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As the evening wore on, and the pace of the dancing left even the most energetic young ladies in need of a reprieve, a brief hush settled over the main hall. Mrs. Hurst, seizing the opportunity for a genteel interlude, proposed that someone entertain the assembly with music.

There could be only one candidate. Mary Bennet, who had hovered on the outskirts of every conversation and yet managed to hear every word spoken, straightened at once. Her battered music case—a faithful companion, if not an object of beauty—was already in hand.

With a deep, preparatory breath, she crossed to the pianoforte.

The guests obligingly quieted; some out of courtesy, others for the promise of a moment’s respite from the endless social calculus.

Mary seated herself and leafed through her book of songs, fingers trembling just slightly.

She settled on “The Lovely Lass of Inverness”—a Scottish ballad of sorrow and lost love, its verses steeped in the grief of war and the ache of remembrance.

Her playing was, as ever, earnest rather than expert.

Yet this time, there was something more: the accompaniment, though simple, was accurate and sensitively rendered, each chord placed with care, as if she understood—at least for this song—how to serve the sentiment without overreaching.

The first measures wavered, as if uncertain of their own worth, but as Mary’s voice joined the melody, a transformation occurred.

She sang in clear, steady tones—reaching for the upper notes and nearly catching them—the emotion raw, solemn, and strangely unadorned.

The words—simple, mournful, unashamed of their sorrow—carried across the crowded hall, and for the length of the song, even the most restless in the company found themselves attentive.

Jane listened with genuine pleasure, Bingley with polite wonder.

Elizabeth, too, was moved: she saw in Mary’s performance not the stiffness her sister often displayed in company, but an honesty that was almost beautiful.

When the final note faded, there was a moment of real silence.

Then applause—genuine, unforced, and loud enough to bring a flush to Mary’s cheeks. Even Mr. Hurst, who had been dozing lightly in a far corner, roused himself to declare, “The most tolerable rendition of anything this evening,” which, from him, was praise indeed.

Mary stood, allowed herself the briefest of proud glances around the room, and returned to her seat. For once, she was neither invisible nor a figure of fun. She was simply—remarked upon.

The ball resumed, but Mary’s notes lingered in the air, a soft echo of longing and resolve that seemed to sweeten everything that followed.

“Quite remarkable,” Mr. Darcy said clearly, just behind Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Heavenly. I only wish Miss Mary might perform at my wedding.”

Elizabeth had not heard him approach and turned to him, surprised.

As if caught out, he added—perhaps too quickly—“At yours as well, Miss Bennet.”

Was it jest? A veiled suggestion? Or simply the awkward misstep of a man unaccustomed to his own levity?

Elizabeth smiled with the indulgence of a grandmother overlooking a child’s small mischief. It was hard to say which amused her more—the compliment, or his discomfort in delivering it.

As the hour grew late and the final set was called, a hush of tranquility settled over the company at Netherfield. The laughter and music had softened the evening’s sharp edges, leaving in their wake a glow that felt both festive and strange—like the stillness after a night storm.

Mr. Darcy was still beside her, his silhouette close to hers.

“You have a remarkable talent for disappearing and reappearing, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said lightly.

“There was a time,” he replied, with quiet sincerity, “when discretion was more highly prized.”

Elizabeth gave a sudden laugh and brought a hand to her mouth. She decided, for his sake as much as hers, to change the subject.

“You dance well,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes, “for a man who so rarely chooses to.”

He studied her a moment, then allowed himself a half-smile.

“I had not found it worth the effort—until recently.”

The words settled between them—not electric, but alive.

Elizabeth risked a glance. His posture had eased; his gaze held less caution than before. For the first time, she saw not the figure of pride and position that had so often cast a shadow across the room, but simply a man—uncertain, sincere, and perhaps a little afraid.

The orchestra began again, soft and insistent. Darcy offered his hand—not in challenge, but in invitation.

“May I?”

Elizabeth nodded, the gesture small but unmistakable, and placed her hand on his arm.

They stepped into the set together, the rest of the party fading into a blur of color and sound.

The dance was formal, precise, but within its measured figures something unspoken passed between them: a question, a hope—and at last, the beginning of an answer.

When the music ceased, neither spoke. They stood at the edge of the floor, the world briefly narrowed to just the two of them. Then Darcy bowed, and Elizabeth, with a smile she could not entirely suppress, curtsied in return.

It was not a promise—not yet. But it was enough.

As the guests began to take their leave, Elizabeth glanced once more toward the stars outside—and found them brighter than before.