The Guest | F. Darcy

Chapter 9: The Night They Couldn't Sleep

Darcy's first thought, upon finishing the letter, was how truly depraved a man could be. His second thought—if it could be called a thought at all—was less certain. A strange numbness settled over him, thick and impenetrable. Horror, yes, that was there, but his mind had not yet decided what else he ought to feel.

He needed time.

The room around him was silent, save for the faint crackling of the dying fire in the hearth. The supper hour had passed, but he had excused himself from the evening's company, unable to endure idle conversation while his mind was so troubled. He had taken his meal alone, though he hardly remembered what had been set before him.

His gaze drifted over the flickering candlelight, unfocused. What must Adele have felt? He could scarcely fathom it. To be so desperate for her sister's happiness, to believe herself without any other choice... How had she endured it? How had she lived with it?

A long, weary sigh escaped him, and he pressed his fingers to his forehead, massaging the tension there. He was thinking too much and yet not enough. Pacing the length of his chamber had done nothing to ease his mind, and exhaustion was beginning to weigh upon him. At last, he sank into the chair at his writing desk, resolving to do one thing at a time.

He reached for his quill.

There was something that could not wait.

Wickham's sins were already too many, and for too long, his lies had gone unchallenged. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had once believed in his deception, and though Darcy knew her to be a woman of keen perception, he had little doubt that Adele's letter had shattered any remaining illusions. The broken seal was proof enough that she had read it before passing it into his hands.

That, at least, was a relief.

But he still needed to make amends.

He set ink to paper, writing first of Wickham—of the falsehoods he had spun, the true nature of his character, and the lives he had ruined. From there, his words turned to another matter, one that weighed upon him more heavily than he cared to admit. The matter of Bingley.

At long last, Miss Elizabeth would have her answers.

By the time the letter was finished, dawn was creeping upon the horizon. He had not slept.

No matter. He had no intention of lingering in bed.

Darcy rose from his chair and moved to the window, peering into the early morning light. Soon, Elizabeth would take her daily walk. He would find her then and deliver the letter into her hands.

And after that—

He exhaled slowly.

He needed to find Richard.

Adele had not slept a moment.

All night, her thoughts had drifted in restless circles, slipping between past and present, between regret and resignation. A misplaced sense of shame had begun to settle in her chest, heavy and suffocating. She had known it might come, but she had not expected it to feel quite like this.

Darcy had walked away from her.

Was it for the best? She could not decide.

Not that it mattered. She had no intention of explaining herself further, no wish to endure the discomfort of his pity or his scorn. Whatever he thought of her now—whatever he would think once he finished reading her letter—it could not change what was already done.

She was leaving.

That much had always been certain.

Charlotte was the only one who knew of her plans, sworn to secrecy by Adele's quiet pleading. Her friend had been reluctant, but in the end, she had agreed. "I cannot like it," she had said, "but I will not stand in your way."