T he morning at Longbourn passed in relative peace—until Bingley arrived to call on Jane.
Elizabeth had been seated beside her elder sister in the drawing room, helping her to mend a torn hem, when he was announced by Hill. Mrs. Bennet immediately fluttered forward with cries of welcome, while Kitty and Lydia scrambled up from the floor where they had been playing a child’s clapping game with discarded ribbons.
Bingley greeted Jane with a bow and a smile so fond, Elizabeth had to glance down at her lap to hide her grin. He sat himself next to her, and the two began to converse in quiet whispers. Mrs. Bennet prattled on with Kitty and Lydia, who had resumed their places on the floor in spite of their guest, leading Elizabeth to flush slightly at their poor behavior.
Her choice of companion having been commandeered, Elizabeth did her best to tune out the room and focus on her mending, but her mind raced. Where are Mr. Darcy and his cousin? They said they would call again this morning to continue our discussion .
At a pause in their exchange, she quickly spoke up. “Are Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy not with you today? I trust everyone at Netherfield is well.”
Bingley looked up, startled— as if he had entirely forgotten anyone else was in the room. Elizabeth bit back a smile at his besotted behavior as he stammered his response. “I… I believe they were to make one or two calls before coming to join me here, but they left before I did. But yes, everyone is… well at Netherfield, thank you.”
He immediately turned his focus back to Jane. Well, if I did not already believe he was in love with Jane, this bit of inattention to me certainly would prove it! Elizabeth thought humorously.
Her cheer dimmed somewhat as she remembered why she was so eager to speak with Darcy and the colonel. If only they were here! I need to tell them about what Mr. Smithson—or whatever his name is—said right before he died. It may be important.
Lost in her recollections, Elizabeth was oblivious to the rest of the room until a high-pitched squeal interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh, a ball!” Lydia clapped her hands and bounced on the floor. “How delightful!”
“I do love dancing,” Kitty added, practically hopping like a frog in delight. “Especially with the officers.”
Mary, seated stiffly at the far end of the room with her book of moral essays open before her, gave a disapproving sniff. “Frivolity in excess dulls the mind.”
Lydia ignored her entirely. “Perhaps one of the officers will steal me away into the garden for a kiss!” she whispered too loudly to Kitty, who dissolved into giggles.
The effect was instantaneous. Jane’s color deepened with embarrassment. Mr. Bingley’s amiable smile faltered, his brow creasing in discomfort.
Elizabeth stiffened, debating whether or not it was worth risking her mother’s ire to rebuke the younger two. She sought out Mrs. Bennet to gauge her temper, and was astonished by what she found.
Mrs. Bennet had frozen mid-flutter. One hand hovered uncertainly near her bosom, the other gripped the arm of her chair. Her usual simpering smile had vanished, and in its place… Elizabeth saw something far rarer: clarity. Embarrassment warred with alarm in her mother’s eyes, and for a moment, the full weight of their guests’ discomfort—and what it might cost Jane—seemed to settle visibly upon her shoulders.
It was like watching a mask crack. Elizabeth, so used to seeing her mother as frivolous and exasperating, was struck by how human she looked in that instant. Flushed. Disbelieving. Almost ashamed.
And then something hardened in Mrs. Bennet’s expression.
“That will do,” she said sharply.
The room fell still.
Lydia blinked. “What—?”
“I said that will do,” Mrs. Bennet repeated. “Since you cannot behave like the gentlewomen you are, you will not attend the ball.”
Kitty’s mouth dropped open. “But Mama—”
“I will not have you throwing yourselves at officers like some common tavern girl,” Mrs. Bennet snapped. “Clearly, your aunt Gardiner was right—you are not yet old enough for society. I have turned a blind eye to your behavior in the past, but I shall do so no longer. My eyes are opened at last.”
Lydia looked around the room as if expecting someone to intervene. No one did.
“I will not go?” she repeated, in growing outrage. “You cannot be serious! That is not fair! I am not—Mama, please—”
But Mrs. Bennet stood firm. “No balls. No assemblies. No visiting officers. I should have done it weeks ago.”
At that moment, Mr. Bennet strolled into the drawing room, no doubt having been drawn by the sudden silence—so rare in a household of five daughters.
“What is this?” he asked mildly. “Is someone dying?”
“No,” Mrs. Bennet said tartly. “Just my patience.”
Mr. Bennet gaped at this bit of wit from his typically flighty wife. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have decided that you are correct, Mr. Bennet. Your two youngest are some of the silliest girls in England, and as such, they are banned from social gatherings until they can learn some manners.”
Elizabeth looked at her father, half expecting him to overturn the ruling with a sarcastic comment. But instead, he looked at his wife with surprise—and then something like admiration.
“Well done, my dear,” he said. “I quite agree.”
Lydia let out a noise somewhere between a shriek and a sob and burst from the room, Kitty scrambling after her in distress.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Mr. Bingley cleared his throat. “Er—perhaps I ought to wait before sending out the invitations? Unless you have any suggestions for a date?”
“No need to delay on our account,” Mrs. Bennet said primly. “I apologize for my daughters’ behavior. Rest assured, Mr. Bingley, my husband and I will be very glad to attend your ball with our three eldest daughters at any time you see fit to hold it. But you must give me enough time to take the girls shopping. I daresay Jane’s ball gown requires new lace…”
Elizabeth sat frozen, astonishment rippling through her. Never in all her years had she seen her mother so composed, so… decisive. It left her feeling oddly off-balance, as though the ground beneath Longbourn had shifted ever so slightly. She exchanged a glance with Jane, who blinked, equally stunned, though a glimmer of pride danced in her eyes.
Change had come to the Bennet household, it seemed—unexpected and uninvited, but not entirely unwelcome.
And yet even as Elizabeth smiled faintly at Mr. Bingley’s cheerful scramble to recover the conversation, a shadow tugged at her thoughts. Smithson’s final words echoed in her mind like a half-remembered song.
Tell the raven… it was the crow.
“Why are they not here yet?” she muttered to herself in annoyance—although as she did so, a small part of her was relieved they had missed out on the scene caused by Kitty and Lydia.
Just as she was about to excuse herself from the room in search a way to expend her restlessness, the sound of horses announced that another guest had arrived. Bingley looked towards the window and exclaimed, “Ah, excellent—there are Darcy and Fitzwilliam now.”
Within minutes, the two gentlemen were announced. After greeting their hostess, they took seats near Elizabeth, intent on communicating with her. Elizabeth glanced at the window and, upon seeing the weather was not favorable for a walk, raised her eyebrows and said meaningfully, “I am sorry, gentlemen, that we are unable to continue our tour of the gardens today. Perhaps arrangements can be made to finish yesterday’s plans at another time.”
The colonel nodded sharply and moved to sit near Mrs. Bennet. As he settled beside her mother, she watched with amazement. With no more than a well-placed compliment and a request that she tell him more about where he was visiting, Mrs. Bennet was soon gushing about every detail of the neighborhood.
“Oh, we are very fortunate here in Hertfordshire—we dine with twenty-four families,” the matron beamed. “And my brother, Mr. Gardiner, has just purchased Stoke Estate, which includes the great house and all the tenant farms. A sound investment, though it would be better if the drawing rooms were larger. But no matter, for Lady Lucas was telling me that at Purvis Lodge…”
Elizabeth restrained a smile as she watched her mother chatter, with the colonel murmuring at the appropriate places while subtly redirecting her conversation towards each of the families in the area. It was quite clever, really— distracting her with praise while extracting every scrap of information she possessed.
A sniff from the corner of the room reminded Elizabeth that there were other observers in the room. Turning, she saw Mary had taken refuge in said corner with a thick tome. A glance around revealed that Mr. Bennet had vanished altogether—likely into his library the moment Mrs. Bennet uttered the words “shopping” and “lace”—and Jane and Bingley were absorbed in quiet conversation on the settee.
For all intents and purposes, she and Darcy were alone.
She leaned slightly toward Darcy and spoke in a low voice. “Did you and Colonel Fitzwilliam make any progress in making a list of the suspects?”
“Yes and no,” he replied, moving his head closer to hers. “Only two are named—your uncle and Lieutenant Wickham—”
Elizabeth bristled as she cut him off. “My uncle would have been at home with my aunt that morning. At least, he arrived with her when she came to tend to me. The servants can confirm it.”
“Good,” Darcy said, his voice quiet but warm. “The colonel’s batman is skilled at such things—he will ask the questions discreetly. That should remove your uncle from suspicion.”
“But Mr. Wickham is on the list? I had thought the two of you had reconciled?”
“It is more for the odd circumstances of the situation; he was in London during the fire and here for the murder.”
“As were most members of the militia,” she pointed out.
“Precisely, which is why my cousin has arranged to speak with each member of the militia. Colonel Forster is cooperating, and he is aware of my cousin’s current role in service. It was necessary to reveal it to him in order to gain his willing participation.”
She gave a small sigh. “Which is why you said only some progress had been made. All members of the militia and all newcomers to Meryton makes for quite a long list.”
“Which is why we also paid a visit to Sir William this morning as well.”
“Surely you did not trust him with such sensitive information!” What on earth were they thinking?
He shook his head vehemently. “No, we told him the colonel was sent in place of a Bow Street Runner, which are conveniently all too involved with maintaining order in London.”
Elizabeth quirked an eyebrow and looked over at where Fitzwilliam was still engaging her mother in conversation about the neighborhood. “That was clever. It will allow him to move in society and ask questions without raising suspicion.” She laughed softly. “I daresay my mother will not know whether to revere him as the son of an earl or revile him if he does not immediately declare Mr. Gardiner innocent.”
That earned a soft chuckle from Darcy, and Elizabeth turned back to glance at him, only to find his gaze boring into her. The intensity in his eyes sent a flutter through her stomach, and she felt her cheeks warm.
“Forgive me,” she said quickly to mask her reaction to him, “I have not even inquired after your health. How is your cough? Has it improved at all?”
“Considerably,” Darcy replied. “The herbs you and your cousin provided have worked wonders. No more tightness in my chest, save for the occasional twinge. It is the best I have felt since the fire.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“I owe it entirely to you,” he added, his voice lower now, more earnest. “To your dedication to your sister all those years ago, and your kindness in offering it to me now after you accidentally stumbled across me at the assembly.”
Now her face felt as though it were burning, though some of it was due to mortification. “It was no trouble at all… although I am ashamed to admit, it was not entirely an accident that I found you in that corridor. I… I followed you from the assembly.”
His face froze in a blank mask, and his voice was stern as he asked, “You followed me from the room? Why?”
“I was intending to challenge you for cutting me.”
Darcy blinked. “Cutting you?”
She recounted the scene in brief from her perspective—how she had overheard Bingley encouraging him to dance, how Darcy had looked her way, met her gaze, and promptly turned his back and walked away without so much as a word.
“I thought perhaps you were rejecting me, my appearance or my status. It was at such odds with how I remembered you from Hyde Park, and I thought perhaps you remembered me and were put off by my unladylike behavior back then. I was hurt at first, but then I was angry—angry enough to want to confront you.”
Darcy looked mortified. “I had no idea at all. I could barely breathe with the heavy air and the perfume. I intended no slight.”
“I know,” she said, laughing softly. “I realized it the moment I saw your face. You looked utterly miserable.”
He shook his head, still looking pained. “I am truly sorry. I would never—”
“There is no need,” she said gently. “I forgave you long ago.”
He hesitated. Then, in almost a whisper, he said, “Perhaps I might make amends… by reserving the next dance? Should there be another occasion?”
Her heart stopped. He does not know about the ball. I cannot allow him to make such a request when his honor may bind him to it without all the facts. He could merely be paying lip-service.
“You should be careful before say such things, as you may be held to them,” she lightly teased, attempting to give him a way out. “Shortly before you arrived, Mr. Bingley spoke of holding a ball soon at Netherfield.”
She held her breath, waiting for his reply, not daring to hope…
“Then allow me to ask you formally.” His voice was soft as he leaned forward, his breath caressing her ear. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, may I have the honor of the first set?”
She could only stare at him for a moment, searching his face. The sincerity of his gaze broke through the last wall she had erected.
“You may,” she said softly. “If your health allows.”
“For you,” he said, “it would be worth the risk.”
The moment held—charged, fragile, and full of something unspoken.
Then a crash sounded from the upper floor, followed by a familiar, indignant wail. Elizabeth flinched and guiltily jerked her away from his, looking around frantically to make sure none in the room had witnessed their proximity.
“Lydia,” she groaned as another shriek sounded from above.
Mrs. Bennet hastily rose to her feet. “Those girls will be the death of me! Come, Mary, I shall most likely require your assistance. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
As her mother swept from the room, leaving the door just slightly ajar, Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief that no one had seemed to notice the tender moment she and Darcy had shared. Jane and Bingley were clearly in their own world, already having resumed their conversation.
The colonel chuckled as he rejoined the group, casting a glance toward the doorway through which Mrs. Bennet had just departed. "Your mother possesses an intelligence network that would put some of His Majesty's finest agents to shame," he remarked with a wry smile. "Her knowledge of the neighborhood is both vast and impressively detailed."
Elizabeth could not help but smile at the colonel's observation. "Indeed," she replied, "my mother has a talent for gathering and disseminating information that rivals any formal intelligence operation. Although I doubt that her penchant for neighborhood gossip has any strategic value.”
He chuckled. "Strategic, perhaps not. But comprehensive? Absolutely. Her knowledge of the local families, their histories, and their connections is nothing short of impressive. If ever I needed a dossier on the residents of Meryton, I would know precisely whom to consult."
Elizabeth laughed softly. "Be careful, Colonel. Flatter her too much, and she might draft you into her social campaigns."
He grinned. "A fate I shall endeavor to avoid."
Darcy cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should take advantage of this time to speak of more pressing matters.”
A bit surprised at his severe tone, Elizabeth turned her full attention towards the man at her side. There was something in his expression—a tension not quite concealed behind the calm exterior—that made her pulse quicken.
Is he…jealous?
The thought flashed through her mind, and she pushed it to the side to contemplate later. Darcy was correct: they needed to use this time together wisely.
“I agree,” she said slowly, her tone shifting. “In fact, there is something I have been meaning to mention since yesterday.”
She glanced between the two men. The colonel’s brows lifted slightly, attentive. Darcy leaned forward almost imperceptibly, as if bracing himself.
“When I found Mr. Smithson,” she said quietly, “he spoke to me. Just before he lost consciousness. I did not think to mention it at the time—I was too shaken—but it has been haunting me since.”
“I had forgotten,” Darcy said, “but I wrote to you about it, Fitzwilliam. His words reminded me of our childhood.
The colonel straightened. “Yes, that was actually part of what spurred me here so quickly. Miss Elizabeth, can you tell me exactly what he said?”
Elizabeth hesitated, remembering the rasp of the dying man’s voice. “He said— ‘Tell the raven it was the crow.’”
A silence fell over the room. Darcy’s jaw tightened. The colonel, frowning, drew a slow breath.
“I thought perhaps it was nonsense,” Elizabeth added, “some fevered delusion. But the phrasing was so deliberate. And now that I know more of what was at stake—of who he truly was—I thought it might mean something.”
Darcy’s eyes were fixed on the colonel now. “Does it?”
The colonel did not answer at once. His gaze drifted past them, unfocused, as though seeing something far beyond the drawing room—as if somewhere far away a memory played itself out in shadows and smoke. His fingers, which had been casually tapping the armrest, stilled.
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Darcy, her chest tightening at the sudden shift in the colonel’s manner, but neither dared interrupt the stillness that had fallen.
When the colonel finally spoke, his voice was quiet—hollow with memory.
“Yes,” he said. “It means everything.”
And then, without another word, he rose from his seat and walked to the window, staring out into the darkened fields beyond.
“For you to truly understand, we… we must go back. Back to when everything changed.”
Elizabeth sat upright, her attention wholly fixed on the colonel. She and Darcy waited for what seemed an eternity in silence. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft murmur of quiet conversation from Bingley and Jane.
Back to what? she thought. To the fire? To the death of that poor woman—Deena? To France?
But she dare not speak.
At last, the colonel drew a deep breath and began his chilling narrative.