T he room erupted.
“No,” Darcy said sharply, rising to his feet. “Absolutely not.”
“I forbid it,” Mr. Bennet barked, nearly at the same moment.
Colonel Fitzwilliam swore under his breath, and had the circumstances not been so dire, Elizabeth would have laughed. Instead, she raised a hand, and the room quieted.
“Listen to me,” she said firmly. “Based on what Colonel Fitzwilliam has told us about Le Corbeau, I am already a target. I have stopped him from completing his mission twice now. I daresay I could recognize him by his eyes or his scent. And since a woman was able to beat him off, I imagine his pride is now wounded, too. And surely he cannot be so fearsome if my little parasol was the means of his undoing.”
Her attempt to lighten the mood failed. Her father was scowling and Darcy looked stricken. It was Colonel Fitzwilliam who spoke next. “She has a point,” he said slowly, eyes narrowed. “He will want to silence her.”
“What do you have in mind, Lizzy?” Mr. Bennet asked.
She drew in a breath. “The Netherfield ball is the day after tomorrow. I will begin spreading word today that I recognized him based on his features—something I could use to identify him again. Maybe we say that the attack helped me remember that I had seen him fleeing after discovering Mr. Smithson or something. I shall make it known I intend to give my account to Sir William, but only after the ball. I will claim that my mother refuses to let anything interrupt our preparations.”
“She would, too,” Mr. Bennet muttered, a wry expression passing over his face. “The house could burn to the ground, and she would still insist Lydia’s hem must be even.”
Elizabeth pressed on. “Meanwhile, you can use the militia to inspect the soldiers. If he was struck on the head, he may be bruised or favoring one side. That should narrow your search—or at least increase his desperation.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. “That might work. It would certainly light a fire under him.”
“How can you even be considering this?” Darcy blurted out, looking at Mr. Bennet.
“Because I see no other way forward,” the older man said, his shoulders sagging. “If you have any alternatives that would be more successful, I beg you to share them now.”
Shaking his head in resignation, Darcy slumped forward and put his head in his hands.
“And,” Elizabeth continued, her voice steady, “you will say, for Benjamin’s safety, that he is to be brought to Netherfield for the ball. There will be a nursemaid, of course, carrying a bundle.”
“But the child will not be at Netherfield?” the colonel asked.
“No, he will remain here, heavily guarded.”
“Go on,” the colonel urged when she paused. “What else are you thinking?”
Elizabeth’s hands fidgeted together as she explained. “During the ball, I could leave to go check on Benjmain. It will be a perfect moment for Le Corbeau—there will be chaos, new servants hired just for the event, a hundred distractions. He will act.”
“I do not like this,” Darcy said, his voice low. “Even with guards—”
“He will not expect guards,” Elizabeth said, wincing at the look that crossed Darcy’s face. “I could dismiss the nurse and send the footman away on some errand. But in truth, you will have soldiers stationed—hidden. When he comes for me, you will already be waiting.”
There was silence for a long moment. “I think this has potential,” the colonel said slowly. “Although he may suspect something if you disappeared without a reason during the ball. Perhaps if a footman were to tell you Benjamin was ill? Then the fact that you were leaving would be more public as well.”
Then Mr. Bennet sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “As much as I despise this, I cannot help but agree.”
Darcy said nothing. His jaw was clenched, and Elizabeth could see the war waging in his eyes.
“Can you think of a better plan?” she asked him softly, her eyes imploring him to understand. “One that will stop him before he tries again?”
Darcy looked away, then shook his head.
At last, Mr. Bennet nodded. “Very well. I do not like it, but I do not see another option.”
The colonel straightened. “I will ride into Meryton and speak with Colonel Forster. We must get things in place immediately.”
“I shall begin drafting letters to send to London,” Darcy said, his voice grave. “My footmen can be here within the day.”
“I will speak to Hill,” Mr. Bennet added. “We shall say the baby is ill and must be kept in Lizzy’s room. That will explain why the cradle is not returned to the nursery.”
He stood from his desk, causing the other three to rise with him. Coming around, he extended his arms to Elizabeth. “Here, I will return him upstairs, my dear. You be so good as to show our guests to the door.”
Bewildered at her father’s offer, Elizabeth made to protest, but then realized she might have the opportunity to speak to Darcy alone. She accepted and passed the baby to Mr. Bennet, then followed the two remaining gentlemen down the hall to the front entrance.
The colonel collected his gloves and hat, then said, “Darcy, I will meet you at Netherfield in two hours, after I speak with Colonel Forster. There is much to be done.”
Darcy gave a short nod, but his gaze was fixed on Elizabeth. He was watching her with such intensity, such quiet resolve, that her heart gave a hard, painful beat.
They were alone.
Elizabeth swallowed nervously and looked down at her clasped hands, unsure of what she wanted to say. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but charged—like the breathless pause before a storm or the stillness before a violin's first note.
Before her jumbled mind could process anything, she blurted out, “I suppose you must be going as well.”
“In a moment,” he said softly.
Something in his tone made her glance up. His eyes met hers—dark, solemn, intense—and her heart began to pound in her chest.
"Miss Elizabeth," he said softly, and her name in his voice sent a shiver down her spine.
"Yes, Mr. Darcy?"
"I had intended to wait." He took a step closer. "To give you space, time, peace. I thought… when all this was over, when we were safe again, then I might speak. But last night changed everything. The idea that I might have lost you—that he was in your home—”
He broke off, his jaw tightening, and she saw the flicker of anguish in his eyes.
"I cannot wait, Elizabeth. I am in love with you. Hopelessly, irrevocably. I have loved you for weeks now. Perhaps longer, though I only allowed myself to name it recently. You are the bravest, cleverest, most astonishing woman I have ever met.”
Her breath caught, and she knew,— as surely as she knew her own name—that she loved him in return.
“If you can return my affections,” he continued, “if there is even the possibility you might love me in return—then I ask you to let me offer you what I can. My name. My protection. My devotion.”
He took a step forward, voice quieter now, almost reverent. “Elizabeth… will you marry me?”
A thousand thoughts raced through her mind. Of course she should not say yes—not now, not with so much still unknown. It was too soon. It was dangerous. It was madness.
And yet.
In his eyes, she saw everything she had ever longed for: truth, honor, tenderness. The fire that had burned through her since the moment she’d faced Le Corbeau in the nursery was matched now by another—one steadier, quieter, but no less fierce.
Still, her voice was trembling when she said, “You know that I am stubborn. That I speak out of turn. That I tease and laugh and sometimes question things no one else dares to.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “I do.”
“You also know that my family is noisy and troublesome, and that we are in the midst of a situation that would terrify most men.”
“I do.”
“And yet you still ask?”
“I do.”
She drew in a breath, and something in her chest eased, some ache she had not fully recognized until now. “Then, yes,” she whispered.
His expression changed—hope blooming into something almost disbelieving. “Yes?”
“Yes,” she said again, firmer this time, and she smiled. “I will marry you, Mr. Darcy.”
There was a moment of stillness between them, wonder and disbelief suspended in the air. Then—he let out a breath, like a man who had been drowning and had just found the surface.
He reached for her hand, lifting it to his lips. “You have made me the happiest man alive.”
She laughed softly. “I hope you will still feel this way after the ball,” she teased, “but you have made me the happiest of women.”
“Forget the ball; I would feel this way even if the world burned around us.”
She leaned in, unable to help herself, her voice a murmur. “Let us hope it does not come to that.”
He smiled, a real, open smile, and gently touched her cheek. “No matter what happens, we face it together now.”
She nodded, hand still in his. “Together.”
And as they stood there in the quiet entryway, the morning light peeking through the windows, the world and its dangers faded into the background for one precious moment. There was only the warmth of his hands, the truth in his eyes, and the beginning of something beautiful.
Neither was ready to break the spell between them.
Elizabeth still held his hand, marveling at the quiet warmth of it, the way his fingers curved gently around hers, not possessive but protective. His presence, which had once so unnerved her, now settled into her like a balm— steady, anchoring.
She had never felt more herself.
Darcy studied her face for a long moment, then gave a faint, sheepish smile. “I ought to confess something.”
“Oh?” she said lightly, her thumb brushing against his.
“I spoke to your father this morning. Before we came into the drawing room.”
Her brows rose. “You did?”
“I asked his permission to address you. He did not grant permission for marriage—not yet.” A flicker of self-deprecating humor crossed his expression. “He said he would allow me to ask for your hand, but only if you accepted. If you had not, I imagine I should have been ejected from the house by now.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “That sounds very like him.”
Darcy’s voice gentled. “He was… protective. Rightly so. But you ought to speak with him before I address him again.”
“Very well,” she agreed, “but I would prefer that we do not make any formal announcement to anyone—including my mother—until after the ball.”
That coaxed a grin from him. “You wish to postpone the inevitable celebration?”
“I wish,” she said dryly, “to preserve what remains of our wits. The moment she finds out, she will insist on inviting half of Meryton to the wedding and will likely ask if we might be married by next Tuesday with a common license…or in six months with a special license, which she may just demand, whether or not it would even be possible.”
Darcy chuckled. “You have a point. Shall we keep it our secret, then?”
“For now. Just ours. And Papa’s, of course. I may wish to tell Jane, though, and I imagine you will want to tell your cousin and friend.”
“I will tell the colonel, but Bingley cannot keep a secret to save his life. He is too honest and transparent.”
She laughed lightly. He looked at her for a moment more, his expression unreadable and full.
Then he bowed, a slow, reverent gesture that carried far more weight than formality. “Until tomorrow, my love.”
She curtsied in return, lips trembling on a smile. “Until tomorrow.”
As he stepped out into the morning light, Elizabeth remained in the hallway, her fingers brushing her lips, her heart beating faster than it ever had before. The world was still full of danger, still darkened by shadows—but her heart was alight.
She had said yes.
And somehow, that changed everything.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth spent the remainder of the day in a kind of golden haze, drifting through her duties as though she walked in a dream. Her heart was still light with the weight of her answer to Mr. Darcy—her Mr. Darcy—and yet, she had told no one. Even Jane remained unaware. Though she longed to share her happiness, something within her held back. It was too new, too precious. She wanted a little more time to feel it privately—to turn the word yes over in her mind like a secret jewel.
There was precious little time to dwell on it, however. With purpose and careful subtlety, Elizabeth set about the task she had agreed to—sowing rumors with the skill of a gardener anticipating spring.
To Mrs. Long, she mentioned that she had caught a glimpse of her assailant’s face, and that to keep Benjamin safe, he would be moved to Netherfield for the ball.
To Lady Lucas, she added that she was almost certain it was the same man who had attacked the insurance agent, and she would most definitely recognize him again.
To Charlotte, she murmured loudly that she would be giving Sir William a full description the morning after the ball, once Benjamin was safe at Netherfield.
Each word planted with care. Each glance deliberately uncertain. Each pause filled with just enough suggestion to spark speculation. The effect was exactly what they needed. Whispers began to pass from drawing room to dining table, trailing behind her like smoke from a candle. Shock and indignation met her in equal measure from all corners of the neighborhood—particularly when it became known that someone had broken into Longbourn in the dead of night. That she and the child were both unharmed seemed only to magnify the drama.
By the time she finally reached her bed that evening, her limbs ached with exhaustion, and her throat was hoarse from so much careful conversation. Yet as she drifted into sleep, her fingers curled loosely beneath her cheek, her last thought was of a man with solemn eyes and an earnest voice, asking her to be his wife.
The next afternoon dawned bright and cold, the kind of winter day where every sound seemed sharper in the still air. Longbourn was a flurry of movement and barely contained chaos.
Elizabeth’s room was awash in soft light as she stood before her mirror, holding her breath while Jane fastened the final clasp at the back of her gown. The fabric shimmered with a delicate sheen, a deep sapphire blue that complemented her dark curls and the pale glow of her skin. It was not a new gown, but with a few clever stitches and the addition of a silver sash borrowed from Jane, it looked nearly new.
“Turn,” Jane said softly, and Elizabeth obeyed. Jane’s fingers tugged gently at the sleeves, smoothing the seams. “It suits you, Lizzy. You will be the most beautiful woman at the ball.”
“I believe the honor will fall to you, Jane,” Elizabeth said. Then she smirked and added, “Though with Lydia not in attendance, I may succeed in being your second.”
“Lizzy!” Jane admonished in protest, though she could not hide a slight smile. “You ought not to say such things—especially not when Lydia might be able to hear.”
Too late.
From the corridor, Lydia’s voice wailed, “Why should they get to go to the ball, when we must stay home like children? I am nearly sixteen!”
“I wish I could stay home,” came Mary’s terse voice. “Be grateful for what you have.”
“But that is because you do not care about dancing,” Kitty replied from behind their closed door. “You only want to read essays and talk about funerals.”
“I do not! I—” Mary’s voice cut off abruptly, as though she had caught herself mid-sentence.
A thump, a sniffle, and then more footsteps followed—Mrs. Bennet’s, no doubt.
Elizabeth winced and glanced at Jane in the mirror. “Shall I guess how long it will be before Mama tries to reverse her own ruling?”
“She has tried twice already,” Jane said with a fond sigh. “Papa has stood firm.”
Down the hall, Lydia’s complaints reached a new crescendo. “Elizabeth always gets to go! She always gets everything —and she is not even pretty! Just clever, and she always knows who people are by smell , like a dog!”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “Charming, is she not?”
Jane’s mouth twitched. “You must admit—it is something of a gift.”
“Well, let us hope it proves useful this evening.” Elizabeth turned back to her reflection and reached for a silver hairpin shaped like a laurel leaf. “I do not suppose my sense of smell will help me identify a disguised murderer, but I dare say it may help me detect his strong cologne in a crowd.”
Jane arched a brow as she arranged Elizabeth’s curls, coaxing them into soft waves. “You speak as though you are not nervous.”
“I am utterly terrified.” Elizabeth gave her a smile that trembled at the edges. “But I am doing my best not to show it.”
They stood in silence for a few moments as Jane finished with her hair and then turned to her own preparations. Mary passed their room once, pausing long enough to ask in a small voice, “Do you think I should wear the green ribbon or the ivory?”
Elizabeth looked up in surprise. “The green, I think. It brings out your eyes.”
Mary nodded, clearly trying to conceal how much the compliment pleased her and disappeared down the hall without another word.
Before heading downstairs, Elizabeth stopped at her mother’s room. Benjamin’s cradle had been moved to Mrs. Bennet’s changing room, which did not have any windows and could therefore be better guarded. It would also allow any crying or candlelight to be prevented by being seen from the outside, in case Le Cordeau was watching.
The lad sat on the floor with a few toys, having only recently learned to sit up on his own. She reached down and placed a soft kiss on his head. “Be brave, my dear boy. Remember that no matter what happens, you are loved.”
“We will keep him safe, Miss Lizzy,” said the nurse, a fierce expression on her face.
“Thank you.”
By the time Elizabeth moved to the stairs, the rest of the household was in a flurry of shawls, gloves, and final instructions to the footmen. A carriage basket had been stuffed with a doll wrapped all in blankets, giving the appearance that Benjamin was going with them to Netherfield.
She paused at the top to take a steadying breath before descending. Her father stood waiting at the base of the stairs. As she approached, his expression softened into something both proud and wistful.
“My dear,” he said, offering his arm, “you are a vision. Mr. Darcy will be speechless—though as I understand it, that is not saying very much.”
Elizabeth flushed but smiled. “Thank you, Papa.”
He leaned closer and whispered, “Though I will admit, if he does not look at you with worship in his eyes, I shall begin to suspect he is not half so clever as we have all been led to believe.”
“I shall try not to notice,” she whispered back.
Moments later, the family assembled for departure. Jane was radiant in a gown of soft rose with delicate embroidery at the hem, her expression a portrait of serene delight.
“Mr. Bingley has asked me for the first dance,” she confided as they settled into the carriage.
Elizabeth raised a brow. “That is wonderful. I hope it is the first of many.”
“Do you have a partner?”
“Mr. Darcy asked me for the first,” Elizabeth murmured.
Jane turned to her, eyes wide. “Mr. Darcy? Truly? I would have thought he would ask Miss Bingley, given she is his hostess.”
“That honor may fall to Colonel Fitzwilliam. As the son of an earl, he ranks above Mr. Darcy.”
As the carriage rolled toward Netherfield and the fields turned silver with frost in the fading light, Elizabeth sat with her gloved hands folded in her lap, her stomach twisting with anticipation. Not only would tonight be her first evening as Mr. Darcy’s intended—if secretly so—but it might also be the night Le Corbeau made his final, fateful move.
“Are you ready for the evening?” her father asked quietly.
Elizabeth turned her head, and though her pulse danced with nerves, her voice was steady when she replied, “I am.”