A Perilous Match

Chapter 18

T o say that Elizabeth was troubled by her husband’s injury would be an understatement. First the robbery on the eve of their wedding, and now this—it felt strange, almost portentous. She was unsure whether it was her growing feelings for Fitzwilliam, which she could no longer deny, or the nagging suspicion she harboured towards Phillip Darcy, or perhaps a mixture of both.

She could not quite pinpoint the source of her aversion to his cousin, but she recalled the flashes of envy that had crossed Phillip’s face on the day Fitzwilliam took his seat, and the manner in which he had opposed their union—a fact she had learnt from Jane via Colonel Fitzwilliam. Perhaps it was this—perhaps she disliked him because he seemed to harbour an unspoken dislike for her. Yet, whatever the reason, she found herself unable to cast aside this lingering unease, no matter how hard she tried.

As Fitzwilliam changed from his fencing attire, Elizabeth found herself haunted by the image of the bandage, stark against his skin. It was not simply the injury that troubled her, but the deeper realisation of what it represented. For the first time, she truly confronted the fear that something might happen to him—a fear that had lurked at the edges of her consciousness but had now come sharply into focus.

She resolved that she must, at the very least, soothe her suspicions regarding Phillip, for it was the only thing she could control. Later that evening, after Fitzwilliam had retired to his study, Elizabeth sought out Georgiana, whose gentle presence had always been a source of comfort. The younger woman was seated at the pianoforte, playing a piece by Haydn with her usual grace. Elizabeth listened until the music ceased, and Georgiana looked up.

“Elizabeth, how are you?”

“I am well, but Georgiana,” she began, “may I ask you something? It is about your cousin, Mr Phillip Darcy.”

Georgiana turned from the pianoforte, her expression one of mild curiosity mixed with concern. “Of course, Elizabeth. What is it?”

Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, choosing her words with care. “I confess, I do not know him well, and I wonder—what is your opinion of him? How would you describe his character?”

Georgiana’s hands stilled on the keys, and she glanced away, a shadow of unease passing over her features. “Phillip is… complicated,” she began slowly. “He is not without merit, but he is also not without flaws. His temper can be quick, and his disposition is sometimes difficult. He is not like my brother.”

The carefulness of Georgiana’s reply did not escape Elizabeth, and it only served to deepen her unease. “Do you mean to say he is not a good person?” she asked.

Georgiana looked troubled, as though torn between familial loyalty and a desire to be truthful. “He is not a terrible person,” she said at last, her words deliberate, “but he is also not… what one might hope for in a friend or a brother. There are times when he can be unkind, though he is capable of charm and wit.”

Elizabeth absorbed this in silence, carefully considering Georgiana’s words. She did not wish to voice her own suspicions, not when they were based on a single incident, however unsettling. She did not wish to alarm Georgiana unduly, especially given the close bond between her and her brother. And yet, Elizabeth could not dismiss the growing sense of foreboding that seemed to gather around the figure of Phillip Darcy.

“I see,” Elizabeth said at length, offering Georgiana a reassuring smile. “Thank you for your honesty, Georgiana. I was merely curious.”

Georgiana nodded, her brow still furrowed with concern. “Is everything well, Elizabeth? You seem worried.”

Elizabeth forced herself to relax, to push aside the unease that threatened to overwhelm her. “I am fine,” she replied, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them. “I was only concerned after hearing of a small mishap during your brother’s fencing match with Phillip. But it is nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

Georgiana’s expression softened, and she reached out to touch Elizabeth’s hand. “Fitzwilliam is always careful, and he would never put himself in harm’s way. And Phillip adores him. I am sure it was just an accident.”

Elizabeth nodded, though her heart remained troubled. She knew that Fitzwilliam was indeed careful, that he possessed a natural caution that often served him well in both business and personal matters. But the look in Phillip’s eyes—the coldness, the envy—continued to haunt her, and she could not help but wonder if there was more to the incident than Fitzwilliam had perceived or was willing to acknowledge.

As the evening wore on, Elizabeth’s thoughts became increasingly introspective. She found herself reflecting not only on the day’s events but also on the depth of her own growing feelings for husband. The fear she had felt upon seeing his injury had been visceral, immediate, and it had shaken her more than she cared to admit. It was as though, in that moment, she had been forced to confront the reality of her attachment to him—a reality she had perhaps been avoiding until now.

She had entered their marriage with a sense of duty and friendship, but over time, she had come to realise that her feelings for Fitzwilliam were far deeper than she had initially understood. She cared for him—not just as a partner or companion, but with a fierce and protective tenderness that both surprised and frightened her. The thought of something happening to him, of losing him, was unbearable.

This realisation brought with it a new set of fears and uncertainties. Elizabeth had always prided herself on her independence, on her ability to navigate the world with confidence and wit. But now, she found herself grappling with emotions that were unfamiliar and unsettling. She did not know how to reconcile these feelings with her self-image, nor how to express them to her husband without feeling vulnerable or exposed.

But for now, she simply allowed herself to feel, to acknowledge the depth of her affection for Fitzwilliam and the fear that accompanied it. She did not know what the future held, but she was determined to face it with the same courage and resolve that had always guided her. Whatever challenges might arise—whether from Phillip or from within her own heart—she would meet them head-on, with her husband by her side. And she would protect him, just as fiercely as she knew he would protect her.

As the fire in the hearth burned low and the shadows lengthened, Elizabeth rose from her chair and made her way upstairs, her mind still racing with thoughts and emotions. She paused outside the door to Fitzwilliam’s study, listening to the quiet rustle of paper within, and felt a wave of affection wash over her. She would speak to him, she decided—perhaps not tonight, but soon.