Most men of Mr. Darcy’s rank would have enlisted an emissary to search for his sister. But, as Elizabeth had once enjoyed reminding herself, her husband’s personal courage was far greater than most men’s, both of rank and lesser. And as Elizabeth again repeated that proudly to herself, she hoped she could be forgiven for grousing about it as well. For if the army were endangered across the Channel, she wondered what chance lay for a lone Englishman, whatever his merit. That same danger, of course, was tenfold for Georgiana. Thus, Elizabeth could not truly expect Darcy not to seek her.

It was difficult not to be angry with Georgiana for endangering them both, for surely she should have known her brother would move heaven and earth to find her.

What was she thinking? Of course, the answer was that she was not thinking. She was in love. Although Elizabeth had not shared that conviction with Darcy, she was certain it correct. Had Georgiana gone to war upon some quest of salvation of the wounded masses, she might have hesitated to announce it in advance, but she would have left word. Only love, either unrequited or unacceptable, would have made her surreptitious.

Georgiana’s departure already a fait accompli, Darcy’s anticipated one loomed before Elizabeth like a gaping behemoth, for it was immediate. There was to be no private time to hold each other in close embrace before he left, no special caresses to remember, no words to comfort. She was to be bereft and alone at Pemberley whilst he went into a raging war to seek his sister.

His intention was to search for Georgiana, if not incognito, at least in stealth. The men he had sent in pursuit of her were withdrawn in favour of private agents gifted in the nuance of discretion. Darcy feared for Georgiana’s reputation, but also that word not spread more than it already had that she was alone and vulnerable. For if that be known, every scoundrel in England would have their nose to the ground seeking her trail as well. Hence, Darcy refused Elizabeth to accompany him. Not only had she asked, she had wheedled, beseeched, and deliberately wept.

Darcy was unmoved. He would not even consider it.

“I can travel with much greater dispatch alone, by horseback if necessary,” he had told her.

“I can ride horseback!” she answered petulantly knowing that was hardly the point.

He must go in stealth, alone, and unaided. And she must wait. Alone as well. Elizabeth did not argue when her tears could not move him (and chastised herself for resorting to such a feminine weapon); his resolve was in place and thus additional entreaties were quite useless. There were certain times, when he used a specific voice, that she knew her powers of persuasion had peaked.

His preparations were methodical and calm. So unruffled did he appear, so disciplined, it was forbidding. Had Elizabeth not been already in a state of profound fright, that alone might have daunted her witless. Thus, when his stoicism included a reminder of where his important papers were in the library and just what arrangements he had made for her were he to die, she did not hear him. The moment he spoke of the possibility of not returning, she ceased to listen and began to tremble.

Unlocking the top drawer of his writing table, he opened it and removed a gun. The very gun he had taught her to use upon the lawn. Holding it for her inspection, he showed her again how to cock it.

“Remember, pull it all the way back, Lizzy.” The hammer clicked twice.

No answer.

“Lizzy?” he turned.

In times of crisis, his decisive reserve had always paid him well, but that day it demanded Elizabeth weather a struggle to maintain her composure. This was not lost upon his attention and it wrested him from the orderly delineation of details.

He carefully put the gun back in the drawer and closed it. Thereupon, he rose and drew her to his chest.

“Do not despair, Lizzy. These are but precautions. To ease my mind. Will you not allow me this?”

Because he caressed her neck reassuringly, she obediently nodded. It was with reluctance, but she did nod her concurrence. She understood her duty. If she could not accompany him, she would find the benevolence to ease his way. A wife must not make her husband’s tasks more arduous than necessary. One must acquiesce happily. Dutifully. Suddenly, she tore herself from his embrace and, with all the strength she could muster, struck him across the face. His look of stunned hurt incited her to slap him again. She brought her hand back a third time, but he grasped her wrists and drew her into his arms to soothe her. Her strength spent in a fit of wretchedness, she harmlessly pounded his shoulders with impotent fists and might have fallen to the floor had he not held her so tightly.

“Pray, do not leave me,” she wailed desperately. “Please do not. Take me with you! I shall be no trouble. I shall not complain. Please,” she begged, “take me with you for I cannot bear for you to leave me, for I know I shall never see you again.”

He held her face in his hands and looked upon her so long and so deeply that she began to cry anew.

But he said simply, “Help me bear to go, Lizzy.”

Slowly, they slid in a heap upon the floor. The intimacy they had not had time for was found there upon the carpet, but not by kiss or embrace. She cupped his face in her hand and he kissed her palm. They sat thus for only a very few moments. In that time, Elizabeth realised she had not thought to write him a letter. It seemed an insurmountable oversight. She might have favoured hiding one in his trunk, reminding him of all the ways she loved him. It would have been lengthy.

The coach was called ready. They rose to go outside. Elizabeth realised there was not another word to be spoken.

By the time they reached the portico, they had both adopted their appropriately dispassionate masks. She stood aside as he, ever methodical, checked the horses one by one. When the task was compleated, he turned his attention to his trip and she saw upon his face the look of determination she had seen many times before.

Turning to her in reassurance, he said, “I shall be back before you realise me gone.”

He kissed her once upon the lips. She grasped his lapel as she returned it, then held on, pretending to straighten his jacket. Thereupon, she made her hands drop from him. It was the most difficult task she had ever asked of herself. He kissed her once again, took hold of the grip to step into the coach, turned and looked directly at her.

She mouthed the words, “I love you.”

He wordlessly said, “I know.”

Then, he pulled himself into the carriage and the door slammed shut. As Elizabeth watched his coach take the gravel lane away from Pemberley, she wondered was she right not to tell him before he left the one thing that might have made him stay.

No, she thought and shook her head imperceptibly but to herself. She could not put the burden of decision upon him: should he save his sister or remain with his wife? His wife, who was quite certain that she was again with child.