Two months later…
E lizabeth pressed a gentle kiss on little Benjamin Bennet’s forehead. “Sleep well, dear one.”
The tiny baby let out a soft whimper, and Elizabeth’s heart clenched. “Maybe I should stay home tonight.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bennet firmly. “You must attend the assembly tonight and meet. Ben will be just fine for the evening. It is not as if we are leaving him all alone— he has Nurse here with him.”
Nurse, whose real name was Nancy Harold, served as both wet-nurse and caretaker of the child, shooed Elizabeth from the room. “Go on now, Miss Lizzy. You know I will watch him close, and it is only his teeth that are bothering him; he’s not ill.”
Nancy had been working for the family in London who had all been killed in the fires, not having had enough time to flee their home. Nancy’s own child had passed away several years ago shortly after birth, and she had since then worked as a wet-nurse for a variety of families. It had been a miracle when they discovered Nancy at Hyde Park, desperately searching for someone who could feed the crying infant.
“Very well,” Elizabeth said reluctantly.
“Even the Gardiners will be attending, and they have more young children to worry about!” Mrs. Bennet took Elizabeth’s arm and began pulling her out of the nursery and down the stairs. “Even with all of that business with their house burning down and the issues with the insurance agency not paying yet, they still are making time for fun.”
“I know you are worried about him, Lizzy,” Jane said in a soothing tone as the ladies bundled into the carriage. “He will be quite well, and it is important that you take a rest now and again.”
Kitty sniffed. “One would think that he were your own child with the way you fuss over him, instead of being a foundling.”
“I still do not see why you need to adopt him, Mama,” Lydia said in a sulky tone. “It is not as if he could inherit the estate or anything.”
“You are just jealous because Mama has been paying more attention to him than to you lately,” Mary smirked.
Lydia scowled at Mary’s remark. “I am not jealous!” she huffed. “I simply do not see why we must keep him when the Gardiners offered to take him.”
Mrs. Bennet gasped. “Give up my darling boy? Never! From the moment I laid eyes on him, I knew he was meant to be ours.” She patted her heart dramatically. “No, no, I could not bear it.”
Elizabeth sighed, adjusting the folds of her shawl. “It is not a matter of sentiment alone, Mama. We are looking into what must be done legally.”
“Well, he certainly could not remain a foundling forever,” Mrs. Bennet declared. “And you certainly take on more than your fair share of mothering, Lizzy. You fret over him as if he were your own babe.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, but Jane laid a gentle hand on her arm. “You love him, Lizzy. That is all Mama means.”
Elizabeth nodded, looking out the carriage window at the rolling countryside illuminated by the moon. “Of course I do.”
“Well, I think it is all very silly,” Lydia grumbled, slumping in her seat. “If he cannot inherit, what is the point?”
“Not everything is about inheritance,” Jane said mildly.
Mary, never missing an opportunity, smirked. “Indeed, Lydia, some of us concern ourselves with duty and kindness, rather than who will inherit what.”
Lydia narrowed her eyes. “And some of us do not want to end up as old maids.”
“Some of us would rather be old maids than foolish wives.”
Jane sighed. “Let us not quarrel, please.”
Mrs. Bennet waved her handkerchief. “Yes, yes, enough of this nonsense. We are nearly there, and I will not have you ruining my evening. Netherfield has been let at last, and Mr. Bingley and his party will be there tonight! You must all be in your finest spirits.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly, though her mind was still half at Longbourn, listening for Benjamin’s soft whimpers. This assembly had better be worth it.
Upon arriving at the assembly hall, the Bennet ladies were greeted by Sir William, who served as master of ceremonies for the event. After making polite small talk for a few moments, they quickly dispersed throughout the room in search of their favorite companions—or, in Mary’s case, a seat in the corner with her book.
Elizabeth had just retrieved a glass of weak punch when she spotted Charlotte Lucas approaching with a knowing smile.
“I must say, Lizzy, I had my doubts that you would come tonight,” Charlotte teased.
Elizabeth sighed, shaking her head. “You and everyone else, it seems. I have been told by no fewer than three people that I must not allow myself to become a recluse.”
Charlotte chuckled. “And were they wrong?”
“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth admitted. “But I do not regret staying home these past weeks. There is nothing quite like the chaos of a babu to keep one occupied.”
“I imagine your days are not quite what they used to be.”
Elizabeth smiled, thinking of Benjamin’s chubby hands reaching for her in the mornings. “No, but I do not mind it.”
Charlotte arched a brow. “I always thought you would be the last of us to become so devoted to a baby.”
“As did I,” Elizabeth said with a laugh. “But Ben is… different.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “Because he needed you?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Because he needed me.”
Charlotte gave her a searching look but said nothing, sipping her own punch.
The musicians struck up a lively tune, and Elizabeth glanced around at the crowd beginning to arrange themselves for a dance. “And what of you? Have you enjoyed yourself thus far?”
Charlotte gave a wry smile. “Oh, exceedingly. My father has already assured me, twice, that we are all filled with ‘such capital enjoyment.’”
Elizabeth grinned. “And I suppose you agreed wholeheartedly?”
“Naturally.”
They both laughed, Charlotte’s more reserved than Elizabeth’s, before turning to observe the room.
“I hear Mr. Bingley is quite agreeable,” Charlotte remarked after a moment. “It will be interesting to see if he truly is as charming as they say.”
Elizabeth hummed in agreement. “I suppose we shall find out soon enough.”
And as if on cue, the murmur of the crowd shifted, a wave of whispers rippling toward the entrance.
The Netherfield party had arrived.
Craning her neck to see above the crowd, Elizabeth attempted to get a glimpse of the newcomers. The first gentleman to enter was fair-haired and affable, his smile easy and warm as he exchanged greetings with Sir William.
“Sir William,” came a bright, cheerful voice from the front of the hall. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Charles Bingley, and may I introduce my sisters, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst? And my brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst.”
On Mr. Bingley’s arm was his unmarried sister, as evidenced by her lack of cap. She was tall and elegantly dressed, with sharp features and an assessing gaze. Her gown was of the finest silk, cut to perfection, and adorned with enough embellishment to suggest ostentatious. As she looked over the crowd, a flicker of barely concealed disdain passed over her face before she schooled her features into polite indifference.
Behind them came a well-dressed woman on the arm of a sluggish-looking man— these must be the Hursts —who seemed far more interested in surveying the refreshments than in the people gathered before him. The lady, in contrast, carried herself with grace and a quiet sort of superiority, her gaze not nearly as cutting as Miss Bingley’s but equally distant.
Then, at last, another figure entered.
He was tall—easily the tallest of the group—but Elizabeth could not quite see his face. The movement of the guests had placed her behind a cluster of women whose elaborately feathered hats blocked her view.
“Ah, and this is my good friend, Mr. Darcy,” Bingley continued.
Elizabeth barely registered the name as she shifted, standing on her toes in an attempt to see past the towering plumes.
Finally, the crowd adjusted.
And she saw him.
Her breath caught.
It was him .
The man from London. The one who had helped her in Hyde Park.
Elizabeth’s heart slammed against her ribs as recognition washed over her.
What is he doing here?
The moment Darcy entered the rooms for the assembly, he knew he had made a mistake.
The atmosphere was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, candles, and far too many bodies crammed into a small space. As he breathed in the heavy air, his lungs—still weak from the London fire—tightened in protest. He swallowed hard, pinching his lips together to stifle the deep, wracking cough that threatened to escape.
This is intolerable.
The chilly evening air on the drive over had aggravated his condition, along with the stifling carriage ride with Bingley’s sisters. Both women had doused themselves in enough perfume to smother a horse, and he had spent the journey struggling to find enough fresh air to give rest to his tired lungs. His chest still ached from his efforts, and now, in this overcrowded hall with barely any space to breathe, panic clawed at the edges of his mind.
I cannot breathe!
His hands curled into fists at his side as he forced himself to focus on anything but the way his lungs refused to cooperate. He could not afford to make a scene. Letting his gaze drift over the room, he barely registered anything in the sea of unfamiliar faces.
And then—
He saw her .
Instantly, he truly could not breathe—not from his rebellious lungs this time, but from sheer, unrelenting shock.
For two months, he had tried to forget her. Oh, how he had tried. But the more he attempted to push her from his mind, the more insipid every debutante he had encountered since seemed dull in comparison.
He had spent countless nights convincing himself that his fascination was fleeting— that the fire and the desperation of the moment had heightened his emotions. He told himself he had imagined the way she seemed to command the chaos around her, the way she had defied the soldier without hesitation, the way she looked at him—not with awe, not with flirtation, but with steady, unwavering certainty.
But now, here she was.
Darcy felt rooted to the spot, as if the earth itself had shifted beneath him. She was staring at him, too, her dark eyes wide with something unreadable.
Time slowed.
Then, too soon, someone stepped forward, speaking her name—Elizabeth? —and she turned, allowing herself to be led onto the dance floor.
Darcy blinked, as if waking from a trance.
Elizabeth.
He watched her step into place for the set, her white gown swishing around her feet as she danced in time with the music. A single, incredulous thought struck him: she is not married.
She wore the colors of a maiden. No husband stood at her side. Perhaps the child— the child! —had not been hers.
Shock pulsed through him, followed swiftly by something else. Something he refused to name.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to the side of the room, where he could lean against a column and collect himself. His eyes, however, never left her. She danced with effortless grace, her expression alight with amusement as she exchanged words with her partner, then ended the dance with a curtsy.
It was an unfamiliar sight. He had only known her in the midst of tragedy, her face streaked with ash, her hands steady as she directed others through the chaos. And yet, even here, in this world of lighthearted chatter and polite society, she was just as captivating.
“Darcy!”
Suddenly, Bingley appeared at his elbow, causing him to lose sight of her. “Well?” Bingley grinned. “What do you think? A most delightful assembly, is it not?”
Blast! Bingley’s interruption had caused him to lose track of girl. He reluctantly turned his attention to his friend, answered in clipped words so as not to spark a coughing fit. “It is lively.”
Bingley chuckled. “Come now, you must dance. I will not allow you to brood in the corner all evening.”
Darcy stiffened, pressing his lips together to keep from coughing. “I have no intention of dancing.”
“Allow me to have my partner introduce you to her sister. She is quite pretty, you see, and I understand she’s quite the conversationalist as well.” Bingley pointed towards someone to the side of him, and Darcy’s eyes followed his friend’s gesture.
Before he could actually see the figure indicated, however, his control slipped, caused by being forced to speak. The tightness in his chest surged into something sharper, and the fire in his lungs he had been suppressing for hours was fighting to break free. He clenched his jaw, pressing his lips together, willing the attack to subside.
It was no use.
He had mere seconds before he would embarrass himself completely. Without a word, he turned sharply and strode toward the door, forcing himself to keep his back straight even as his lungs burned.
He strode out into the hallway, barely registering Bingley’s startled call behind him.
He needed air.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth gaped at Mr. Darcy’s retreating figure, her pulse racing. Did he really just cut me?
For weeks after the fire, she had thought of him with gratitude—and perhaps even with admiration. He had been decisive and commanding, stepping in when the soldier had refused to hear her pleas for the injured woman.
And now, when she finally saw him again, he looked at her with contempt?
Had she imagined it? The way his eyes had locked with hers, the way time itself had seemed to slow? Surely, she had not been mistaken in recognizing him. He was definitely the man who had aided her in Hyde Park, who had spoken on her behalf, who had looked at her then with such… intensity.
And yet, now he had turned away from her as if she were nothing. The look in his eyes tonight had been different.
Disdain , a voice inside her whispered.
Heat flooded her cheeks, and her heart pounded as confusion swirled within her. Did I do something to offend him in London? Perhaps he did not truly approve of my assertiveness?
No, that was impossible; her behavior had been well within the bounds of appropriate conduct, especially in light of the situation. She had been firm, yes, but she also had been civil in her discourse with the soldier.
Had he only helped her out of pity? Had he looked upon her then as a mere curiosity—some half-wild woman commanding order in a disaster—and now regretted lowering himself to acknowledge her? Had he thought her worthy of respect when she was covered in ash and desperation but found her lacking when placed in a ballroom?
Or perhaps he did not believe a woman should be the one to interfere .
Yes, that must be it. Perhaps he believed her to have overstepped her place. Perhaps he thought her too bold, too unfeminine.
Elizabeth’s hands clenched into fists at her sides.
How dare he?
The more she turned the matter over in her mind, the more her mortification transformed into anger. If he had taken issue with her actions that day, he should have said so then, not pretended she did not exist now, like some arrogant, spoiled aristocrat.
How dare he judge me when he does not even know me?
She took a deep breath, her resolve hardening. She would not allow this insult to go unanswered. If he wished to snub her, then he could at least have the decency to explain why .
Her feet carried her swiftly across the room to the beverage table, her irritation fueling every step. She barely registered the music, the chatter, the laughter around her. Lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders and slipped out the doors into the hall.
The cool night air blowing in from an open balcony met her skin, a welcome relief after the oppressive heat of the assembly hall. Scanning the dimly lit corridor, she caught sight of him only a few feet away, leaning heavily against a column.
He was coughing—violently, uncontrollably. His entire frame shuddered with the force of it, his shoulders hunched forward as he braced himself against the stone pillar. His face was flushed, his cravat slightly loosened as if he had tried to ease his constricted breathing. But it was not enough.
Her righteous fury vanished in an instant, replaced by something far more powerful: compassion.
His lips were parted in a desperate attempt to draw in air, yet the illusory vice around his chest would not allow it. His complexion was turning from red to something far more alarming—purple. One gloved hand clutched the wooden paneling beside him as though the force of the attack might bring him to his knees. His head was bowed, his shoulders shaking with each rasping, agonizing breath.
Elizabeth had never heard such terrible coughing before—deep, ragged, and unrelenting. It clawed at his throat, stole his breath, and rattled his entire frame. He was drowning in it, barely able to stand upright.
Was this why he had left so suddenly? Not because of her—but because he could not breathe? This was no mild ailment. This was something deeper, something painful, something that stole the air from his lungs and left him drowning on dry land.
Is he dying?
Panic jolted through her. Was anyone coming to assist him? Had no one noticed him slipping out? She realized neither Bingley nor his sisters had followed him; and now, standing here, watching him, she realized how alone he was.
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. She had been ready to confront him with righteous indignation, to demand an explanation for his coldness—but now, all she could think was he needs help.
She took a step forward, then another, her feet moving before her mind had caught up.
“Mr. Darcy—”
He did not seem to hear her. His head was bowed, his body still wracked by the attack.
Without thinking, she ran.