Page 16 of To Love And To Cherish
“No, you didn’t. You were serving your country.”
Darcy turned to face his cousin. “I should have written more often.”
“Enough! You know perfectly well we weren’t allowed to write.” Richard frowned.
“You honored him in every way you could. You’ve risked your life. You’ve served England. You have nothing to regret, Will.”
Darcy didn’t answer, but the words settled somewhere deep. He would hold onto them.
That night, they finished the brandy as they reminisced over the past four years.
“Do you remember the officer in Dijon who swore he’d been invited to tea by Napoleon himself?” Richard said.
Darcy chuckled. “And we told him you were the Duke of Kent’s cousin.”
“He bowed and scraped his obeisance.”
“Twice.”
They laughed, and for a moment, the grief loosened its grip.
Once back in England, Darcy sold out of the military. He donned black, buried his father, and comforted his sister, who viewed him as a stranger. He took up the mantle of Pemberley.
Amid the many letters and engagements he attended that month, he penned one brief note that stirred memories of a simpler time.
Mr. Gardiner,
I write to honor a promise I made to you and your family many years ago. I have returned to England. You may coordinate any matters about my investment through my solicitor, Mr. Kendal.
My travels in France were extended due to family obligations. Many of my father’s relations still residethere, and I took the opportunity to visit them at their country estates.
I trust you, your family, and Miss Elizabeth are all in good health. My own family is in deep mourning over the loss of my father, and I’m doing all I can to support my sister during this difficult time.
Please extend my warm regards to Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Elizabeth.
Respectfully,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Later that evening, once the house had quieted, Darcy retired to his study. The fire had been lit in advance, casting a soft, flickering glow over the shelves and the great mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father. It was there that his valet, James, brought in the worn wooden box, the one that had travelled with him across borders and years, battered but constant.
Darcy opened the lid with a measured hand.
Near the top, precisely as he had left it, was the small journal bound in brown calfskin. He lifted it from its place and brushed the cover with his thumb. When he opened it, the inscription caught his eye at once.
He traced the letters of her name with a single finger, slowly, thoughtfully.
Elizabeth Bennet.
He sat down, the journal resting in his lap, and stared into the flames, his thoughts carried far from the shadowed walls of Pemberley.
Where was she now? He had not heard her name in years, not since the letters had ceased. She would be nineteen, perhaps twenty. Was she married? Had she children of her own? Had she returned to her home and, when her feelings grew too large to contain, did she still sing to herself as she once had?
He pressed the journal closed and held it for a moment before placing it back in the box, near at hand, in plain sight.
So much had changed. His father was gone. England felt heavier with the war raging on. Yet some part of him remained suspended in time, in a drawing room in Cheapside, filled with laughter and light.
And somewhere in that remembered light was Elizabeth.
