Page 43 of Honor Requires

“I understand your family has lately suffered a loss,” she said gently. “You have my sincere sympathy.”

The colonel’s expression altered, though not in the way she expected. He did not accept the condolence with gratitude, nor did he dismiss it lightly. Instead, something sharper entered his gaze, a tension that seemed to rise unbidden.

He shook his head once, rejecting the sentiment itself. “My cousin Darcy’s death was tragic and unexpected,” he said. “The family is still reeling.”

Elizabeth stopped. The movement of the dance faltered around her, the music continuing though it seemed suddenly distant, indistinct.

“Darcy—” she began, but the word failed her. She felt the color drained from her face, leaving her pale, her breath unsteady as the realization struck with full and devastating force.

Colonel Fitzwilliam saw it at once.

“Miss Bennet—”

“I—” She could not finish. The room seemed to tilt, the air too thin, too distant.

He did not hesitate. With a firmness that admitted no argument, he guided her from the set, his hand firm upon her arm as he led her toward the edge of the room and then beyond it, into a quieter space where the noise of the assembly was softened.

“Sit,” he said, placing her carefully upon a chair. “I shall fetch something at once.”

Elizabeth could not protest. Her hands trembled in her lap, her vision blurred, and when he returned with a glass of punch, she accepted it without thought, though she scarcely tasted it.

The tears came before she could stop them. They were not in great, unrestrained sobs, but serenely, steadily, slipping down her cheeks as the meaning of it settled upon her anew.

He watched her, his expression grave.

“What may I do for your present relief?” he asked.

Elizabeth drew a breath, though it did little to steady her.

“May I—” she began, then faltered. “May I speak candidly?”

“You may,” he said at once.

She clasped her hands together, gathering what composure she could.

“I met Mr. Darcy in Ramsgate,” she said. “We became acquainted—very well acquainted—and…” Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to continue. “We were to be engaged. He left, intending to return within a fortnight, and—he never did.”

The colonel’s expression sharpened.

“He wrote of you,” he said slowly. “Not in detail, but enough that I knew there was someone—someone of consequence to him.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. “He was everything,” she whispered.

A silence fell between them, not empty, but filled with understanding.

“You did not know?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I learned of his death through a letter,” she said. “From his sister.”

At that, something in the colonel’s expression darkened. “My cousin’s former friend,” he said, his tone tightening, “Mr. George Wickham, wooed her and eloped with her before we learned of Darcy’s death. Without marriage articles, Pemberley and Georgiana’s future were not protected. There is nothing we can do. We have tried to call and to write, to no avail.”

Elizabeth stared at him. “Mrs. Wickham has written to me,” she said slowly. “Several times. Nothing in her letters seemed amiss.”

The colonel’s gaze fixed upon her. “You have received letters?”

“Yes.” Her breath caught. “The latest was at Christmas. She wrote of spending it with her husband. She said—” Elizabeth hesitated, the words now striking her differently than they had before. “She said her dear George wished to have her all to himself.”

The colonel’s jaw tightened. “Did she give any indication of suffering?”