Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Elizabeth Bennet

Six more steps. Elizabeth forced her left leg to lift and move forward. Her heart collided against her ribcage. Her breathing came in quick, suffocating bursts. Nevertheless, she did not stop. Elizabeth held onto Mr. Darcy as though he were a talisman chaining her to the earth. 

“Let us take a break,” he said, tugging her into his side. 

“One more,” Elizabeth panted, looking up at him. He, likewise, was so like Mr. Darcy, looked down on her. The rich, dark gray stare searched her face, as though it could see a fever mounting beneath her cheek. The gentleman himself set aside his own health in order to keep watch over hers. She wondered when last he slept. 

“You are the most stubborn creature I have ever known.” 

“Then I am in good company,” she mused back. Reluctantly, the corner of Mr. Darcy’s lips tipped down in that enduring little smile of his. “Come, let us continue on or you might perish of old age.”

“I am but eight and twenty,” he groused in return, his arm slipping around her waist for these last few steps. 

Elizabeth’s suite was on the second floor of the east wing at the regal Abbington Park, a sprawling estate located just north of Regent’s Park. She had never seen the like before, nor could she imagine calling such a hall her home. It was an imperial estate built for grandeur, elegance and retreat. The Earls of Claridge enjoyed a comfortable residence while in town without the London rabble tainting their walkways. A glistening, moonlit ballroom was glimpsed before Mr. Darcy led her to the east stairwell. Hundreds of candles lit their path through the immaculate corridors. The endless windows were tightly locked against the frosty winter night. Elizabeth gracelessly wiped the sweat from her brow, wishing for fewer candles to be warming the halls. 

With boundless patience, Mr. Darcy supported Elizabeth up each arduous step. He gripped her waist as she shuffled down the corridor, gulping air to keep herself moving. At long last, the hour well after midnight, they arrived at her rooms. Before they entered, Lord Claridge stepped into the corridor from her rooms. He directed her notice to an open set of double doors at the end of the hallway. 

“Elizabeth, those are my chambers,” he explained. Lord Claridge then pointed to two other sets of doors along the corridor, one of which belonged to his wife, the other to his sister Agatha. 

“Oh,” she returned in wearied surprise.

“Only our most loyal servants keep these rooms. They will not speak of your condition, nor let on to your presence. Your reputation is safe.” Elizabeth’s head tipped against Mr. Darcy’s shoulder as she attempted to keep her eyes open. “We will take a brief tour of the manor on the morrow, if you are well enough.” 

“I will be,” Elizabeth said, stifling a yawn. “Will you join us?” she asked of the gentleman keeping her upright.

“Nothing would keep me away, Elizabeth,” he assured. 

A clearing of a throat startled them from their conversation. Turning around, Fleur, Elizabeth’s new lady’s maid, stood behind them. She was a tall, broad woman with thick, wiry golden-gray hair escaping from her bonnet and a long nose. French born, she came to England in her early teens, working her way through several wealthy households until being hired at Abbington Park fourteen years previous. With her loyalty, her brawn and strict temperament, Lord and Lady Claridge engaged her to be Elizabeth’s maid. They first met at Darcy House, where she assisted Mrs. Cooper in caring for Elizabeth. Not four days later, Mr. Farr reluctantly declared Elizabeth well enough to be moved to Abbington House. 

“Come with you now, Miss Bennet; you must rest,” Fleur commanded, snapping her fingers as she would at a misbehaving child. “I ‘ave your bed prepared.” Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy shuffled past the maid, just as they were told. Lord Claridge kept to her other side. 

Looking out a window in her bed chambers, a large pond mirrored the wispy clouds and flame-bright moon above. Fleur bustled behind her, readying something or another. Lord Claridge tilted his chin toward Elizabeth, speaking quietly, as though she were mostly asleep. “I thought you might appreciate the view.”

“Lovely,” she whispered, her throat aching and parched. 

“Beyond the pond, you see the west wing. Richard and my eldest sister Augusta make their residence on the second floor. Augusta, however, rarely visits. Darcy occupies her rooms if he remains the night.” Lord Claridge pointed out the glass doors which opened to their chambers. A moment or two later, Fleur removed Elizabeth’s cloak and carefully guided her beneath the bedclothes. Mr. Darcy hesitated beside the bed. 

“Hold my hand for a moment?” Elizabeth whispered. The empty, lonely dreams plagued her nearly every time she slept; and with her fever rising from the effort of moving homes, she knew they would torture her on this night. To have his hand holding hers was sometimes the only relief. 

Mr. Darcy pulled a wingback chair from the corner, placing it directly alongside her pillow. He intertwined their fingers, setting their hands in his lap. “Close your eyes, I will remain until you are asleep.”  

For a long while, Elizabeth did not respond. So dearly did she wish to ask him to remain all night, but she knew she could not. “Only for a short while,” she said at last, “I must learn to sleep alone again.” 

“Just tonight, I will remain until you sleep,” he offered. 

Elizabeth continued to stare at him, finally nodding yes. 

Ivanovic, Lord Claridge’s valet and Berkes’ cousin, appeared a few minutes later, gesturing as to whether his master needed anything. Lord Claridge gave his valet instructions, then retrieved a chair for himself. Ivanovic brought over two footstools, and removed the earl’s coats. The one thing Ivanovic did not offer was a word of greeting or farewell, as he lost his tongue while fighting for his homeland of Hungary several years earlier. Berkes helped Ivanovic slip the noose soon after he escaped his own hanging. The young ex-soldiers eventually found an ideal refuge with Lord Claridge. Elizabeth urged Berkes to tell her story after story of his revolutionary life in Hungary and all that followed. She discovered a kindred spirit in Lord Claridge’s infamous man servant. 

Raising their enfolded hands to her moist forehead, Elizabeth struggled to swipe a loose lock of hair away. With his other hand, Mr. Darcy slipped the lock behind her ear. His touch was gentle, but not cautious. He never treated her with apprehension nor looked on her with pity. 

“Sleep, Elizabeth,” he said gently.

Waking sometime later in a cold, trembling sweat, Elizabeth immediately searched for Mr. Darcy. He slept soundly in his chair, still holding her hand. Gradually, her heart slowed and the dreadful dream faded away. Turning toward Lord Claridge, he stirred and opened his eyes. She whispered, “Ash, why are you doing all this for me?” 

Lord Claridge pressed his lips into a long line, the corners turning down into a scowl. “I… should it matter?” he answered. 

“You gave me a home.” Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears. Something warm rushed through her veins. She could not recall the last time those words felt real to her. “Home,” she echoed, unable to recall whatever else she meant to say. 

“Home,” he assured, wiping a handkerchief across her brow to remove the building moisture. “Sleep.” 

“Please tell me,” she mouthed, imploring him. Her voice gone.

“I…” he hesitated. Elizabeth begged him with her eyes wide and wet. “You must try sleeping again after.” She nodded. “For a great while, I was quite unsure of why I cared for you at all.” Elizabeth frowned, but did not respond. “You remind me of someone I once… knew.”

“Who?” she questioned. From the corner of her eye, she noted Mr. Darcy had woken as well and was listening in silently. 

“My childhood–Miss Olivia Newsome.” Lord Claridge looked down, smiling secretly, but somehow sadly. “She was… different from every other girl I had ever known. Smart, exceedingly smart… and witty. She made me laugh.” Elizabeth peeked at Mr. Darcy, he intently watched his cousin. “Livie, believed herself to be a musical genius in the vein of Beethoven, or the like. However, she could hardly play one in three notes correctly.” Once more Lord Claridge smiled that secret, sad smile. “In the summer sun, her hair the color of sunset would gleam with golds and yellows–she preferred to wear her plaits loose, despite her mother’s protests. In the winter, every winter, she would choose a new instrument to be her greatest passion. Livie would practice day and night for a fortnight, then forget it completely for some other amusement. Yet, I never thought her fickle, she was simply… searching, searching for that perfect calling.” Elizabeth rolled slightly onto her side to look better on Lord Claridge, a poor choice for she pulled painfully at her arm. Mr. Darcy immediately helped her settle back into place. 

“Livie,” he continued, adjusting Elizabeth’s blankets, “saw the world differently. It was not an ideal world, or particularly optimistic, just differently. I always pressed her to tell me more. And once she began, her blue eyes would stir like throwing a stone into a pond, growing larger with every sentence. Livie was strong, determined, unwilling to compromise…” Lord Claridge trailed off, staring at nothing in particular. 

“What happened?” Elizabeth rasped, drawing his attention. 

“Tuberculosis. She was but fifteen.”

“I… sorry,” she mouthed.

“Yes, as am I.” They were silent then. 

After some minutes, Mr. Darcy reached forward and kissed her forehead. “You are too warm, I will keep watch over your temperature tonight.” Elizabeth tilted her head, and gradually closed her eyes. The gentlemen were gone when she woke in the morning, Fleur in Mr. Darcy’s chair, knitting. 

***

Elizabeth heard his familiar footsteps; they were quick, forceful, long strides, and she expectantly turned her head toward the doors. The gentleman stopped as his cousin called to him from the corridor. She frowned, their conversation too mumbled to be heard. 

“Claridge feels as though Darcy should not have returned so soon, his servants returned to his household only this morning,” Berkes clarified for her. “Darcy replied with words unsuitable for an innocent young lady.”

“Do you have the ears of a fox?” she teased with a wisp of voice, laughing. 

“Yes,” he answered, smiling widely. “The eyes as well. Very useful, I must say. The tail, however, can be quite the nuisance.” Elizabeth suddenly yelped. “Too far,” Berkes muttered, his accent faintly breaking. Mr. Darcy and Lord Claridge dashed through the double doors, their complexions equal shades of wearied pallor. 

“No worries, gentlemen,” she hissed through a strained jaw. Slowly, Berkes shifted her arm back into position, Elizabeth biting back her groan. 

Most mornings, following an examination of her wounds, Berkes would step forward to exercise her arm. Mr. Farr originally performed the duty; Elizabeth, however, felt much more comfortable with Berkes or even Fleur at her side. Mr. Darcy tended to sit anxiously on her other side, watching closely. This was the first morning he was absent for the examination. She repeatedly shifted her eyes to the left, searching for the austere Mr. Darcy, only to find him missing. 

“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” she whispered, allowing Berkes to push her arm forward. “I did not expect you again so early.”

“Elizabeth,” he acknowledged warmly, but tiredly. In the previous se’nnight, he grew ever more wearied, ever since Lord Claridge announced Elizabeth to be his ward, ever since her confession. 

She, herself, knew not what to make of Lord Claridge’s information at first. When the earl explained that she was to have a home with him and without condition, she broke into tears. They moved her in the dark of the night in order to hide Elizabeth from Mr. Darcy’s prying neighbors. Rumors abounded, all of which whispered at undue scandal upon Mr. Darcy and his family. The men attempted to hide these concerns from Elizabeth, but she learned of them nonetheless–mostly by pressing Berkes to tell her. To discover, then, there would be a solution to Mr. Darcy’s distress, along with providing her a permanent home, Elizabeth could hardly express her relief. Still, this solution did not please everyone. Mr. Darcy spent the night before her departure pacing before the fireplace, clenching his fists, utterly silent, appearing more troubled by the hour. Elizabeth begged of him to tell her of his troubles. He insisted it was of little concern. 

“Berkes, enough for this morning,” Mr. Darcy announced.

“We are nearly done,” he returned, keeping his observant dark eyes on Elizabeth. 

Twisting her neck to Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth asked, “Are you well on this day, Mr. Darcy?” She studied his face. Purple lined his eyes; a paleness smothered the health from his expression. Elizabeth longed to reach out and stroke his cheek until a healthy vitality returned to his cheeks. How he might ever forgive her for the many burdens which she piled into his hands, she did not know. How might he ever forgive her for hiding their son from him, she did not know. Her eyes dropped, Elizabeth wanted to crawl beneath the covers of her impossibly comfortable bed, invisible to the world. Berkes reached over, placing a finger beneath her jaw. 

“Smile for me, Lizzy,” he whispered. 

“Tell me a story,” she entreated. 

Berkes considered her briefly before beginning. “As you know, I briefly fought for Spain during the second French battles; however, I spent a few weeks living in the French camps. They provided much better wine.” His eyes roved her face, waiting for a smile. The corner of Elizabeth’s mouth turned up, so he continued. Still, her thoughts remained with the brooding man to her right. 

Day after day, Mr. Darcy arrived at Abbington Park well before the proper calling hours, remaining into the afternoon and often returning in the evenings to join her for dinner. Yet, his disquiet never improved, if anything it grew worse. As her health improved, she insisted on taking walks about the manor, first no further than the corridor, then she began to push herself beyond the east wing. Darcy refused to move from her side for one moment, holding her arm with perfect steadiness. 

Nevertheless, and for all of her trials, Elizabeth discovered a most brilliant treasure in an unusual duo. During her second afternoon at Abbington Park, Lady Claridge and Lady Agatha appeared as Elizabeth woke from a nap. 

“She is awake, Agatha,” spoke a lady of elegant ordinariness. She set her knitting aside, observing Elizabeth closely. Rounded shoulders pulling back and with a long smile, Lady Claridge turned to the lovely lady to her left. “Beautiful–”

“–stunning, strangely stunning. Almost–” Lady Agatha paused, allowing for Lady Claridge to finish their sentence.

“–mesmerizing. Most mesmerizing. She is in a terrible–”

“–state. Terrible, dreadful. Her poor face.” 

Elizabeth’s eyes bounced back and forth, attempting to follow their shared speech. “Who are you?” she whispered.

“Oh, how rude are we?” Lady Claridge laughed, her chin wobbling with her chuckle. “Indeed, I am your host, Lady Cecelia Claridge.” 

“My dear, you will be my companion when you come of age, Lady Agatha Fitzwilliam.” They smiled in unison, as though sharing one mind. Elizabeth kept her stare on Lord Claridge’s sister, they were much alike, though the lady was perhaps five years older than him. She looked little like Colonel Fitzwilliam, excepting for her kind and generous smile. She liked them at once. 

“I am Elizabeth Bennet,” she returned in a rasping greeting.

“Oh, we know,” Lady Agatha sniggered. “We have been looking in on you–”

“–as you slept. We knew to give you time to adjust.” 

At the corner of her eye, she caught the secret smirk of another figure. Lord Claridge stood in the doorway, observing the scene. Elizabeth gestured him over, to which he obeyed. He checked for a fever before sitting in his usual chair, both of them mostly listening to the ladies discuss Abbington Park and how they might redecorate Elizabeth’s rooms to her liking. 

“For Christmas, we place holly down all of the bannisters. We will–” Lady Agatha began. 

“–refrain this year, of course. So you might hold them for balance, my dear,” finished Lady Claridge. 

“How do you celebrate?” Elizabeth wondered, suddenly realizing they were a mere fortnight away from the holiday. 

“When at Brambleford we enjoy a splendid affair with a roast boar and a mighty yule log. As we are wintering in town–” 

“–our celebrations will be subdued with little more than early service and a fine feast,” said Lady Agatha. “In the coming days we shall host a small dinner party of friends–”

“–though we might decorate the manor early–” teased Lady Claridge.

“–if you would like,” Lady Agatha concluded with a wink to her dearest companion. 

Elizabeth nodded. 

“Though, you will not be well enough to attend as yet,” added Lady Claridge frowning, “perhaps you will be well enough for the Twelfth Night ball at the Sherman’s.” 

“Yes, she must!” said Lady Agatha in delight. “We must have her fitted for her new wardrobe.” 

“I know of just the blue silk for the Twelfth Night Ball–” Lady Claridge began. 

“–the cerulean, yes,” completed Lady Agatha, smiling and winking. 

Lord Claridge squeezed Elizabeth’s hand as she swung her chin back and forth at following the ladies. He must have been accustomed to their odd manners. Lord and Lady Claridge’s marriage was quite a strange match which nevertheless appeared to please all three of them. Elizabeth learned that Lady Claridge was an heiress of the highest order. The entirety of the European silk market once loomed large or small depending on the whims of the lady’s late father. Lord and Lady Claridge married when he was but nineteen and she twenty-four. The union was to the great benefit of them both, though not made of love. Their one son would inherit a vast and grand estate. 

The afternoon slipped away quickly as the ladies bounced from one conversation to the next. Not until Ivanovic slipped soundlessly into the room, tapping at his master’s shoulder did Elizabeth note that the sun had set.

“Yes, it is Tuesday, I had quite forgotten,” Lady Claridge said, smirking sweetly at her husband. “Every Tuesday and Friday evening he has his appointment with Miss Hanna. A pretty little thing with a hospitable spirit.”

“I shall be along directly, Ivanovic,” Lord Claridge announced loudly, speaking over his wife. 

“Miss Hanna will be quite anxious should you be late, Ashley,” teased Lady Agatha. 

“Miss Hanna?” Elizabeth asked, her brow wrinkling. 

“Oh indeed, Miss Tabitha Hanna has been Ashley’s paramour for some many months now. How long dearest?” Lady Agatha turned to Lady Claridge, whose long mouth twisted in thought. 

“A twelvemonth at least,” Lady Claridge decided at last. 

“Come ladies,” Lord Claridge said with sudden agitation to his voice, “Elizabeth must rest now.” 

Elizabeth could do no more than stare at him with a deep blush rising in her cheeks. Lady Claridge and Lady Agatha left on Lord Claridge’s arms, laughing at him. She watched them retreat, her mind spinning with the conclusion to their afternoon. Fleur bustled forward, helping Elizabeth to stand in order to prepare for her toilette, but still she felt unease with her thoughts. 

The ladies often spent afternoons entertaining Elizabeth, bringing her treats from their trips to Bond Street and regaling her with gossip of those she did not know. Their strange relationship only further endeared them to her. 

Abbington Park indeed hosted the dinner party of which the ladies mentioned. And as promised, Lady Claridge and Lady Agatha directed the servants to decorate the halls for Christmas early. On their morning walk, Elizabeth asked Mr. Darcy to sit with her at the top of the grand stairwell to watch the trimming of the great hall. Observing the bustle, he told Elizabeth of Christmas at Pemberley when his parents were still alive. She ached at the sadness in his voice.

That night Elizabeth sat in the window seat, pressing her nose to the glass to watch the guests in the brightly lit public parlor of the north wing. Her eyes strained to see Mr. Darcy, the ladies, Lord Claridge or Colonel Fitzwilliam. Fleur admonished her time and again, imploring her to return to bed. Elizabeth refused. At one point, she thought she might have spotted Mr. Bingley laughing, though she could not be certain it was him at all, he was not mentioned to be a guest. Elizabeth speculated which of the graceful women surrounding Lord Claridge might have been Miss Hanna. She scowled at the fawning ladies who followed Mr. Darcy from one end of the parlor to the other. Leaning her heavy head against the windowsill, Elizabeth fought to keep her eyes open. 

Elizabeth jolted awake when strong, warm arms slid beneath her shoulders and knees, lifting her from the window seat. 

“I apologize, Elizabeth, I did not wish to wake you.” 

“Mr. Darcy,” she whispered, pressing her cheek into his shoulder. “Has the party ended?” 

“No,” he said, laying her atop the bed. “It is quite early.” 

“Why are you here? Will they not miss you?” Elizabeth gingerly shuffled into a sitting position. 

“I care not whether I am missed.” Darcy placed a pillow behind her back then sat in the chair beside her bed. “The air is chilling quickly. I know how your dreams plague you on especially cold nights.” 

“They are getting better,” she defended quietly. “I-I try to forget them.” 

“I know.” Mr. Darcy bent forward to reach for his boots, pulling them free of his feet with a grunt. Elizabeth’s mouth turned down. Throwing the boots aside, he removed his midnight blue jacket and matching waistcoat. Once unencumbered by his formal wear, Darcy pressed himself into the backrest, turned his head toward Elizabeth and briefly closed his eyes. A weariness blanketed his entire person. Elizabeth reached out and took his hand. His fingers closed around hers with a tension and need which stole the breath from her chest. Mr. Darcy’s eyes opened, a devouring gaze capturing her. “I will stay with you tonight, Elizabeth. Just tonight.” She nodded, drawing his hand to her chest as she cuddled into the pillows. He fell asleep easily and quickly.

***

A few days before Christmas, Elizabeth was summoned to Lord Claridge’s study, the one located within his private chambers across the corridor from her own rooms. Inside stood the earl, Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Berkes, inspecting a familiar day gown. The white ivy leaves painstakingly sown into the bodice was done by her hands. Elizabeth gripped the door, a cruel ripple traveled down her spine. The sensation of the dagger slashing into her body and Mrs. Fitzpatrick laughing played over and over in her ears. 

“H-How did you find my dress?” Elizabeth said with a tremor to her voice. 

“Is it yours?” Berkes stepped forward, gripping Elizabeth by her elbow. “Are you certain, Lizzy?” 

Glancing between the gown, Mr. Darcy’s dark stare and Berkes, she nodded. “This is the dress I was wearing when…” Elizabeth sunk back a step, Berkes catching her. “The foreign man ripped it from me when we… I-I could not reach for it before I escaped. Where did you find it?” 

“My man traced it from a boarding house to a bawdy house. The woman, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, sold it to a friend, who then sold it to another friend.”

“I see.” Elizabeth tripped out of Berkes’ hold, tore the dress off of Lord Claridge’s desk and threw it into the grate. “She tried to kill me! She tried to sell me, she pretended to be my friend–my only friend. She stole my life, my trust and my possessions. Where is that woman?” Elizabeth gingerly spun around to face Berkes, angry tears streaming down her face. “Where is she?”

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick is no longer. We took care of her.” 

The most vindictive, mean-spirited word Elizabeth ever uttered in her life rolled effortlessly off her tongue, “good.”

“We continue to search for Clayton Shardell, or as he is more widely known in his circles, Mr. Sharp. He was the one who facilitated the contract between the foreigners and Buggy. The closer we get to Sharp, however, the suspicion grows more likely that he has already been taken care of by another, likely the foreigner’s men.” 

“You will tell me when you know for certain.” This was a demand. 

“Yes,” Berkes promised. 

Lord Claridge stoked the fire, allowing the flames to consume the dress. The five of them stared as the green muslin and white embroidered ivy leaves withered into ash, the past far from withering with it. 

During the ensuing morning, Elizabeth insisted Mr. Darcy allow her to step into the garden. Sleeping little the night previous, Elizabeth desperately sought the relief of the crisp winter air. A harsh breeze whipped at her unbound locks, throwing trailing black waves into a whirlwind about her face. Mr. Darcy stepped behind Elizabeth, pulling her hair into a knot at the base of her neck. Elizabeth closed her eyes as his hand lingered. 

“Fleur remained awake with me much of the night,” her voice still rasped, and her swollen throat still bore the fingerprints of the foreigner, “I thought my hair might wait–”

Mr. Darcy interrupted, “You needn’t explain, Elizabeth.” A peaceful silence fell over them for some minutes. The agitation plaguing him began to ebb after the dinner party. “It is quite long, is it not? Your hair, I mean. Perhaps a fashion of the countryside?” 

Shaking her head, she said, “I grew it long in case I must sell it. If I needed to support Jamie and myself…” Mr. Darcy’s hand trembled around her neck, then dropped to his side. 

“Let us return inside,” he muttered. “I fear it is much too cold.” Elizabeth sighed, wishing for the previous peace to be returned. 

Upon reentering the great hall, a voice Elizabeth recognized echoed from the front receiving salon. Without thought, she staggered toward it, listening to the stuttered excuses of the nervous owner. 

“N-No, Lord Claridge, we do not wish to disturb Lizzy; nor do we desire to inconvenience you, in any way. We merely w-want to inquire at her condition as we are to travel to Longbourn for Christmas on the morrow. Her f-father is most anxious over his daughter.”

“Indeed,” returned Lord Claridge coolly.

“H-Has her fever improved?” requested Mr. Gardiner. 

Lord Claridge made no reply. 

“H-Her arm?” 

Again, Lord Claridge said nothing. 

“Will you tell us anything of my niece?” 

“The stab wound which runs clean through Elizabeth’s waist, the one which drained nearly all of the life from her delicate body, heals well. Perhaps my cousin has yet to dispose of the mattress so stained with her blood the feathers inside turned a vicious crimson. It is quite the sight to behold. If you wish to view it…” 

Elizabeth stepped into the parlor, Mr. Darcy at her heels. Lord Claridge was seated on a sofa opposite her aunt and uncle, his legs crossed and his arms folded imperiously atop his knees. 

“Aunt, Uncle,” Elizabeth hoarsely greeted. They appeared in fine health, dressed warmly in traveling cloaks. “I see you have no intention on remaining long, do not let me delay you.” 

“Oh Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner cried, tears blearing her clear sapphire gaze. She placed her palm to her throat as her gaze settled on the yellowing bruises ringing Elizabeth’s throat. Mrs. Gardiner grasped her husband’s left arm at glimpsing the sling holding Elizabeth’s shoulder in place. “M-May I come to you?”

“No, you certainly may not,” Mr. Darcy hissed. Elizabeth leaned back into his protective warmth. “If you desire to present a report to Mr. Bennet then you may tell him Elizabeth mends despite his efforts otherwise.” 

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth whispered in warning.

“Perhaps it best we depart,” Mr. Gardiner offered, looking to Elizabeth for opposition. Again, she inched backward, saying nothing. Mr. Darcy subtly settled his palm on the small of Elizabeth’s back. 

“Yes, do remove yourselves,” Lord Claridge spoke for her. He snapped his fingers, summoning two footmen from the shadows to escort the Gardiners from his home. 

“Wait, I have a few questions to ask of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner first,” interjected Mr. Darcy. The footmen once more melted out of view. “May I have my letter, Mrs. Gardiner?” Elizabeth twisted to look up at the gentleman in curiosity, his hand shifted to rest protectively over the wound in her side. Mr. Darcy’s glare seared through her aunt.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Gardiner gasped. 

“The letter Elizabeth left me in the lodge when we spent the night together in Derbyshire, it is my property and I wish to take ownership at once.” 

“I-I…” Mrs. Gardiner turned her bewildered eyes to her husband, his face the color of a wind-worn bone. Together, their eyes swung between Mr. Darcy and Lord Claridge, stitching together the true picture of Elizabeth’s past. “I burned it,” she murmured.  

“You knew?” Elizabeth cried. “You knew Mr. Darcy to be the man who saved me and never told me? You knew he was James’s father?”

“No!” Mr. Gardiner exclaimed, standing. “Even if we had known of the man’s identity, you were in no position to-to…” 

Mr. Darcy and Lord Claridge were suddenly before the aging merchant of Gracechurch Street. They towered over him as though a quince tree in the shadows of two mighty pines. Sinking back into his chair, Mr. Gardiner placed his face in his hands, shaking his head. 

Unfortunately, Mr. Darcy was not finished. “When I sent a man to Gracechurch Street in search of Elizabeth more than a year past, you directed him away from Hertfordshire and your niece. Why?” he demanded. 

“B-But he searched for Jane,” wept Mrs. Gardiner, “not Elizabeth.” 

“You knew Elizabeth gave me her sister’s name! You knew it was Elizabeth by description alone.” 

“James was lately born, he was made heir of Longbourn. What could be done at that point?” Mr. Gardiner pled. “Lizzy, we only did what we thought best.” 

“Get out,” Mr. Darcy spat at him. The Gardiner’s acquiesced immediately, the Abbington Park footmen at their heels. 

Mr. Darcy trembled, his brows pulled into a furious line. “Elizabeth,” he said low, “I am sorry… I must go.” He bent down, pressing his lips to her forehead with steady intensity. “I am so very sorry.” Lord Claridge walked his cousin out before returning to help Elizabeth to her rooms. 

The distance between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy tautened and tugged, lengthening once more. Her mind swelled with revelations. The betrayal by her family seemed to root deeper each day. The dress, Whitechapel, that night, Mr. Darcy, it all haunted her. 

Fleur quickly washed and dressed Elizabeth’s wounds for the day. The lady’s maid then helped her into a clean day gown and laid her down for a rest. Lord Claridge briefly looked in on Elizabeth before departing for his Tuesday meeting with Miss Hanna. Soon after, she sank into a restive slumber, the sun dipping into the horizon as well. 

No more than an hour passed when a burning, biting, grating sensation stirred Elizabeth to full wakefulness. The skies outside her windows were utterly empty, no stars or moon to be found. She groped about without light, her head splitting with the blistering flames tearing her body in two. Elizabeth screamed out, begging for help, for anyone to come to her aid, but her voice was wasted. She was alone. Twisting onto her side, Elizabeth grasped for the bell-pull only to fall onto her wounded arm as the pain in her side doubled her in half. Another wrenching screech ripped from chest, knocking the air from her already suffocating chest. In her fist, she clenched the tassel of the now broken bell-pull. 

A thousand tiny blades slashed at her waist, gnawing deeper and deeper into the dagger wound not hardly healed. Elizabeth tore hopelessly at the layers of fabric surrounding her breast. She spilled from the bed, once again landing on her injured arm. Blindly diving through the dark, she tripped and floundered her way into the corridor. Fortuitously, Lord Claridge emerged from the stairs and ran to Elizabeth, pulling her upright. 

“Get it off me!” 

“I don’t understand, Elizabeth? What do you speak of?” Lord Claridge frantically searched her person for whatever brought such terror to her words. 

Unable to even touch her waist, Elizabeth pointed to the stab wound. “Get it off me,” she repeated. Tears flooded her face and cheeks. Her nails dug into the soft of her palms, desperate to stop the throbbing. Lord Claridge shouted for the servants standing about to leave. Once alone, he spun Elizabeth around and ripped the gown from her back. 

“Dear God!” he cried, peering beneath the bandages. 

------------------

Firstly, the edits have been going well. Secondly, thanks for reading, as always. I hope the story continues to intrigue. The angst is still palpable, but at least Elizabeth now knows she is safe and there are people around her who cares, who genuinely care. Finally, enjoy your summers! 

I should have the next chapter up before long. *Fingers Crossed*

~ Jenna