control his thoughts and direct them elsewhere. Awake, he could keep the grief at bay, if only for a little while.

Throwing back the covers, Darcy swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, running a hand through his damp hair. His chest felt tight, his skin stretched uncomfortably over muscles that twitched in an odd mixture of fatigue and restlessness. He could not lie here any longer, waiting for the next wave of nightmares to crash over him. He had to do something—anything—to stop the suffocating stillness.

The house was silent as he moved through the halls, his feet instinctively leading him to Harry's old room. They had brought the trunk from his flat here—where else could they take it? And though Darcy had meant to avoid the room entirely, now he felt a strange compulsion to see it. Perhaps, by confronting these relics of his brother, he could bring his mind to order—focus on the practicalities of Harry's belongings rather than the loss itself.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, the candle in his hand bathing the familiar room in a weak glow. And there it was—the trunk, sitting quietly at the foot of the bed as though it had been waiting for him.

He knelt beside it, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the latch. For a moment, he hesitated. The thought of opening it, of seeing the things Harry had touched, had worn… it felt too intimate, too raw. But he forced his hand to move, lifting the lid slowly.

A wave of nostalgia hit him as the familiar scents of Harry's life rose up to meet him—the smell of leather, pipe tobacco, and the faint hint of the cologne Harry had always favoured. Darcy closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. He could see Harry as clearly as if he were standing before him, his broad grin, sun-browned face, and the mischievous spark that had never left his eyes.

Carefully, Darcy reached inside and lifted out the first item: an old brown coat, worn and weathered from use, one that Harry had often thrown on for informal walks or trips to town. Darcy ran his fingers over the fabric as though by touching it, he could somehow bring Harry back. For just a moment.

Next came a few shirts, neatly folded, though Darcy could tell they had been hastily packed by the batman. He lingered over a particular one, pulling it to his face, the scent of Harry's cologne still clinging to it. His breath hitched, but he forced himself to move on.

And then, buried beneath the shirts, his hand found something else—something softer. He tugged it free, his throat closing as he realised what it was: a handkerchief, embroidered with fine blue initials. Their mother's work, done just before she had passed. Harry had kept it with him ever since. Darcy had one just like it—a Christmas gift from her, and both brothers had treasured them, holding on to this last remnant of her care.

Darcy's eyes stung as he held the fabric in his hand. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, the memories of their childhood swirling in his mind. How often had he and Harry spoken of their mother, remembering her warmth, her gentle humour? And now, with Harry gone, that connection felt impossibly distant, lost to time.

His fingers lingered over a few more items, some trinkets Harry had kept—small souvenirs of places he had visited, letters from acquaintances—and then Darcy's hand brushed against something unfamiliar. He frowned as he pulled it out. It was a cravat, but not Harry's. The fabric was of lower quality, and there were still creases in it from a tight knot, carelessly left to rumple. That was not Harry's style. As he sifted through the items, more articles of clothing appeared—waistcoats and shirts, all of them unfamiliar. And then, Darcy recognised the battered whiskey flask.

A sneer curled at the edge of his mouth. George Wickham .

Of course. Harry had always been good friends with Wickham, despite Darcy's warnings. Father had condoned it, they were of the same age, and they had similar expectations in life—it made sense. They had been stationed together in Spain, spent endless hours together in London Wickham had wormed his way into Harry's life the way he always did—charming, manipulative, and entirely untrustworthy. These clothes must have been left behind after some stay at Harry's flat. Wickham was always turning up when he was least wanted.

Darcy shoved the cravat back into the trunk, anger rising in his chest. Wickham . The man had haunted their family for years, and even now, his presence lingered. Darcy had no intention of notifying Wickham personally of Harry's death. Let him find out through whispers in London, the way everyone else would. There was no part of Darcy that felt inclined to give Wickham the dignity of a personal notice.

With that thought, Darcy continued pulling things from the trunk—two of Harry's uniform coats, a few more cravats, and an old pair of boots. Each item felt like a piece of his brother being laid bare before him, and with each one, Darcy's control frayed a little more.

And then, at last, something inside him broke.

The sobs came, not in tears, but in ragged, anguished cries—sounds that tore from his throat, fierce and bitter. He clutched one of Harry's coats, his knuckles white as he pressed it to his chest. "No!" he choked out, his voice cracking with the force of it. "No, no, no…"

Harry was gone. The realisation crashed over him again and again, and no matter how tightly he held his brother's things, no matter how many times he screamed into the silent room, it would not change. Harry was dead. Nothing could bring him back.

For what felt like an eternity, Darcy knelt by the trunk, his face buried in Harry's coat as he raged—long, aching cries that shook his entire body with fury at himself. His chest heaved with the effort, but no relief came. Not even tears to soften the burn. Only more pain, more bitter denial.

Eventually, his body gave out, exhaustion taking hold. He pushed the remaining clothes back into the trunk, slamming the lid shut with shaking hands. He could not bear to look at any more of it. Not now. The memories, the pain, were too much.

But as much as he longed to collapse, to sleep and forget, Darcy knew there would be no respite. Not tonight. Perhaps not ever.

He stood, his legs unsteady, and left the room, his breath still ragged. He could not stay here, surrounded by Harry's personal things, drowning in the past. But neither could he attempt to sleep. There must be work to do—something practical, something that would give his mind a task.

The papers. Harry's papers had been brought down to the study, and sorting through them would be business. Something necessary. Something he could do to distract himself from the grief that had hollowed him out.

Darcy made his way down the hall to the study, his mind already shifting to the task at hand. The papers would require his full attention, and for now, that was what he needed most of all.

T he papers spread across Darcy's desk in an untidy sprawl, just as Harry had left them. Letters, maps, army orders—some crumpled and yellowed with age, others fresher, their ink still crisp on the page. He ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the mess. It was so typically Harry, to keep everything jumbled together, important or not, and Darcy had to force back the familiar flicker of irritation. Even now, with his brother gone, Harry's carelessness continued to haunt him.

A stack of letters sat in one corner, mostly correspondence with Harry's school friends. Darcy sifted through them absently. Here was a note from Tom Bertram, long-winded and full of good-natured banter. Another from some acquaintance in Bath, the paper already yellowing and forgot. None of it important. Darcy tossed them aside, his mind wandering.

He pulled out some outdated army orders, most of them several months old—why Harry had kept them, Darcy could not imagine. Outdated maps of the Spanish countryside, hastily sketched with faded notations, were crammed alongside scribbled lists and other half-formed thoughts that seemed entirely useless. Darcy almost laughed bitterly. Of course, Harry would keep a pile of rubbish mixed with crucial documents, as though one day all these scraps might suddenly become important.

But beneath the clutter, Darcy found other papers of more recent significance. His brother's last army orders, crisp and direct, made him pause for a moment. The reality of Harry's role—his life as an officer—felt distant now, as though it had belonged to someone else. Darcy shook his head and placed them aside.

Next, a letter from their uncle, Lord Matlock, its formal tone familiar and unremarkable. Darcy skimmed it quickly, more out of duty than interest. His gaze landed on another letter—this one from Richard, Harry and Darcy's cousin, who had been stationed in Chatham for the better part of the year. It was full of the usual bravado and casual news of military life that sounded like gibberish to Darcy. Richard's letter ended with an affectionate jibe at Harry for being "soft-hearted when it came to women." Darcy grimaced and set it aside.

His fingers lingered over the remaining papers when he noticed another letter, folded carelessly, its edges creased and worn, though the paper itself appeared relatively fresh. Unlike the others, this letter bore no coat of arms and no identifying marks beyond a broken wax seal. The seal was simple, without any stamp of identity—curious, given that Harry's correspondence usually came from those of good standing, their crests easily recognisable.

Darcy's brow furrowed as he picked it up. Something about the state of the letter—the heavy creases despite its newness, the irregular folding—ignited his curiosity. With a growing sense of unease, he unfolded it and began to read.

C aptain,

You will forgive the brevity and the lack of pleasantries, as neither are deserved. It has taken some time to find the words to put down in this letter, but now, with the situation grown desperate, I can no longer remain silent. You have wronged an innocent young woman, and in doing so, you have forever destroyed her prospects and left her in disgrace.

I write not for myself but for her, as it is not my honour at stake but hers. She believed your promises—believed that you were a man of your word, a man of honour. What a fool she was to trust you, to allow your sweet words to lead her down a path that has now left her with a ruined name and, worse, with child!

The child, at least, should have a name. You owe her that much. But what have you done, Captain? You have shunned her, acting as if you never saw her before. You have left her to bear the shame alone, abandoned her to face the consequences of your vile actions.

And now, you do not even dare to face the damage you have wrought. You are a coward, sir. A disgrace to your family name and to the uniform you wear. But I will not allow this to go unchallenged. You will make this right, or I will ensure the whole of society knows what you are.

I demand satisfaction. You will marry her and give the child a name, or I will see to it that your reputation is left in tatters. Do not think you will be able to threaten me in return, for I have no desire to protect myself, only her. I will not even sign my name, nor will I write hers, as you do not deserve the chance to save face. If you are the man you pretended to be, then you know precisely who I mean.

Do what is right. Marry her and restore what honour you have left.

D arcy's hand trembled as he lowered the letter; the words burned into his mind. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, his heart hammering against his ribs. The desk beneath his palm felt cold and unforgiving, as though the ground itself had fallen away.

Harry? Harry had ruined a girl?

His mind scrambled, sifting through every memory of his brother, every conversation they had ever had about Harry's life in London. He had known Harry to be reckless at times—charming and careless with his affections, certainly—but this? The idea that his brother had left a young woman ruined, carrying his child, seemed impossible.

And yet, the letter. The fury, the pain, the demand for satisfaction… It all pointed to one undeniable truth.

Harry was gone, but the consequences of his actions remained. Darcy clenched the paper tightly, his knuckles white. Bingley's words , the man's insistence that Darcy must visit Miss Bennet himself, echoed in his mind.

Elizabeth Bennet.

Was it she? Could it be any other? Harry said he had pledged himself to the girl—this girl Darcy had never heard of, with no fortune and no family. Why else would he do such a thing? Was that a tacit admission of wrongdoing, and Darcy had failed to notice?

And Bingley… Bingley had all but begged Darcy to visit her, to break the news of Harry's death in person. At the time, Darcy had dismissed it as an overabundance of sentiment, but now... Now, the pieces were beginning to fit together.

The sickening realisation washed over him. This Elizabeth Bennet girl was ruined. A chit of no means. carrying a fatherless child. And it was Harry's fault.

Darcy's hand slammed against the desk, the letter crumpling in his grip. His brother had left a girl pregnant, abandoned her to shame and ruin. And now, it fell to him to fix it.

There was only one thing Darcy could do.