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And with that, he turned once more toward the door.

Only Mrs. Gardiner, her gaze sharpened by quiet insight, seemed unconvinced. She watched him go with the faintest furrow in her brow.

Elizabeth’s heart, which had steadied itself since Bingley’s exit, fluttered anew. He had returned merely to say goodnight. Or had he? There was something unfinished in his manner, a weight behind the courtesy that did not feel like farewell.

But nothing further was said.

Yet the front door did not open.

Mr. Darcy, having taken only a few paces into the vestibule, stopped short—his hand never reaching for his hat. A beat passed. Then, as if reconsidering, he turned sharply on his heel.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to Mr. Bennet, his voice composed but steady. “It occurs to me that there is a particular matter I ought to raise before departing—if you would allow me the honor of a moment in private?”

Mr. Bennet, who had only just resumed his seat with a murmured expression of satisfaction, stood again at once, a spark of interest lighting his eyes.

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy. This way. Certainly, sir—my study remains open.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled. “I appear to be in high demand tonight.”

Mrs. Gardiner tilted her head slightly as Darcy and Mr. Bennet exited. She said nothing, but the flicker of curiosity in her eyes did not go unnoticed by Elizabeth.

The two gentlemen disappeared down the corridor, and though the drawing room remained unchanged in appearance, a new hush settled upon it.

Mrs. Bennet, blissfully unaware of any undercurrents beyond her own imagined triumphs, was about to launch into fresh reflection when Jane halted her with a keen look and a single word: “Mother!”

Elizabeth, seated by the fire, felt her heartbeat quicken.

Jane leaned closer and murmured, “Do you suppose—?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I suppose nothing. But I think we are soon to know.” She did not even glance toward the door.

But her aunt did—and permitted herself the faintest, knowing smile. Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes, fixed on the hallway, held the quiet triumph of a woman who had seen the board shift just as she had planned.

Whatever words were being spoken behind that study’s closed door, she sensed they would change the course of everything.

***

The room was still, the fire low. Mr. Bennet stood with his hands behind his back, gazing at nothing but waiting all the same.

Mr. Darcy’s voice, though steady, bore a tension rarely allowed to show.

“Mr. Bennet, sir, I will not feign composure where my happiness is so nearly concerned. I come to request your permission to court your daughter Elizabeth, with the hope of seeking her hand in marriage. My intentions are honorable—and most sincere.”

There was a silence.

Mr. Bennet regarded him for a long moment, then said in his usual dry tone, though it lacked its usual irony, “You surprise me, Mr. Darcy. Not by your sentiment—I am not entirely without perception—but by the frankness of your address.”

“I believe in candor when honor is at stake,” Darcy said.

“And what of Elizabeth’s happiness? Would you make her mistress of Pemberley because it suits your conscience?”

“Because I love her,” Darcy replied quietly. “And because I hope she may, in time, come to think well of me.”

Mr. Bennet nodded, his voice softening. “Then she must speak for herself.”

He called for a maid and gave instructions.

Within minutes, Elizabeth entered with measured steps, her hand grazing the edge of the doorframe as though anchoring herself.

Her countenance was composed, her chin slightly lifted, yet there was a tautness to her posture that belied her inner disquiet.

She paused just within the threshold, her eyes moving from her father to the gentleman who stood not far off, proud and expectant.

Mr. Bennet, still by the hearth, regarded her with rare gentleness.

“Lizzy, my dear,” he said, “Mr. Darcy has sought my permission to court you with the hope of one day asking for your hand. He also asks whether he might be allowed to write to you from Derbyshire. I told him the answer could only come from you.”

Elizabeth turned fully to Mr. Darcy. Her gaze did not waver, though the quiet tension in the room might have daunted another.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said slowly, her voice low but clear, “you honor me deeply by making your sentiments known. I cannot give you an answer tonight—there is too much I must consider, too much that has changed in such a short time. But if you choose to write, I shall read your words with the attention they deserve.”

For a moment, neither moved. Then Mr. Darcy bowed—more a gesture of feeling than a formality—and murmured, “That is more than I could have hoped for, Miss Elizabeth. I thank you.”

Mr. Bennet gave a brief nod, his expression unreadable but not unsympathetic. “Then we are agreed.”

As the moment settled into silence, Elizabeth’s hands folded before her, tightly clasped—her only outward concession to the whirlwind within.

Darcy inclined his head, the look in his eyes earnest and unguarded.

Elizabeth watched as Darcy’s features underwent their distinctive transformation: a slight tensing about the mouth, a flicker of something like amusement in the eyes, and then, just as quickly, a return to the neutral, impassive dignity that was his shield.

Mr. Bennet inclined his head with more gravity than usual.

“I thank you, sir. It is no small thing for a man to lay his intentions so plainly before a father. That you should do so with such honor speaks well of both your regard and your character.”

“I only did what any gentleman ought, under such circumstances,” Darcy said, in the low, measured tone that carried even when it was meant not to.

“The details are of little consequence. Then I shall write—and hope that my words may express what I cannot yet say aloud. I bid you farewell as I leave for Derbyshire tomorrow.”

He turned once more to Mr. Bennet. “I thank you, sir.”

Mr. Bennet nodded. “Safe travels, Mr. Darcy.”

When the door closed behind him, Elizabeth stood in the study, unmoving. Her father came to her side, put a hand on her shoulder and tapped gently twice.

“You are not compelled, Lizzy,” he said. “But I believe that gentleman to be more in love than he knows how to express. I think he means well—and deeply.”

She looked into the fire. “I know, Papa.”

Mr. Bennet said nothing more. He left her alone, and she stood there, the silence of the room filled with something almost tender.

Mrs. Gardiner heard the study door close and, from her seat by the fire, allowed herself a quiet nod—less satisfaction than certainty.

The evening had achieved its purpose. And the next chapter would begin not with another dinner or carefully planned remark—but with a letter.

Mr. Bennet left Elizabeth to her thoughts.

In the hallway, Mrs. Gardiner caught sight of Mr. Darcy as he stepped into his carriage, his features composed, his hat in hand. She looked toward the study and gave the faintest nod to herself.

Yes. The evening had played its final card.

And the next chapter, whatever it brought, was already begun.