Page 140 of The Difference of a Darcy
“Fitzwilliam—”
He shook his head. “Please. I must go. If I stay another moment, I shall say something I regret.”
She did not stop him. Only watched, wordless, as he turned and descended the stairs.
Outside, the air was cold and sharp against his face. He walked without direction, his boots crunching over the frozen gravel of the path that led toward the river. The pale sun waslow above the trees, the air so still that the smoke from the chimneys hung unmoving in the sky.
He felt hollow. Every purpose that had driven him these past months had dissolved with Wickham’s death and Georgiana’s safety. What remained was only the dull ache of failure.
Yes, they had succeeded in saving her—but at what cost? Elizabeth had lost her family, and he had lost his. Even if they stayed, what future could they claim? Would they marry here, in this false world, and bring children into a life that was never meant to exist? Could he condemn her to that—to living as the wife of a man who no longer existed in truth?
A bleak thought settled in his chest. Perhaps he should leave. Go to the Americas, or farther still. Leave Elizabeth here, where she could remain as Georgiana’s companion and friend. She would be safe, cared for, and perhaps one day she might find a kind of peace.
As for him—he was accustomed to solitude.
The river’s edge was quiet, the water dark and slow beneath a veil of mist. He stared into it until his reflection blurred and vanished, and the thought came unbidden:I have ruined everything again.
He drew a shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and let the cold wind strike his face.
It was as though he had become what the fae had made him—an absence, a hollow man in a hollow world.
And for the first time since that cursed night, he began to wonder if he was meant to stay lost forever.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth stood frozen in the corridor, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing in her ears. For a long moment shecould not move. His words still hung between them, sharp and bewildering.
No purpose. Nothing left.
Her lips parted as if to call him back, but no sound came. Then, from somewhere below, a faint creak of hinges carried upward—the sound of the front door closing behind him.
She moved at once. Heart pounding, she crossed the corridor and slipped into a small drawing room whose tall windows overlooked the gardens. She pushed the curtain aside and pressed close to the glass.
There he was—striding across the frosted lawn, his greatcoat dark against the pale morning. He did not look back. The path he took led toward the woods beyond the east terrace, the very one they had walked together so many times before.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She stood there for a moment, watching him until the trees swallowed him from sight. At first all she felt was shock—cold, heavy, and incomprehensible. But as his last words replayed in her mind, something else began to stir.
Anger.
Howdarehe say there was no purpose left? What ofher? Did she mean nothing now that Georgiana was safe? Did he think their time together—their long nights of fear and planning, their small victories, their companionship—counted for nothing?
Her pulse quickened, heat rising in her chest. He had spoken as if all his worth were measured by what he could mend, what he could control. As if being with her were not enough, not reason enough to live and fight.
She pressed her hand against the glass, her reflection shimmering faintly in the morning light. “You foolish man,” she whispered. “Do you not see what you have done? Whatwehave done together?”
They had built something between them these past months—something fierce and unspoken, forged through hardship and shared purpose. Though neither had named it aloud, she had believed they understood one another.
But now he would simply walk away? Leave her behind with words of regret and ruin, as though all they had endured together were meaningless?
The anger grew, bright and burning. She turned from the window, her skirts brushing sharply against the chair by the wall. “No,” she said aloud, her voice shaking with indignation. “He doesnotget to do this.”
Without another thought, she gathered her shawl from the back of the settee and strode from the room. The air in the corridor was cold, but her resolve was hotter than any fire.
If he meant to lose himself again in those woods, she would find him there—and she would tell him exactly what she thought of his talk of purposelessness and ruin.
Whatever he believed, she was not about to let Fitzwilliam Darcy vanish from her life.
Not when they had finally found one another.
