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“I had hoped to speak with Mr. Bingley about my daughter Jane,” Mr. Bennet continued.

“I believe his regard for her to be genuine. And while I do not presume to dictate the course of any young man’s affections, I had hoped that a private word might prompt some clarity—or at least, forestall confusion. ”

Darcy offered no interruption, only the faintest shift of posture.

Mr. Bennet allowed a small, wry smile. “You need not worry, Mr. Darcy—I have no intention of requesting your friend’s hand for her, nor yours for any of mine.”

That drew a brief breath of amusement from Darcy, quickly masked.

“But I confess,” Mr. Bennet went on, now more thoughtful, “that I find myself in difficult circumstances—ones which make clarity all the more urgent. I cannot, in good conscience, disclose more to you, not yet. We have only just met, and I do not expect assistance from a stranger. But I do believe you a man who understands what is spoken between the lines.”

Darcy regarded him steadily. “And what is it, Mr. Bennet, that you wish me to hear between the lines?”

Mr. Bennet clasped his hands behind his back and walked a few paces toward the window. “Only this—that I have made a grave mistake, and that I would rather not see my daughter suffer the consequences of my error, should it be within your friend’s power to prevent it.”

Darcy looked toward the fire, then back to his guest. “I understand.”

There was no promise in his voice, but there was no indifference either.

That last remark drew a brief glance from Darcy, and a trace of something unspoken passed between them—respect, perhaps, or understanding.

Just then, the butler entered quietly and bowed. “Mr. Darcy, shall I prepare to serve dinner?”

Darcy glanced toward the windows, then back to Mr. Bennet. “It is unlikely Mr. Bingley will arrive in time for the meal. Perhaps later in the evening. You are welcome to stay and dine, Mr. Bennet, if you would find it agreeable.”

The older gentleman offered a polite smile. “You are generous, sir, but I have already been more of a jinx than a guest. My family will be expecting me. Still, I thank you for your civility—and your silence.”

Mr. Darcy inclined his head. “It was no trouble.”

As they stepped back into the hall, Mr. Bennet turned to Darcy once more, adjusting the reins in his gloved hand.

“Since I missed Mr. Bingley today, I wonder if I might ask you to deliver an invitation on my behalf. When your friend returns, please inform him that Mr. Bennet of Longbourn hopes he and his companion will join us for dinner—tomorrow evening, if convenient.”

Darcy nodded. “I shall convey the invitation—and, if you will allow it, accept it on my own behalf as well.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled, his voice dry. “I gather the Lucases were quite honored to host you today. My wife would never forgive me if I failed to extend the same courtesy. And, of course, it would be a pleasure for my daughters to receive such distinguished company.”

Darcy’s expression shifted, almost imperceptibly, at the edge of a smile. “Mr. Bingley will no doubt be pleased. And I am at your disposal.”

“Excellent. Then I shall expect you both—unless, of course, the Lucases succeed in luring you back with another plate of seed cakes.”

“That would be a challenge to resist,” Darcy replied with quiet amusement.

Mr. Bennet gave a short nod. “Until tomorrow, then.” He mounted his horse and turned toward the drive, the crisp air brushing against his coat.

As he passed through the gates, the chimneys of Netherfield disappeared behind him, and his mind turned to what might be said—and what must not—at the dinner table.

***

The sky had begun to dim by the time the Bennet sisters’ chaise approached the gates of Longbourn.

The golden hues of sunset had faded into a cooler violet, and the familiar outline of home stood calm against the quieting landscape.

Neither Jane nor Elizabeth had spoken much on the road from Meryton.

The gravity of their uncle’s words had settled heavily over them—too clear to deny, and too immediate to escape.

As Elizabeth brought the small chaise to a halt, she touched Jane’s hand gently.

“Before we go in,” she said, her voice low but firm, “promise me one thing.”

Jane turned to her, already knowing what she would ask. “You wish me to say nothing to Mama?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Not to Mama, nor to the younger girls. There is no sense in spreading panic when nothing can be done by it. I shall speak to Papa myself—at the earliest moment I can find him alone. But until then, no one else must know.”

Jane hesitated, her face troubled. “But what if he refuses to act? What if he thinks it still may pass?”

“Then I shall make him understand that it will not,” Elizabeth said quietly. “There is no more room for evasion. Not for him, and not for us.”

The front door opened just as they approached, and Mrs. Hill appeared with a lamp in hand, welcoming them with her usual warmth.

“There you are, Miss Bennets—your mother has asked after you twice, though dinner is not yet served. We are also waiting for Mr. Bennet, who took a ride to Netherfield but has not yet returned. Madam is rather put out—he left without a word, and she has been in a state ever since.”

Jane, always the peacekeeper, offered a gentle smile. “I am sure Papa had his reasons, and he will not be much longer. Perhaps the ride took more out of him than expected.”

Mrs. Hill gave a knowing nod, though her expression betrayed sympathy more than reassurance. “If anyone can calm her, Miss Jane, it is you.”

Elizabeth said nothing, but exchanged a glance with her sister. So—Father had gone to Netherfield. That explained much, and perhaps—if he had been fortunate—it would prove the first step toward something more hopeful.

Together, they stepped inside, the soft glow of the hall lamps guiding them into the house, where normal conversation would resume, for now, like a carefully tended fiction.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hill,” Jane replied with a gentle smile.

Elizabeth stepped through the threshold, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and beeswax washing over her.

She felt, oddly, as though she were walking into a house that looked like her own but carried a different weight now—a more precarious silence, hanging between what had been known and what was yet to be revealed.

“Tomorrow morning,” she murmured to herself, “or sooner, if the chance comes.”

She removed her bonnet and gloves with calm, deliberate hands and followed Jane into the drawing room, ready to take up the performance of normalcy for just a little while longer.

***

As the hour for dinner drew near, the elder sisters had changed from their walking dresses into fresher gowns more suitable for the evening table.

It was not a rule strictly observed in every household, but Mrs. Bennet valued the appearance of order and refinement—particularly when she imagined the possibility of company.

Mrs. Hill moved briskly between kitchen and dining room, issuing instructions with quiet efficiency—ensuring that the silver was polished, that the pudding had not collapsed, and that the decanter of claret had been properly uncorked.

In the drawing room, Mrs. Bennet presided over her daughters, perched with restless energy on the edge of her favorite chair. She had scarcely allowed Jane and Elizabeth to sit before demanding an account of their afternoon.

“Well, girls,” she began at once, “tell me everything about your visit.”

Jane smiled mildly and folded her hands in her lap.

“At Lucas Lodge, everything is well, as you know,” she said smoothly.

“There was a pleasant atmosphere—as always. And, to vary the scenery a little, Sir William proposed that we accompany them into Meryton. Charlotte had a dress to collect from Madame Lefèvre, although it was delivered after the ball. In any case, I believe she was satisfied with what she had already chosen.”

“But did you not see Mr. Darcy?” Lydia broke in, her tone sharpening with sudden interest. “I heard James—the messenger—said he was still about.”

“Yes,” Jane replied. “Quite unexpectedly. We encountered Mr. Darcy as we passed the bookseller’s shop. He was polite, and he walked with us for a few minutes before we parted ways.”

“Gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet. She turned toward her second daughter. “And he dared to speak to you? To you, Lizzy? Well, I never thought to see the day. What did he say?”

“He asked about a book,” Jane answered calmly, before Elizabeth could reply. “A volume of poetry. We spoke only briefly, and then Charlotte came out to join us.”

Mrs. Bennet huffed. “I daresay he has no business approaching young ladies in the street without some proper purpose. What can he mean by it? And Mr. Bingley in London, of all places!”

“It is only for a short while, I believe,” Jane said gently. “Mr. Darcy mentioned he expected him back either this evening or tomorrow.”

“Only for a short while,” Mrs. Bennet muttered, unimpressed. “That man is forever coming and going. I declare it is enough to make one’s head spin.”

Kitty leaned back with a sigh. “I should rather know whether Colonel Forster has returned to the inn. Lydia said he might.”

“I only said he might come next week,” Lydia corrected. “He is still with his regiment near Bedford, I think.”

Mary, who had been quietly reading in the corner, looked up with a slight frown. “I wonder how long Papa will be out. Dinner is already quite late.”

“Oh, Mary, you are always thinking of practical things,” Lydia said with a laugh. “Papa probably went to escape the noise.”

“I daresay he went to Netherfield,” Jane added serenely. “That is what Mrs. Hill told us.”

“And he did not say a word to me about it before leaving,” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “It is really too bad. If he returns with any foolish notions about Mr. Darcy being suitable for anyone here, I shall be quite undone.”