The Guest | F. Darcy

Chapter 6: In Vain Have I Struggled

That evening, Mr. Collins, noticing how truly unwell Adele looked, did not press her to accompany them to Rosings. Instead, in an uncharacteristic display of consideration, he suggested that Elizabeth remain behind with her.

Elizabeth, though visibly concerned, refrained from pressing the issue when Adele weakly dismissed her inquiries and softly asked to be left alone. But her retreat to the adjoining room was not without hesitation. She sat with an open book in her lap, her eyes scanning the pages without comprehension, her thoughts filled with worry. Adele had been quieter than usual since their walk that morning, her face pale, her eyes distant. And now, with their aunt and uncle absent, Elizabeth was left to wonder what had caused this change in her sister—wonder, and worry in silence.

Meanwhile, alone in the parlor, Adele stared at the letter in her trembling hands.

She had once imagined writing a different letter—one where she poured her heart onto the page, confessing the feelings she had harbored for Fitzwilliam Darcy since childhood. She had once believed, foolishly, that those feelings were returned.

But that illusion had been shattered.

Darcy was responsible for Jane's heartbreak. The man Adele had adored, the man she had trusted with her heart, had torn her sister's happiness apart as if it were nothing. And now, her own foolish dreams lay in ruins alongside Jane's.

Her throat tightened as she blinked rapidly, forcing back tears.

She could not face him.

Not yet.

Instead, she turned her thoughts to Jane. Though she would take to her grave the knowledge of Darcy's interference, she still missed her sister fiercely. She wanted—needed—to write to her, to offer comfort, to assure her that all was not lost. Jane's heartache was fresh, raw, untempered by the numbness that Adele had long since developed. And what pained Adele most was knowing that Jane would never admit to the full extent of her suffering.

The sharp chime of the doorbell startled her from her thoughts.

For a fleeting moment, she felt relief. Perhaps it was Richard. She needed to speak to him—to tell him what his cousin had done. If not for Richard, she might have already told Elizabeth everything. But her sister thought so highly of him, and Adele hesitated to destroy that admiration.

And yet, perhaps he had come with good news. Perhaps he had come to propose.

But that hope was short-lived.

Because the man who stepped through the doorway was not Richard.

It was Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Adele's breath caught in her throat, her body going rigid as he entered the room. She had no time to prepare herself, no chance to steel her heart against the storm that always seemed to accompany his presence.

He did not wait to be seated. Nor did he waste time with pleasantries. Impatiently, he inquired after her health, attributing his visit to a desire to hear that she was recovering.

She answered him with cold civility.

If he noticed, he gave no indication.

For a few moments, he sat in silence. Then, without warning, he stood, pacing the room with restless energy. Adele sat still, her fingers clenching the fabric of her gown, her heart pounding furiously against her ribs.

After what felt like an eternity, he stopped abruptly and turned to face her, his expression taut with some great internal struggle.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

Adele felt as if the air had been stolen from her lungs.

She stared at him, unable to comprehend the words that had just left his mouth. She had spent the entire day drowning in despair, in the certainty that he could never love her—that he had never loved her. And now, he stood before her, eyes burning with intensity, declaring his love as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Her heart ached, her mind screamed.

But before Darcy could say another word, she raised a trembling hand to silence him.

"Stop, please," she whispered, her voice raw with pain. "You cannot say that."

Darcy frowned, confusion clouding his gaze.

She let out a shuddering breath, barely able to contain the torrent of emotions threatening to consume her.

"Tell me, Mr. Darcy," she said, her voice laced with quiet fury, "do you enjoy being a hypocrite?"

"I beg your pardon?" His brow furrowed, his expression shifting from confusion to something bordering on concern.

He studied her face, searching for some explanation, but found only coldness—coldness where once there had been warmth.

Something inside him twisted painfully.

Gone was the woman who had smiled at him during their walks, who had laughed at his dry humor, who had once looked at him with such unguarded fondness.

No, the woman standing before him was not Addie.

This was Miss Adele Bennet of Longbourn.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

"Do you truly wish to shackle yourself in the inconveniences of an imprudent marriage," she asked icily, "with the same family you just saved your dearest friend from?"

He froze.

Adele saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes, saw the exact moment he understood.

The memory hit him with the force of a blow.

He had said those words—to Richard, on their journey to Kent. Half-drunk, burdened with guilt, attempting to justify his actions, trying desperately to forget how it must have hurt her.

"Adele, I—"

"Tell me," she continued, her voice trembling with emotion, "do you truly want the money-mongering mother-in-law and silly sisters that you just stopped your friend from associating with?"

He did not speak.

"You tore my sister's happiness from her hands," she whispered, her voice heavy with pain. "You caused her as much heartache as you did your friend. Can you deny it, Mr. Darcy?"

His jaw tightened. "I have no wish to deny that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister," he admitted. "Nor that I rejoice in my success. Towards him, I have been kinder than towards myself."

Adele clenched her hands into fists, struggling to keep her composure.

Darcy saw the tears glistening in her eyes—and something inside him cracked.

"Thank goodness," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "You just saved me a heartache, Mr. Darcy. I truly don't know what I would have done if I had been the one declaring my love for you—only to learn how ruined a woman I am in your eyes."

His breath hitched.

Ruined?

He had never—never dreamed—of her in such a way. But the way she clutched her heart, as though trying both to shield and soothe it, made something inside him break.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she delivered the final blow.

"Tell me, Mr. Darcy," she said, her eyes burning with unshed tears, "would anything in this world have convinced you to take, along with the money-mongering mother and silly sisters... a woman ruined by your own childhood friend... as your wife?"