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“But her father is a true gentleman,” Bingley interjected with unexpected fervor.

“A man of insight, wit, and distinction. And Jane—Jane is everything that is good and proper. Even Miss Mary surprised me. That voice of hers—so pure, so solemn—I would give a small fortune to have a sister who could sing half as sweetly.”

Darcy inclined his head. “True. I grant you that.”

“And yet,” Bingley said with quiet emphasis, “you danced with Miss Elizabeth. Twice.”

Darcy’s eyes met his friend’s. “Yes. I did. And I am content I did. And, yes, twice.”

Another silence fell between them, not uneasy, but full of thought.

Bingley rested his hands on the back of a chair, his brow drawn. “You do not speak easily of these things, I know. But there is something in your manner this morning—something steadier. Have you decided what you mean to do?”

Darcy’s gaze shifted to the bookshelves.

Then he said, “I have. Or rather, I am in the process of deciding how best to proceed. This is not a question of desire, Bingley, nor even of admiration. It is something far more complex. If I am to offer for Miss Elizabeth’s hand, I must be able to do so with honor—before her family, and with clear intentions that no man or woman might misinterpret. ”

Bingley regarded him thoughtfully. “Then you will visit Longbourn?”

Darcy shook his head slightly. “No. We must proceed properly. We cannot call at Longbourn uninvited.”

“No,” Bingley agreed. “But we might return their visit soon. When they do—” He paused, then looked at his friend. “You will remain until then?”

“I shall,” Darcy said. “A few days more. There is much I must consider—and resolve.”

Bingley smiled faintly. “You, resolving something? That sounds dangerous, my friend.”

Darcy returned a dry look. “I hope it proves quite the opposite. It takes time. It cannot be done hastily. I intend to write to Mr. Bennet from Pemberley and express my wish to correspond with his daughter Miss Elizabeth, if he would permit it. I shall not act in secret, nor presume upon her favor.”

“Such scruples would not hinder many men,” Bingley said with a half-smile. “But I imagine they are the very reason you deserve her.”

Darcy did not reply at once. Then, quietly, he said, “I have come to value her opinion more than my own ease. I cannot enter into a courtship with her under the shadow of Lady Catherine’s expectations or my cousin’s silent endurance. That must be addressed first.”

Bingley’s expression grew solemn. “You will speak with Lady Catherine?”

“I shall. And I will do so openly. She must understand that I no longer consider my engagement to Anne as anything more than a childhood fancy—one never formalized, never consented to by either party. If I am to seek happiness, it must be on my own terms.”

Bingley let out a long breath and then nodded slowly. “For much that I am concerned, I shall call at Longbourn. Properly. With notice and all the gentlemanly restraint I can summon. My sisters intend to return to London this afternoon—they have little reason to remain.”

Darcy allowed himself the trace of a smile. “Their absence may improve your chances.”

“And yours,” Bingley replied. “Unless you mean to bring Lady Catherine with you when you return?”

“Not if I value my reception,” Darcy said dryly.

Bingley gave him a searching look. “You are serious, then.”

“I would not linger otherwise.”

They shared a brief laugh—genuine, if brief. Then the weight of what lay ahead returned, settling upon them with the quiet dignity of decision made.

Outside, the wind stirred in the branches. The scent of rain still lingered. But within the library, the air was calm—filled not only with books and ash, but with something deeper: the resolve of two men preparing to pursue happiness with honor.

And though nothing more was said, it was clear to both: the coming days would be ones of preparation, not delay.

***

Longbourn, Saturday 2nd November 1811

The sun had risen high enough to lend the November day some semblance of light, though little warmth.

The family had taken breakfast, and now the house was stirring with its usual activity.

Mr. Bennet had retired to his study with the newspaper, but he was not long alone.

A light knock preceded the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.

“I thought I might be granted a few moments' peace,” he said without looking up, “but I find I am not altogether sorry to be interrupted. Come in, my dears—if it is not to petition for more ribbons or complaints against your younger sisters.”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “We come only to keep you company, Papa.”

He set down the newspaper, removing his spectacles with a mild expression of curiosity. “So you say. But you come bearing the air of those who have been dancing in dreams as well as in ballrooms.”

Jane colored delicately. Elizabeth seated herself near the hearth and folded her hands with a composure that was not quite as serene as it appeared.

“Well,” Mr. Bennet said, steepling his fingers, “shall we speak plainly, as we often do in this room? I should like to know how the evening pleased you. And more particularly, what you make of the gentlemen who so diligently sought your attention.”

Jane glanced at Elizabeth before replying. “It was a very pleasant evening, Papa. And Mr. Bingley… was all kindness.”

“All kindness,” Mr. Bennet repeated, with a glance at his eldest daughter. “That is a safe and elegant phrase. And does it signify mere amiability—or something more?”

Jane looked down, then back up, her voice soft but steady. “Mr. Bingley asked me for the first and the second dance, and would have claimed the rest, I think, had etiquette not intervened. He spoke with warmth… with attentiveness, and seemed truly glad to be in my company.”

Mr. Bennet watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “And you were glad to be in his?”

“Yes, Papa,” she answered, quietly. “I was.”

He gave a single nod. “Then I shall remember that. It is no crime for a father to observe, and to act when he sees good reason.”

Then he turned to Elizabeth, who had thus far remained silent.

“And you, Lizzy? You danced. Twice, I believe, with Mr. Darcy?”

“I did,” she said, lifting her chin slightly. “Though no one seemed to expect it. Least of all myself.”

“And what did you make of him, now that he has spoken more words to you than syllables?”

Elizabeth hesitated, her lips curling into something like amusement. “He is… surprising, when he allows himself to be. I find Mr. Darcy less proud than I once believed—and more thoughtful. Not easily pleased, perhaps, but earnest. And very unlike anyone else.”

“Unlike anyone else,” Mr. Bennet echoed, a hint of wryness in his voice. “That is the sort of phrase that leads to poetry—or disaster.”

Elizabeth gave him a look. “I assure you, Papa, I am not writing sonnets.”

“Not yet,” he replied. “But I observe your gaze lacks the mockery it once held. Perhaps you are beginning to view even a man of ten thousand a year—if the gossips are to be believed—with something nearer kindness.”

“His income,” she said with a half-smile, “is the least interesting thing about him.”

Mr. Bennet studied her with rare seriousness.

“That is a good beginning, Lizzy. But remember, it is only a beginning. I shall not urge you—but I would have you think. Deeply and without irony. It is a solemn business to open one’s heart to another, and more solemn still to bind one’s future to his. ”

“I am thinking, Papa,” she said simply. “Though I do not yet know what I shall find.”

“And I,” Jane added quietly, “do not know what he will say. I hope… but I do not presume.”

“You are both wise enough to hope without presumption, and to feel without folly,” Mr. Bennet said gently.

“That is more than many can claim. You must trust your own judgment—and I shall do the same. Your mother already sees you married to these gentlemen, and she does possess a share of good instinct. But you must be cautious: it is your life that lies at stake, your happiness that concerns me most. Let time be allowed to do its work.”

There was a silence, soft and companionable. The fire crackled in the grate, and beyond the window, a few stubborn leaves clung to the bare branches in the garden.

At length, Mr. Bennet reached for his spectacles again.

“Now go along, the both of you. I have endured enough sentiment for one morning.”

But as they left, he watched them with a fondness that lingered long after the door had shut—his pride as a father not diminished, but deepened.

***

It is a truth well known, though seldom acknowledged aloud, that an aunt rarely announces her visit—particularly if she suspects that matters may not be entirely as they should be, and that she, by some familial instinct and long-standing habit, is the one best suited to discover the truth firsthand and to restore the natural order of things.

Mr. Darcy had such an aunt, but the Bennet sisters were by no means outdone in this respect.

While Aunt Phillips occasionally lacked the tact or foresight required for such interventions, her sister-in-law Mrs. Gardiner was, by contrast, the very model of calm inquiry, gentle authority, and timely presence.

Indeed, when Mrs. Gardiner arrived, it was not with fanfare, but with an eye sharpened by affection and a mind well trained in discerning what was said—and, more importantly, what was not.

Elizabeth, upon seeing her aunt descend from the carriage with that familiar knowing smile, felt at once relieved and wary—for no letter, however carefully worded, could now forestall what Mrs. Gardiner intended to learn.