4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

D arcy paced the length of his study, his boots scuffing the polished floor as he tried, yet again, to find a reason not to go. The direction to the Gardiner household sat neatly on the desk, written in Bingley's hastily scribbled hand, taunting him. Every instinct screamed at him to ignore it, to turn back, to let the matter dissolve into the shadows from which it had emerged. What if the girl was a fortune hunter? What if the accusations were false?

He paused, gripping the back of a chair tightly as his stomach churned. What if she was innocent—deceived into bestowing affections she ought not to have been asked for? What if everything in that wretched letter was true? His brother had seduced her, left her with child, and now—now it fell to him to salvage what little remained of their family's honour.

Darcy groaned, the burden of his duty settling like iron in his chest. If this was true, he had no choice. He had to marry her. The thought was enough to turn his stomach over again. He could feel the bile rising, threatening to overcome him, and without thinking, he hurried from the study, barely making it to his chambers before he was violently ill.

His whole body shook as he leaned over the basin, panting heavily, trying to steady himself. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think of Harry. His brother, full of life and laughter, now gone… and it was Darcy's fault.

His brother, who had left a woman ruined, carrying his child—a child Harry had meant to claim, if Darcy's own incompetence had not robbed him of that chance. Darcy clenched his fists, anger mingling with the grief and guilt that never quite left him. It was his duty to make this right. His father would have expected no less of him.

But still, the nausea persisted. What if this girl—this Miss Elizabeth Bennet—was nothing more than a cunning schemer? What if she had led Harry on, seeing in him an easy target, a way to ensnare a man of fortune? The thought twisted Darcy's gut further. He could not— would not —sacrifice his future for a fraud! No matter what the letter said, and no matter how guilty he felt.

Yet… Darcy's stomach roiled again, and he only barely dodged the necessity of another trip to the basin. How could he even think of his own needs and wants now? He had lost that right! If this girl were truly carrying Harry's child—a Darcy —he would have to marry her. There was no other option. His family's honour demanded it, and so did his devotion to Harry's memory.

Straightening, Darcy splashed cold water on his face and steadied himself in the mirror. He was pale, gaunt from sleepless nights, but his resolve had solidified. His mind was made up. He would confront Miss Bennet. He would see the truth in her face when he told her of Harry's death. If she was genuine in her grief, he would know. If she were truly… as the letter said… he would be able to see it.

And if not… well, he had every intention of offering her a generous settlement and leaving her to whatever fate awaited a woman who had ruined herself for a lie.

He dressed quickly, the stiff cravat and fine coat feeling like a kind of armour, though it could do little to protect him from the fiery darts he had already aimed at himself. His manservant hovered nearby, watching with concern, but Darcy waved him off with a terse nod. There was no time for hesitation now.

"Have the carriage brought round," he muttered.

The carriage ride was a blur of nerves and nausea. The horses' hooves clattered along the cobblestones, and each jolt sent another wave of biliousness through him. The closer they came to Gracechurch Street, the more Darcy's mind snarled with panic. What kind of woman was this Elizabeth Bennet? Why had Harry entangled himself with the niece of a tradesman? Oh, Bingley had insisted their father was a gentleman, but still—Harry had known better! He needed a wife of some fortune, someone to match his status, not the daughter of a country squire. It was irresponsible, reckless!

And yet, despite his irritation, despite the gnawing dread, Darcy felt the heavy pull of duty. The thought of the girl's grief, the child she might be carrying—it all sat like a stone in his stomach. If Harry had indeed wronged her, then Darcy had no choice. He would do what was necessary, as always.

As the carriage drew to a halt in front of the Gardiners' modest townhouse, Darcy swallowed hard, his palms already damp with sweat. He shot his cuffs, trying to shake the trembling from his hands.

"Wait for me," he instructed the driver, his voice tight. He would not be long. This meeting could end quickly if the woman proved to be a fraud.

Darcy strode to the front door, his lip curling as he looked over the house. The Gardiners were tradespeople, after all—wealthy, perhaps, but still beneath the Darcys in rank. Even a younger son could have done better than to tie himself here. Harry, what did you do?

He knocked firmly, steeling himself. The door was opened by a manservant who looked at Darcy with mild surprise, his expression quickly shifting to a professional mask.

"I am here to speak with Mr Gardiner," Darcy said, his tone clipped, formal.

The manservant's brows flickered upward slightly, but he nodded. "Mr Gardiner is not in, sir. He is not expected to return until later this evening."

Darcy hesitated, frustration bubbling to the surface. For a moment, he considered turning away, postponing the inevitable. But no. He had steeled himself for this meeting. Been ill over it. Barely forced himself into the carriage. It had to happen today.

"Then I would speak with Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he said, his voice firmer than he felt.

"Your name, sir?"

He swallowed. "Darcy."

The manservant's face altered ever so slightly—curiosity, perhaps? A hint of disdain? But the man bowed, gesturing for Darcy to follow him inside.

"Please wait here, sir," the manservant said as he opened the door to the hall. Darcy's pulse quickened as he heard murmured voices from the drawing room just beyond.

"Excuse me, ladies," the manservant's voice filtered back. "There is a Mr Darcy calling for Miss Elizabeth."

Darcy's breath felt like it was going to burst his chest. He could feel sweat gathering at his collar as his palms grew clammy.

There was an immediate outcry from within the room, voices rising in surprise and—joy? Darcy stiffened. Surely, this woman was desperate. Already, she had pinned her hopes on him. It was enough to make his stomach turn once more.

"He is here?" one voice exclaimed, full of breathless relief. "Oh, thank Heaven!"

"Show him in!" another voice added, trembling with emotion.

Darcy swallowed hard, tugging at his cuffs once more, and forced himself to step forward, his legs leaden. His hands felt slick as he wiped them against his coat and entered the drawing room.

The first thing he saw was three faces turned toward him—two young women and an older lady. The woman in the middle was striking—blonde, with a graceful composure about her that immediately put Darcy at some ease. He fervently hoped this was Elizabeth Bennet. A woman like her would be manageable. Decent. He could see her pale expression, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the perfect picture of restraint.

But then his eyes shifted to the other young woman— her .

The brunette stood, her body almost vibrating with tension, her eyes bright with feeling. Her dark hair framed a face alive with some internal storm, her whole being quivering as if the mere sight of him had sent a shock through her.

Darcy's stomach sank, the blood rushing in his ears. Please, let it not be her.

But it was.

She took a step forward, her confusion apparent as she tilted her head, the colour rising in her cheeks, her nostrils flaring with the weight of emotions just barely contained. Her lips parted, trembling slightly, and when she spoke, her voice was tight, uncertain, as if she was barely holding herself together.

"Harry?" she whispered. Her eyes searched his face, widening with dread. "Where is Harry?"

T he air in the drawing room was suffocating. Elizabeth sat with her hands clenched in her lap, her knuckles white beneath the thin fabric of her gown. Jane sat beside her, her face composed, though the tension in her every movement was impossible to ignore. Aunt Gardiner, seated across from them, stared silently at the window, her hands folded in her lap, but it was clear she was not looking at anything. The silence between them had a presence of its own, pushing in on all sides.

It was another day gone. Another day without a word from Harry.

Elizabeth could feel her whole body trembling, though she did her best to hide it. Her leg jiggled beneath her skirts, the only outward sign of her unravelling nerves. She had been pacing the room earlier, but Jane had insisted she sit down—probably to stop the relentless movement. It had not helped. If anything, being still made the anxiety worse.

Where was Harry? Had something happened? He had promised—promised to speak with his brother, to finalise everything. But now there was nothing. No word. No sign of him. And with every passing day, the silence became more unbearable. The stares they received when they went out, the whispers when they passed others in the street—it was enough to drive anyone mad.

The soft sound of Jane's voice finally broke the oppressive quiet. "Perhaps… perhaps we ought to return to Longbourn," she said gently, though her eyes never left the carpet. "We would not face such—such censure there."

Mrs Gardiner did not speak, but her expression spoke volumes. The lines around her mouth tightened, her lips pressing together, though she said nothing. It was a look Elizabeth had grown used to—one of helpless frustration. Her aunt was caught between sympathy for her and the reality of their situation, and no amount of reassurance from Elizabeth would change that.

Elizabeth scoffed, shifting in her seat. "Do you truly think Longbourn will offer any sanctuary? I am under no illusions, Jane. The good people of Meryton are likely just as scornful as the fine people of London. Did not Kitty write to us complaining of the lack of invitations?"

Jane looked up, startled by Elizabeth's sharp tone. "But… perhaps they will come to understand—once… once everything is settled. Papa could put something in the paper. After all, you do have a proposal—"

Elizabeth laughed, a short, harsh sound devoid of any real mirth. "A proposal? A proposal is only worth as much as the man who makes it—and right now, that man is nowhere to be found." She shook her head, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. "Even if we were to announce it, Jane, do you really think the people of Meryton would care? Besides, it is not for Papa to announce. That duty lies with Captain Darcy, not him."

Her voice cracked slightly as she said it. Captain Darcy. The man who had changed… changed everything , the man who was supposed to have settled all by now. Where was he?

Before Jane could respond, there was a knock at the door. Elizabeth froze, her heart leaping into her throat.

"Miss Elizabeth," the manservant said, stepping just inside the room. "There is a Mr Darcy calling."

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. The breath she had been holding for what felt like days released in a rush, and Elizabeth leapt to her feet, her heart pounding with relief.

"He's here," she gasped, her voice barely above a whisper. "Harry—he's come back!"

Jane and Mrs Gardiner exchanged a glance. "He is here?" Jane cried. "Oh, thank Heaven!"

"Show him in!" Aunt Gardiner told the manservant.

Elizabeth's whole body surged with hope, with the overwhelming joy that Harry had returned at last. All of her worry, all of her fear, melted away as she turned to the door, expecting to see the familiar face of the man who had promised to make everything right.

But when the manservant stepped aside, it was not Harry who entered the room.

Elizabeth faltered, her breath catching in her throat. For the briefest of moments, her mind played tricks on her— surely, this was Harry? The man standing before her had a similar build, a powerful familial resemblance, but no—this man was older, his face more square, his bearing more severe. Handsomer, perhaps, but his eyes—his eyes were not Harry's laughing green-blue. They were dark, intense, and searching.

Elizabeth's heart sank into her stomach. The relief she had felt just seconds before vanished, replaced by a sharp sense of confusion.

"Harry?" she said, her voice wavering with uncertainty. She shook her head, frowning as she took a step forward. "Where is Harry?"

Elizabeth's pulse pounded in her ears, her whole body suddenly rigid with confusion and a flicker of apprehension as the tall, dark-haired man glanced uncomfortably toward Jane and her aunt. His presence seemed to fill the room in a way that made it difficult for her to breathe. He bowed stiffly in her direction, his movements measured and formal.

"Miss Bennet," he began, his voice deep and subdued. "I am Fitzwilliam Darcy."

Her heart sank. The brother . The one whose approval Harry sought. Her throat tightened, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Was he here to forbid their marriage? Was he here to inform her that Harry had failed to secure his blessing? A sudden surge of defiance welled up within her. She would not cower before him, no matter how imposing or exacting he might be.

"Mr Darcy," she said, her voice firm, her chin rising slightly as she met his gaze with civility. "Where is Captain Darcy? Has he returned to London?"

For a moment, Fitzwilliam Darcy seemed to falter. His eyes, dark and intense, flickered with something that made Elizabeth's heart twist. He shifted uncomfortably, looking almost—no, it couldn't be—broken.

He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated as if the words would not come. Finally, his voice, when it emerged, was uneven, stilted, as if forcing itself out. "Harry… is… is dead."

The words crashed over her like a tidal wave, deafening her to everything but that single, terrible truth. Dead? Her vision blurred, the room tilting dangerously as the ground beneath her seemed to disappear. "No…" she whispered, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She shook her head in denial, her heart beating so hard it hurt. "No… no…"

Mr Darcy stood before her, his face ashen, his eyes locked on the floor as though he could not bear to look at her. Elizabeth could see it now—the truth written plainly in his expression. It was real.

Harry was gone.

"No!" she cried out, louder this time, her whole body trembling uncontrollably. It felt as if something inside her had been torn open, an unbearable agony tearing through her chest. Jane and Mrs Gardiner rushed to her side, their hands reaching for her, trying to hold her up, trying to comfort her with soft words she could not even hear. Their murmurs blended into the background, meaningless in the face of the storm raging within her.

She tore away from them, stumbling forward as sobs wracked her frame. Her mind barely registered her actions as she lunged toward Mr Darcy, her fists pounding against his broad chest, her voice rising in desperate, broken gasps.

"Take it back!" she sobbed, her fists striking him again and again, her words coming out in a torrent of anguish. "Tell me it isn't true! Tell me it's a lie!"

Mr Darcy did not speak. He stood motionless, enduring the force of her grief, his face drawn tight with pain. At last, his hands reached up, gentle but firm, and closed over her wrists, stilling her frantic movements. His grip was strong—too much like Harry's, the resemblance too painful to bear.

"If I could…" Mr Darcy's voice broke, and he swallowed hard, his eyes filled with an ache that mirrored her own. "If I could take it back, Miss Bennet, I would."

Her legs gave way beneath her, and she crumpled to the floor, her sobs overpowering her completely. The world around her seemed to fall away, leaving her in an abyss of grief and disbelief. Harry, her Harry, was gone. The man who had both stolen her future and promised her another, the one she had pinned all her hopes on, was gone forever.

She barely felt the hands of Jane and Mrs Gardiner trying to pull her up from the floor, their voices soft but panicked as they murmured reassurances that fell on deaf ears. They could not comfort her. No one could. Her life was over.

"Elizabeth, come now," Jane whispered, her voice quavering as she tried to coax her sister back to her feet. "You must not—"

Aunt Gardiner spoke over her, her tone far more urgent as she glanced toward Mr Darcy. "I should send for my husband. He is at the warehouse, but I will have him return at once. Mr Darcy, will you wait? We shall—"

Elizabeth heard the words only dimly as she struggled to stand, pushing away from her aunt and sister. Her knees were shaking beneath her, but fury began to rise, burning through the haze of her grief. She locked eyes with Mr Darcy, her voice ragged with the sharp edge of desperation.

"How did it happen?" she demanded, her voice trembling with anger.

Mr Darcy had turned away, his gaze fixed on the window, the muscles in his back tensed as if he were bracing himself for the onslaught of her grief. He did not speak, but the silence was its own cruel answer.

Elizabeth's voice shook with frustration as she shouted at his back. " How did it happen?"

Mr Darcy turned, his face pale and lined with pain. His gaze flicked toward Mrs Gardiner and Jane, and he spoke, his words slow, carefully measured. "May I… may I request the honour of speaking to Miss Elizabeth alone?" His voice wavered, the weight of his grief evident in every syllable. "If she is willing."

"Absolutely not!" Mrs Gardiner was quick to protest, stepping forward with a fierce shake of her head. "Elizabeth is in no state to—"

Elizabeth cut her off, her voice sharp and unyielding. "I have nothing to fear from Mr Darcy, Aunt. And what reputation is there left to care about?" She turned back to him, her eyes burning with determination. "I want the truth. Let him stay."

Mrs Gardiner looked torn, her mouth opening as though to argue, but Elizabeth's resolve held firm, and at last, her aunt sighed, glancing at Jane. "Very well," she said reluctantly. "Jane, come with me."

Jane looked desperately between her sister and Mr Darcy, but with a final pleading glance at Elizabeth, she allowed herself to be led out of the room. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Elizabeth alone with Mr Darcy in the thick silence that followed.

Elizabeth stood where she was, her hands trembling at her sides, her eyes never leaving Darcy's pale face. She had no tears left—only a fierce, aching need to know.

"What happened?"

D arcy could not bring himself to look at her. The sound of Elizabeth Bennet choking back sobs, fighting for composure, was unbearable. Whether her tears came from the heartbreak of losing Harry or from the desperate realisation of her circumstances, Darcy could not know. But the devastation was unmistakable. She was utterly destroyed by the news—whatever her feelings for his brother had been.

Darcy paced to the window, his fingers tugging at his cravat as though he were suffocating. He was too warm, too cold—his body unsteady beneath the crushing guilt. How was he to face her? How was he to tell her how it happened? That it was his fault? She had demanded the truth, and he could not deny her, though each word felt like a stone lodged in his throat.

She spoke again, her voice tight and ragged. "What happened?"

Darcy clenched his jaw, staring out at the empty street beyond the window, the autumn light too sharp against the glass. He drew in a breath, but it was shallow, trembling. He had relived the moment so many times already, each time tearing at his mind as if it were happening all over again. How could he put this into words for her?

Slowly, haltingly, he turned back to her. She was watching him, her eyes red and swollen, the torment etched in every line of her face. She deserved the truth, no matter how it broke her further.

"It was… it was an accident," he began. "We were at Pemberley, preparing for a ride. It was supposed to be nothing more than a leisurely morning." He stopped, his mouth dry, but forced himself to continue. "There was a new horse. Barking dogs, one of the stable hands… a boy, inexperienced… was struggling with it. The stallion was nervous, high-strung—lunging for Harry's mare."

He saw her flinch, but he had to keep going. He owed her that much. "I tried to calm the horse, but—" Darcy's voice caught, his throat tightening. He swallowed hard. "The horse bolted. It charged straight toward him. I shouted to Harry, I—I tried to warn him, to reach him. But it was too late."

Elizabeth Bennet's hands clutched the back of the chair in front of her, her knuckles white, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

Darcy's voice faltered, and he looked down, staring at his boots, his fists clenching at his sides. "He… he tried to move aside, but his horse was startled. It reared. He lost his balance and was thrown."

The silence between them grew heavier, more suffocating. Darcy could barely hear his own thoughts over the sound of Elizabeth Bennet's broken breathing. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering the strength to continue.

"Harry… hit the ground," Darcy said, his voice strained. "His head struck a stone. I— I ran to him, but…" He looked up at her then, forcing himself to meet her gaze, though the anguish in her eyes was nearly unbearable. "There was nothing I could do. He was—he was gone."

She shook her head, her body trembling violently. She was mouthing the word no , over and over, as if she could reject the truth he had just given her, as if she could will it away. Darcy's heart twisted painfully in his chest as he watched her. Oh , he knew that look. Too well did he know it, for it had stared back at him in his own mirror. And nothing he could say would offer her any comfort.

"I tried…" His voice cracked, and he had to pause, struggling to regain control. "I tried to save him, but… it was over in an instant."

Elizabeth's sobs tore through the silence once more, and Darcy felt as though he were drowning in her grief, in the terrible reality he had delivered to her. His brother was gone, and now so was any hope of peace for the woman sitting before him.

There was nothing left to say.

Darcy stood for a long moment in the oppressive silence, his thoughts tangled in a whirlwind of grief, guilt, and something he could not quite name. Shame lowered his gaze, but curiosity lifted it again.

She was not… unpleasant to look at. Not at all. Harry had always favoured brunettes, and though Darcy had never openly admitted it—even to himself—he had found the same appeal in women with dark curls, women with a certain fire in their eyes.

But Darcy had always held himself to different standards, ones that dictated he would marry for station and fortune, not for some fleeting attraction. Looks were irrelevant to him, especially now. This had nothing to do with beauty or desire. It was about necessity. Harry had left this woman in an impossible position, and Darcy, in turn, felt the crushing weight of responsibility for his brother's mistakes. He would make it right because Harry no longer could.

With a heavy breath, Darcy finally turned to her. "Miss Bennet," he began, his voice even but detached, "you are… distressed."

Her eyes, red and swollen, widened in incredulity. "Distressed?" she echoed, her voice sharp with disbelief. "You must be the coldest, most unfeeling man alive, to put it so lightly! Of course, I am distressed!" She took a breath that trembled on the edge of fury. "I am broken by the death of the man I meant to marry!"

Darcy flinched inwardly but held his composure. She was right, of course. But he could not allow himself to be moved by her emotion. He was here to face the consequences of Harry's actions, not to unravel himself in the face of her grief. "You were rather… attached to him, then," he said, his voice softer now, hesitant.

She closed her eyes, her hands trembling as she tried to gather herself. "Yes," she said, her voice faltering, her words nearly lost in the sobs she tried so desperately to hold back. "Yes, I was terribly fond of him… but…"

Her hesitation, the way her voice caught, sent a cold dread through Darcy's veins. He took a step closer, his gaze narrowing as he tried to read the emotions flickering across her face. "There is more, is there not?"

Her expression shifted, her face paling as though she had been struck. She broke away from him, turning toward the fireplace, her shoulders shaking as she paced away. Darcy watched, holding his breath as if it could help him hear hers better as she stood by the mantel, staring down at the hearth with her back to him. Her frame trembled from head to foot, and he could see the effort it took for her to hold herself together, to remain standing.

Then, in a small voice, she spoke. "You know?"

The words sent a deep, sinking feeling through him. Darcy closed his eyes briefly, his heart crashing in on itself. So, it was true. The letter—the horrible accusations—were not some madman's rant. His stomach churned with the knowledge that his worst fears had been confirmed. She had been left ruined, and Harry—his brother—was responsible.

"I do."

She turned to face him then, her eyes still brimming with tears, but there was something else in her expression now—a spark of strength that he hadn't expected. Despite the tremor in her body, she squared her shoulders, lifting her chin as though she could still summon some remnant of pride. "So, what now?"

Darcy's throat nearly closed up as he looked at her. It was all more than he could stomach—Harry's death, this woman's ruined future, his own overwhelming guilt. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could find some escape, some answer that would make this easier. But there was none. There was only one course left to him.

He turned away from her, his gaze falling to the floor. "I think," he began slowly, the words heavy in his throat, "that we need to speak with your uncle, Mr Gardiner."