The Guest | F. Darcy

Chapter 11: the Separated Couple

As much as Darcy longed to see Adele, his first priority upon arriving in town was Bingley.

The silence from his friend over the past three weeks had been deeply unsettling. Bingley was a man of habit, one who maintained regular correspondence, whether daily or at the very least weekly. Even when Darcy himself had neglected to write, Bingley had never allowed that to discourage him. For not a single letter to arrive during Darcy's entire stay in Kent was not merely unusual—it was alarming.

Thus, the moment he stepped into town, he made his way directly to Bingley's residence.

He found him in his study, seated behind a desk strewn with unopened letters and untouched paperwork. The sight alone sent a jolt of unease through Darcy, but it was the man's countenance that troubled him most.

"Charles," he greeted, stepping inside.

Bingley looked up at him, his face paler than usual, his ever-present warmth dimmed.

"Darcy," he replied simply. There was no anger in his tone, but neither was there his usual buoyancy.

Darcy studied him carefully. Bingley had always been one of the few men whose face betrayed every feeling, every fleeting thought. And now, what Darcy read in his friend's expression was unmistakable—melancholy, regret, heartache.

Adele had been right. Miss Bennet had not been indifferent. And from the look in Bingley's eyes, neither had he.

A sharp pang of guilt struck deep within Darcy's chest. He had done this. He had stripped Bingley of a happiness that had been rightfully his, and, in doing so, had deceived Adele in the process.

He hesitated now.

Should he still seek out Adele, knowing she had deliberately fled from him?

Or had he already done enough damage?

Adele penned a letter to Jane and the Gardiners, informing them of her arrival in town. Lady Marshall, ever insistent on propriety, urged her to send it through one of the footmen rather than delivering it herself.

By the afternoon, the footman returned with a reply—an invitation from Aunt Gardiner, requesting that Adele visit them at her earliest convenience. She had no objections, and Lady Marshall, with a dramatic sigh, declared that Adele must go and "leave an old woman to her misery for at least one evening."

Thus, she sent back her acceptance, once again pressing the footman into service.

She had a single week in town before their departure for Marshall Manor. Most of it, she intended to devote to caring for her aunt. But she would not leave without seeing Jane. She needed to be certain her sister was well.

And in whatever time remained—when she could neither tend to Lady Marshall nor visit Jane—she would allow herself the luxury of solitude.

After all, that was how she had always healed. She had never relied on another's comfort. She had simply endured, licking her wounds in silence.

Jane was not doing well.

As soon as Aunt Gardiner left them alone, Adele's younger sister burst into tears.

Adele was not startled. She had been watching Jane closely since her arrival, searching for signs of distress. The moment she saw the quiver in her sister's lips and the way she clutched her hands together as if trying to hold herself together, she knew.

She pulled Jane into her arms, holding her tightly as the young woman sobbed against her shoulder.

It wasn't easy.

Jane was the kindest, sweetest soul Adele had ever known, and seeing her like this—heartbroken and weary—felt like a wound reopening in Adele's own chest. It made her want to cry too. And a few tears did escape, slipping down her cheeks as she whispered soothing words to her sister.

Thank goodness, Jane didn't notice.

The afternoon passed with hushed words and quiet comfort, and when Adele finally returned to Lady Marshall's residence, exhaustion settled over her like a thick fog. She had done what she could for Jane, but she could not change the past. She could not bring back what was lost.

And as for the present—her own troubles awaited her.

Now, she sat in her room, brushing her hair absentmindedly, her heart pounding from the gossip she had overheard in the streets.

Mr. Darcy was in town.

The words had struck her like a bolt of lightning, sending her hurrying home without a moment's hesitation. She had barely reached the house before she was instructing the guards that if anyone—anyone—except the Gardiners asked for her, they were to say she did not live there.

She nearly slammed her brush down in frustration, her fingers tightening around the handle as she recalled the last time she had seen Mr. Darcy.

She was angry.

She was embarrassed.

And she wanted—desperately—to forget.

But her mind would not let her.

His voice, his expression, the way his words had cut through her like a knife—everything came rushing back with a clarity she despised.

Adele pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, inhaling sharply through her nose.

Even sleep would not come easily tonight. She could feel it already—the creeping coldness settling into her bones. She was retreating into her shell, inch by inch.

And this time, she wasn't sure she wanted to come back out.

The candlelight flickered, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. Adele sat on the edge of her bed, gripping the sheets in her lap, staring at the dim glow as if it could burn away the thoughts that tormented her.

She had done everything she could to avoid this—to avoid him.

She had fled Kent before he could come to her. She had left no word, no message, only that cursed letter she had forgotten at the Parsonage. And now he was here.

Would he seek her out?

The possibility made her stomach twist.

She had given strict instructions to the guards, but if Mr. Darcy was determined, if he truly wanted to find her, could she stop him?

Did she even want to stop him?

Adele let out a shaky breath and stood. She crossed the room to the window, pushing the heavy curtain aside to glance at the street below. The city had quieted at this late hour, but the air still buzzed with the remnants of the day's energy. Carriages rattled over cobblestone streets, the occasional flicker of a lantern marking their passage.

Somewhere in this city, he was near.

Her grip tightened on the fabric of the curtain.

She thought of Jane's tears, of her own, of the years she had spent dreaming of something that had never truly been hers.

He is not coming for you, she told herself sternly. And even if he does, you must not let him in.

With a decisive nod, she turned away from the window, extinguishing the candle on her bedside table. The room was plunged into darkness, but even then, sleep did not come.

Instead, she lay awake, eyes open, waiting for something she told herself she did not want.