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Elizabeth had never been so unaware of everyone else in a room. She only saw Mr. Darcy, who had become, in such an astoundingly short time, the most significant person in her life.

Her attraction to him was proving impossible to suppress. The heart which she had thought to guard was instead fluttering at the slightest glimpse of him and leaping whenever she saw him looking her way. Which happened very often.

It was strange now to recall that she had prepared herself for the assembly on the previous week without the slightest idea how momentous the occasion would be. She had only been hoping for excellent music and agreeable partners. Instead, her world had been spun about.

In the time since that first meeting there had hardly been a moment in which she was not either in company with him or thinking about him. And when they were together, she felt as though there was a strong connection between them.

But what was he feeling? He often appeared as happy to see her as she was to see him.

At every one of their recent entertainments, they had spent a good part of each evening together.

When it was just the two of them, everything felt so comfortable and the words flowed easily as though they were meant to be together.

That was how it was when they went on an excursion to Knebworth a couple of days later.

Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy paired together as they had often done on walks.

And as naturally as a married couple might do.

They were never at a loss for something to discuss, and the variation of their subjects was so great that Elizabeth thought they could spend a lifetime together without ever struggling for conversation.

A lifetime with Mr. Darcy. Was that what she wanted?

It was so early in their acquaintance to be indulging in such thoughts. Yet she was increasingly inclined to think that his feelings were not inconsistent with hers. Especially when he held his arm out to her on a sunny walk. Or when he smiled at her across a candlelit room.

But in the candlelight she had also seen those disconcerted looks at her mother and Lydia.

And even once at her father. However, there was also his friendliness toward all of them when visiting Longbourn, the occasional discussions which he seemed to enjoy with her father, and his kindness in answering her mother’s questions about birds.

If this was love, it was a complicated business.

Wondering if she was only imagining his interest. Trying to show enough of her own to encourage him while taking care at the same time not to reveal too much to others.

This was like a dance to which she didn’t know all the steps.

The movements were exciting, but there was also the fear of making a misstep.

***

Leaning out of the window into cooler air, Mrs. Bennet heard an owl hooting. The gloomy sound complemented her mood.

Her hopes for marrying all five daughters were falling apart.

Colonel Forster hardly ever called upon them anymore, and when they went out in the evenings, she never saw him paying much attention to Lydia, who wasn’t doing much to encourage him either.

Kitty seemed to have lately lost interest in officers altogether, which could be a good thing if she would just change her mind about clergymen, but that very morning Mrs. Bennet had heard her say that she considered herself too young to be thinking of marriage at all.

It was bad enough that she had been excessively selective, but now she wanted to copy the example of Elizabeth and Mary and choose no one.

Mary remained stubbornly determined against Mr. Darcy, who had accepted this dismissal instead of trying to pursue her.

Elizabeth was still refusing to make any effort with Mr. Madison, and earlier Mrs. Bennet had seen him in conversation with the artful widow who would be excessively pleased to snap him up.

And on top of this, she had been wrong about Mr. Bingley’s sisters. It looked as though Mary had been right about them not wanting Jane’s friendship, and now it seemed that they didn’t want her for a sister either.

Mrs. Bennet had so much wanted to make excuses for their neglect.

When she had not once seen them talking to Jane at the Peacocks’ party, she had reminded herself that there were a great many claims upon their company.

At the Lucases’ party, she had persuaded herself that what appeared to be Miss Bingley glaring at Jane could only be the fault of her own eyes.

When Mrs. Finch gleefully informed her that Margaret was engaged to spend a day with the ladies of Netherfield, who wished for her to be their particular friend, Mrs. Bennet had decided that this was another delusion.

But some unhappy observations that evening had put an end to her own delusions.

With eyes and ears that were working well enough, she had seen them scowling at Jane, and treating her unkindly.

Mrs. Bennet was now forced to acknowledge that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst disliked her dear, sweet daughter.

And from their coldness toward her she suspected that they didn’t like her either. But why not? They had seemed so nice at the assembly, and she had made such an effort at being friendly.

She sighed into the darkness. One would expect to be past this sort of trouble at her age. But sometimes being grown up wasn’t very different from being sixteen and worrying about what people thought and trying hard to be liked.

Only now she had to worry if Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were going to ruin her daughter’s happiness.

She didn’t doubt Mr. Bingley’s affections.

But she was wondering how much influence his sisters had with him.

A great deal, she feared. There was something dreadfully intimidating about those two ladies.

A sudden movement startled her. A large owl was swooping down, claws outstretched, ready to grasp its prey. Mrs. Bennet quickly closed the window. She was not so fond of owls after all. They were too much like Miss Bingley.

Turning about, she was startled again by the door of her bedchamber opening. Her heart leapt. Was she about to be robbed? Or murdered in her bed?

But she wasn’t in bed. And instead of a burglar or a murderer, she only saw Mr. Bennet.

“What are you about?” she cried. “You gave me such a shock.” Then it occurred to her that this was one of those visits. The sort he hadn’t paid in ages. And she couldn’t feel any enthusiasm for it.

But he said, “I heard you moving about. Are you unwell?”

So it wasn’t that sort of visit. And now she wasn’t certain if she was relieved or not. But she was happy to unburden herself.

“I cannot sleep with all my suffering. I have such burning all over, such beatings of my heart, and such pain in my head that it is impossible to get comfortable.”

Then she frowned at him, anticipating that he would now make one of his jokes about her troubles.

But he replied, “I am sorry to hear it. Is there anything I can get for your relief? A glass of wine perhaps?”

What a dear, kind man. She had misjudged him.

“A small glass of wine would be nice,” she said. “And perhaps a biscuit to nibble on.”

He hurried away to fetch them. A miracle indeed.