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“, when shall we depart for the ball?”

closed his eyes and sighed. Of course she knew. How could she not, when Georgiana and the younger Miss Bennets had spoken of little else these three days past? And yet, he had hoped—most unwisely—that his mother, by some rare stroke of fortune, might remain ignorant of the event.

“I am not certain that I shall attend,”

he said, in a tone calculated to end the matter.

Alas, he was met with a look—not of rage, nor of disappointment, but something far worse: the expression a general reserves for a soldier who cites the rain in excuse for retreat.

“Indeed,”

she replied, with a composure more formidable than any show of temper.

“And William?”

“I cannot say with certainty,”

he replied evasively, though he knew very well that his cousin might already be buttoning his waistcoat.

“But I expect he will go.”

“Then I shall accompany him. Georgiana as well. It will do her good to see something of society once more. She need not dance, of course. But she may observe, and listen, and learn. There is much to be gained by sitting quietly, with a fan and one’s mouth shut.”

gave a short laugh.

“And what of your last pupil? Is she still observing?”

“Miss Bingley?”

The Countess lifted one brow with unmistakable satisfaction.

“She applies herself with the utmost diligence. Indeed, if she does not appear in this library within the next five minutes to solicit my opinion, I shall begin to fear she is unwell.”

“Indeed? Then I shall wait and see if your conjuring powers remain undiminished,”

said he, folding his arms and leaning back with an air of mild defiance.

There followed a silence—a dangerous sort of silence—which he, in a moment of na?veté, mistook for victory.

Alas, his mother was merely preparing for a fresh offensive.

“When are you to report for duty?”

she inquired, in the same tone one might employ to ask whether the tea had grown cold.

“How did you—?”

He blinked.

“I shall wring Darcy’s neck.”

“The poor boy,”

she said, entirely unmoved.

“He tells me nothing, I assure you—but then, he rarely needs to. You may keep your letters hidden, , but you cannot hide the slump of your shoulders or the gloom that clings to you like London fog. A mother knows. Where is it this time?”

shifted uncomfortably, then relented.

“Portugal.”

He had not expected much by way of theatrics from his mother. No clutching at bosoms, no trembling inquiries, not even the soft descent of a single, well-timed tear. So when the Countess merely nodded and folded her hands with studied grace in her lap, was neither startled nor offended.

They remained thus in silence for a short while, when—true to prophecy—Miss Bingley entered, uttered a flustered apology upon glimpsing their expressions, and retreated at once, like a governess who had mistakenly walked in on a duel.

stared at the closed door.

“Good heavens. That was sorcery. How did you get her to behave like that?”

The Countess stood, smoothing her skirts with deliberate precision.

“, you will go to the ball.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

There could be no mistaking her tone.

“It is not the posting to Portugal that troubles you—it is Miss Mary Bennet.”

His eyes widened in alarm. “Mother—!”

“Oh, do not look at me as if I were a sorceress,”

she said, with the smallest sniff.

“What sort of mother would I be, not to notice? I have observed your little stratagems—asking poor William to walk with Miss Mary, only to contrive a most convenient exchange of the ladies once beyond the garden gate. Do you suppose, truly, that I believed such a performance was staged for Mr. Collins' benefit? Then, with the air of one sacrificing himself to duty, you submitted to entertain Miss Mary here. And do you imagine she came here by Mrs. Bennet’s contrivance? I invited every last Bennet daughter myself.”

began to speak, then stopped. Truly, what was the point?

“I make no pretensions to an intimate knowledge of your acquaintance,”

said she.

“Nor do I intend to meddle. But this cowardice—this unmanly flight—is utterly beneath you. If you are resolved to leave, then leave; but first, face her. Hear her words. Speak your mind. Take your leave with the dignity of a gentleman.”

A silence followed, during which exhaled as though weathering a tempest within. The Countess departed, though not without casting one final glance—pointed, arch, and perfectly devastating.

No sooner had the door closed behind her than another presence filled the room.

“,”

said Darcy.

“We set out at half past six.”

uttered a sound that was not quite a groan, though it carried all the sentiment of one.

“I am not certain I shall go.”

“You shall,”

Darcy replied, in a voice that permitted no argument.

turned to look at his cousin, brows raised. There was something in Darcy’s tone—an authority, a finality—not easily mistaken.

“So you have come to command me now?”

he asked, half in jest.

“My mother has only just vacated that particular office.”

Darcy allowed himself a quiet laugh.

“No, . I am not a commander—only a courier.”

At this, he produced a folded scrap of paper from within his coat and handed it over. accepted it with wary fingers and unfolded it slowly.

There was no greeting, no name, no flourish. The message consisted of a single line, stark and precise—so neat, so carefully nondescript, it might have come from a governess’s copybook.

I hold you to that supper dance.

In an instant, ’s expression shifted—from disbelief, to delight, to something very near fear.

Miss Mary. That she had written this—he could scarcely believe it.

“Darcy,”

he breathed, aghast.

“you cannot mean to tell me that you, of all people, have consented to deliver such a—such a flagrant, scandalous note!”

“I did promise to assist you with Miss Mary,”

said Darcy, entirely unrepentant.

“Yes, but I had imagined some mild intercession—a well-timed remark, a subtle nudge, perhaps a recommendation in my favour. I did not imagine you would condescend to become an errand-boy for improper correspondence!”

“And yet,”

Darcy said mildly.

“here we are.”

studied his cousin. There was something altered in his manner—an air of animation, a quiet brightness, as though some pleasing anticipation had unsettled his usual composure.

“You made your proposal, then?”

he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Heavens, no. Certainly not,”

said Darcy.

“I have no intention of rushing her.”

“Then you have kissed her,”

said .

Darcy recoiled as though struck.

“Good heavens, absolutely not!”

“Then what, pray, accounts for that expression?”

asked, folding his arms.

“You wear the look of a man most highly pleased with himself, and quite determined to appear otherwise.”

Darcy hesitated for a moment, then offered a smile so seldom seen and so genuine that one might well wish it preserved by the hand of the finest artist in London.

“I have reason to believe that her regard for me is far from indifferent.”

blinked. That alone did not explain the scandalous delivery of clandestine notes.

“Darcy,”

he said, stepping forward with resolve.

“you shall tell me the truth.”

With the air of one conceding to a friendly tribunal, Darcy took the nearest chair and began.

“When I took my leave of the Bennets, Miss Mary was nowhere to be found. I gave it little thought. Bingley lingered in the parlour, and I proceeded to the stables to make ready the horses. There, quite unexpectedly, Miss Mary appeared—somewhat agitated, pale, and trembling. She pressed this note into my hand and entreated me to deliver it to you, assuring me that it contained nothing improper. Indeed, she invited me to read it, if I had any doubts.”

“And did you read it?”

asked .

“I did not,”

Darcy replied.

“I found I had no need.”

“And why did you not refuse the note?”

Darcy made no immediate reply. He settled back in his chair, his gaze turning inward, as if weighing some difficult matter. A silence fell between them, deep and thoughtful, which wisely chose not to break.

At length, Darcy spoke, his tone quieter, almost remote, as though recalling a troubling vision.

“Have you ever considered, , what might have become of me had I departed for London the morning after the Netherfield ball, as Miss Bingley so ardently desired?”

shook his head, caught somewhat unprepared by the sudden turn.

“I cannot say that I have,”

he answered.

Darcy’s voice grew even more distant.

“I would have acted according to what I then believed prudent. I might have entreated—perhaps even urged—Bingley to remain in town. It would have seemed to me an act of kindness—to save him from an imprudent attachment.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile on his mouth.

“In doing so, I would have condemned him to misery—and Miss Bennet likewise. They were matched as few couples ever can be, and yet I would have placed myself between them. As for myself—”

he paused, as if reluctant to give shape to thoughts best left unspoken.

“I would have suffered most acutely, endeavouring to forget Miss Elizabeth—to banish her from my thoughts by every effort of will. And yet, I would have failed miserably.”

regarded his cousin quietly, his features softened with concern.

“I would have wandered through my house in town like a ship adrift,”

Darcy continued, his eyes elsewhere.

“passing through rooms that no longer held any charm for me, shunning company, indulging in drink beyond what is gentlemanly, mourning what I had not yet perceived as lost. Poor Georgiana would have witnessed it all—bewildered and entirely powerless to intervene.”

“And you believe,”

said softly.

“that such a state might have endured for long?”

“Oh, not forever,”

Darcy replied with a rueful smile.

“Eventually, I daresay, I would have grown tired of my own melancholy. It would hardly have done to linger about drawing rooms like a restless spirit. A sense of duty would have reasserted itself, prompting me to return to Town, to the Season, with all the resolution of one intent upon fulfilling what was expected of me. I would have sought a wife.”

Here, he gave a brief, joyless laugh.

“A wife acceptable in every particular—her lineage unimpeachable, her fortune ample, her manners beyond reproach. The sort of woman my family would most heartily have approved. And yet,”

he added, with a look of quiet distaste.

“she would have left me cold. For how could she not, when every smile, every word she had uttered, would have suffered comparison with Miss Elizabeth Bennet? You know well, , how such a pursuit would have ended. Before the Season’s close, I would have abandoned the entire melancholy scheme and withdrawn to Pemberley.”

sat back, releasing a heavy sigh.

“Then you truly believe you would never have married?”

“I might have, eventually—out of duty, not desire. I would have fulfilled the obligations of a husband: provided for her, shielded her from discomfort, observed all the civilities owed. I would have been kind, attentive, and irreproachably proper. But I would not have loved her. Ours would have been a marriage of respect, of circumstance—entirely correct, and entirely cold.”

A moment of silence passed before Darcy spoke again, his voice softening.

“There is another possibility,”

he said.

“A more pitiable one.”

Here Darcy paused, as though steadying himself for the confession.

“Suppose I had returned to Town, once more resolved to find a wife, and, by some untimely coincidence, had chanced upon Miss Elizabeth—Gracechurch Street, perhaps, where she might have gone to visit her uncle, Mr. Gardiner—whom I have but lately discovered to be the very Mr. Edward Gardiner who manages our investments.”

raised his brows at this unexpected revelation but remained silent.

“I daresay,”

Darcy continued, his voice quiet and even.

“any belief that I had mastered my feelings would have shattered in an instant. All the restraint I had so earnestly cultivated—all my effort to forget—would have crumbled with a single glance. She would have stood before me—unspoiled in spirit, undimmed in wit—and I would have been lost.”

He leaned forward at last, clasping his hands tightly between his knees in an effort to steady himself.

“I would have proposed to her,”

he said, almost to himself.

“but not from hope or calm resolve, but from sheer desperation. I would have been overcome—not by courage—but by need. And I would have gone about it—abominably.”

His voice caught, yet he compelled himself to continue.

“I would have spoken of my admiration, yes—but not as it ought to have been spoken. No, I would have framed it as though it were a great burden nobly borne. I would have catalogued—oh, with shameful clarity—all the obstacles I had chosen to overlook: her inferior connections, her want of fortune, her unsuitable relations... as though she ought to have felt honoured by so magnanimous an offer.”

He closed his eyes, visibly pained, unable for a moment to meet even his cousin’s gaze. was struck speechless, appalled.

“You know, of course,”

Darcy said at last, in a voice scarcely raised above a whisper.

“exactly how such a proposal would have been received. She would have rejected me—proudly, and rightly so. Not simply for the arrogance of the offer, but for the insult it would have carried. I would have wounded the very woman I loved... with words I had thought were honourable.”

His voice faltered, as though the imagined wound had, in that moment, become real.

“I was such a man, . Had it not been for that morning after the ball, when certain truths were made plain to me, I would have remained that man: proud, arrogant, and utterly blind. I might have fulfilled every social duty and yet lived devoid of real happiness—all for want of humility.”

said nothing, moved by the quiet force of his cousin’s admission. He saw before him not the stoic, polished gentleman society so admired, but the man beneath—a man torn by conscience and long-restrained feeling.

After a pause, Darcy continued.

“Elizabeth changed me. She has not accepted me—perhaps never will, though I scarcely dare to dwell on such a prospect—but she has awakened something I had long buried and forgotten. She recalled to me the man I once was, and the man I had once hoped to become. For that, I owe her a debt beyond all expression.”

Meeting ’s gaze, his expression steady and unguarded, he continued,

“What I mean to say, , is that before that day—that day of reckoning—I did not truly know myself. I had not perceived what I had become. That pride, that hauteur, which I bore as both shield and badge, was not nobility, but weakness. I had assumed the part of Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley—grand, assured, unyielding—but beneath it all, I was merely a man: vulnerable, imperfect, bound by duty and, if I may confess, yearning for a little kindness, a fragment of unblemished happiness.”

He gave a faint, wry smile.

“And, dear cousin, I believe you are standing upon the self-same course.”

The room fell silent, Darcy allowing the pause to linger before finally addressing the question that long hung in the air.

“As for the note,”

he said softly.

“and the impropriety in my bearing it—I assure you, the explanation is simple. I would not have you lose what may yet be preserved, be it friendship, esteem, or the tender beginnings of something more. Miss Mary regards you with warmth. And you, in turn, are clearly not indifferent.”

He reclined slightly, voice growing softer still.

“Whatever exists between you, I would not have it dashed for want of a moment’s courage. I do not presume to interfere, , yet if I may offer the smallest aid, it is in the hope it may serve you both.”

Silence fell. After a moment, spoke.

“I thank you, Darcy,”

he said quietly.

“and must also thank you for another favour you shall soon be called upon to render.”

Darcy turned, an eyebrow raised in both curiosity and mild apprehension.

“Indeed, cousin?”

“Indeed. I mean to ask something of you which I am quite certain you have never before condescended to attempt.”

Darcy’s expression remained dry.

“This already promises ill.”

“I wish you to open the ball this evening by dancing the first set—with Miss Mary.”

Darcy regarded him, blinking in surprise, mouth parting as if to protest.

“Before you object,”

hastened, raising a hand.

“I know you might have hoped to claim that dance with Miss Elizabeth.”

Darcy shook his head with a weary sigh.

“No, . I have already engaged her for the supper dance. She is not yet prepared to accept the first—lest her mother suspect my attentions.”

“Excellent,”

said, satisfied.

“Then you are free for the first, and thus my plan may proceed.”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Plan?”

leaned in conspiratorially.

“Miss Mary has granted me the honour of her hand for the supper dance. In a moment of noble recklessness, I vowed not to claim it unless she had danced six sets before that.”

“But she is so rarely asked,”

Darcy remarked.

“Precisely,”

replied.

“But tonight, that will change—if I may have any say in the matter.”

Darcy turned to him, amusement flickering beneath a cautious brow.

“And how, pray, do you imagine that my claiming her for the first dance will advance your scheme?”

“Darcy, aside from the obvious—that your offer will secure one of her six dances, and Bingley another at my express request—you are, by all accounts, the most distinguished gentleman ever to grace this town. You could ask a fern to dance, and the room would take note. But ask Miss Mary—and the result will be intrigue. Curiosity. And nothing stirs the male mind like curiosity. I daresay half the gentlemen present will seek her out, if only to discover what peculiar charm has caught your notice.”

Darcy shook his head slowly, though his lips twitched.

“As to being the most prominent, may I remind you that you are the son of an earl and a colonel in His Majesty’s army? I should think you possess equal claim.”

“Yes, but unlike you, I am regarded as affable,”

returned with a grin.

“You are silent, brooding, and exceedingly rich—which, in the minds of most, renders your approval a thing of near reverence. If you dance with a young lady, society alters its opinion of her.”

Darcy raised an eyebrow.

“A military strategy, I presume?”

“Naturally,”

said , with perfect nonchalance.

“A ballroom is not unlike a battlefield—there are strategies, weak points, and careful manoeuvring for position. You will lead, Bingley will follow at my request, and that leaves me but four other willing gentlemen to marshal. A manageable campaign.”

Darcy gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Must you always contrive such elaborate schemes? Why not simply ask her for the supper dance and be done with it?”

’s smile faded, though only a little.

“Because she would refuse me, Darcy. Not out of dislike, but disbelief. Her opinion of herself is so modest—so resigned—that she would take me for jesting… or worse, pitying her. No—if any sort of attachment is to form between us, whether friendship or otherwise, she must first be brought to believe herself deserving of it. And that belief must be fostered by others. Not by me.”

Darcy turned his gaze away, as if recollecting something.

“I remember the assembly at Meryton—and the ball at Netherfield; but I do not believe she danced at either.”

“I know,”

said, his voice quiet but intent.

“Which is why I mean for this night to be different. Trust me, cousin—I am well accustomed to managing young men beset by doubt. I know how swiftly public opinion shifts with the right influence. And curiosity, as ever, is my most faithful ally.”

Darcy leaned back with a reluctant sigh.

“Very well. I shall acquiesce to your scheme. Though I hope it does not end with Aunt Catherine arriving unbidden, armed with a catalogue of outraged proclamations.”

“You are beholden to no one, Darcy,”

said , rising with disciplined grace.

“And if the price of Miss Elizabeth’s good opinion is Aunt Catherine’s censure, then I say it is a bargain.”

Darcy gave a dry laugh.

“Indeed, cousin. Indeed.”

“And now,”

said, adjusting his cravat.

“I have a dance to earn. And by heaven, I shall earn it.”

Longbourn

Mary

Mary stood before the door of Jane’s bedchamber, motionless save for the slight tightening of her fingers about a gown of soft yellow muslin. The dress, long neglected in the far reaches of her wardrobe, had been a gift from Aunt Gardiner some two years past—a gift she had never worn, deeming it too fine, too bright, too not her. And yet, tonight, she was determined to wear it.

She raised her hand to knock; but it lingered, uncertain, before falling back to her side.

How absurd it was—this dread of seeking help from her own sisters, particularly Jane, whose very nature was composed of kindness. And yet there she lingered, not from pride but from shame—shame at her own sudden vanity, at the foolish notion that she might wish to appear pleasing, even—dare one admit it—worthy of notice.

And what would her sisters think, if they discerned her motive? That a certain colonel—whose manner was too familiar by half, and whose gaze far too discerning—had occasioned it? That Mary Bennet, advocate of moderation and sober gowns, now wished to appear to advantage in a more flattering light?

The notion was surely nonsense. She ought to retreat, return to her room, arrange her hair in its usual austere knot, and don the brown muslin once more.

Yet something within her—a quiet, persistent hope not easily stifled—refused.

With a sigh—half in resolution, half in reluctant surrender—she knocked.

The door opened at once, and to her dismay, it was Lizzy who greeted her, not Jane. Her sister’s brows rose in gentle surprise.

“Mary? Is something amiss?”

Mary parted her lips, but no sound emerged; her voice had failed her.

But Lizzy’s eyes had already fallen to the yellow muslin in Mary’s hand, and slowly, a smile of realisation touched her lips. Without a word, she linked her arm with her sister and led her gently inside.

Jane, only half-dressed and as lovely as ever, looked up from her dressing table with a smile of quiet affection.

“Mary! What brings you—oh!”

Lizzy had already taken up the gown and was holding it aloft, inspecting it with interest.

“I do not recollect having seen this before,” she said.

Mary cleared her throat.

“It was a gift from Aunt Gardiner. I never—that is, I have not yet worn it.”

Lizzy turned it thoughtfully in her hands, as if judging the quality of the fabric.

“It is a charming thing,”

she said.

“though I daresay it may no longer fit as it once did.”

Mary’s countenance fell. Of course.

“No matter,”

said Jane at once, rising from her seat.

“I have something better.”

With the air of one retrieving a long-cherished token, she opened a drawer and withdrew a gown of richer yellow—soft, lustrous, and the very colour of buttercups in full sun. She held it against Mary’s figure and inclined her head in thoughtful appraisal.

“We will loosen the bodice a little," she said. "The rest fits to perfection.”

Thus far, not a single question had passed their lips—no inquiry, no sly glance, not even the faintest smile. No allusion was made to what might have prompted this sudden transformation. Mary waited, scarcely daring to breathe, for some gentle mockery. Yet none came.

Lizzy was already laying out her implements.

“Mary,”

she said, adopting an air of mock authority.

“this evening, you must leave everything in our hands. Your only duty is to stand upright and resist the temptation to flee.”

“But—your own dresses—”

“We are quite accomplished in the art of dressing in haste,”

said Lizzy with cheerful assurance.

“We have managed it under circumstances far more trying. Jane once repaired a hem in but five minutes—and a broken needle at that.”

"I did no such thing," said Jane with a laugh, though her fingers were already threading the needle. "It was seven minutes, and the needle was merely bent."

Mary stood with her hands tightly clasped, while her sisters moved with easy cheerfulness about her. She waited for the questions she had long dreaded.

Yet none came.

Purvis Lodge