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Elizabeth, upon the ladies’ retreat from the dining room, made her way swiftly to Jane’s side. Her sister, already bundled in shawls against the evening chill, looked up in mild surprise at Elizabeth’s determined approach.

“Jane, you are feeling quite recovered, I hope?” Elizabeth inquired, taking her sister’s hand with a squeeze of affection.

“Oh, yes, Lizzy. Mr. Bingley has been excessively kind in his concern.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, arching a brow. “And are you quite certain you have expressed your gratitude adequately?”

Jane frowned slightly. “I hope I have not been ungracious.”

“No, not ungracious,” Elizabeth said, lowering her voice, “but, dearest, Mr. Bingley is not as well-versed in the subtleties of expression as you and I. He does not perceive the quiet inclination of your head as the declaration of affection it truly is. If you do not allow him the smallest encouragement, he may yet believe his regard to be unreturned.”

Jane’s cheeks tinged pink. “But, Lizzy, I could not—”

“You could,” Elizabeth interrupted gently. “You need not profess undying devotion, merely… allow a warmth into your expression when he speaks. Let him see that his attentions are not unwelcome.”

Jane hesitated, then nodded. “I shall endeavour to do so.”

“Good. Then let us go down, and let us see if Mr. Bingley might at last secure his place beside you.”

When they re-entered the drawing room, it was as Elizabeth had predicted—Mr. Bingley, full of joyful solicitude, guided Jane toward the sofa nearest the fire and saw her settled with every comfort.

She, in turn, smiled at him—perhaps a fraction more warmly than she might have done the day before.

It was enough. He was wholly devoted, speaking in low, eager tones as Jane listened with evident pleasure.

Elizabeth took up her work in the opposite corner, but her satisfaction was tempered by an unease that had lingered since breakfast. Mr. Darcy had been quiet—more so than usual.

She had determined, since her unfortunate slip the evening before, to avoid him where possible, but this afforded her no peace, for she was aware of him all the same.

He sat now with a book open upon his lap, though Elizabeth, watching from beneath lowered lashes, knew full well that he was not attending to it. The volume was one she recognised instantly—Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire .

A telling choice.

She had seen him retreat to this book before, and not merely for intellectual nourishment. It was his refuge whenever his mind was burdened, his shield when his thoughts needed sorting, and now, the pages were being turned with a rhythm too even to be natural. He was not reading—he was thinking.

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around her needlework.

He is not ready yet. The thought was unbidden, but undeniable.

Whatever he was turning over in his mind, she feared it was something that might draw him further into himself.

If only Miss Bingley might succeed in her usual way and distract him, as she had before!

Elizabeth dared not do so herself—not yet.

But how much longer could she stand by, watching him wrestle with thoughts unspoken?

Was it wise to hope that Miss Bingley’s interruptions might suffice, or would Darcy’s introspections this evening take him further from the understanding she longed for him to reach?

Miss Bingley, ever eager to secure Darcy’s attention, sighed theatrically and set aside her book. "Mr. Darcy, how pleasant it is to spend an evening in such refined company," she declared, glancing at him expectantly.

Darcy did not even glance up. His fingers turned the page of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire with practiced ease, yet Elizabeth, watching keenly, knew better.

Miss Bingley, undeterred, rose gracefully from her seat. "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example and take a turn about the room. It is most refreshing after sitting for so long."

Elizabeth hesitated. The request was familiar—too familiar. Would it play out the same way? She stole a glance at Darcy, waiting for the moment he would look up as he had before. But this time, he did not.

A flicker of unease passed through her. Last time, he had been reading The Practical Farmer , an idle choice, one he had no real interest in.

This time, he had chosen Gibbon—a book he knew well, a book he used when he needed to think.

What had she done? Her mind spun, revisiting her slip from the night before, the way his demeanor had changed since.

Had she given too much away? Was he now retreating further from her, piecing together fragments of understanding she had not meant for him to grasp just yet?

Determined not to betray her thoughts, Elizabeth rose and joined Miss Bingley in their measured steps across the room. As they passed Darcy’s chair a second time, his fingers stilled upon the page. He looked up.

Miss Bingley, noticing the shift, seized her opportunity. "Mr. Darcy, I do hope you’re not too deeply absorbed in your book. Perhaps you would like to join us for a conversation?" Her voice was laced with false sweetness, hoping to provoke some response.

Darcy closed his book slowly, deliberately, but his eyes remained fixed on Elizabeth. "I suspect, Miss Bingley, that there is a reason you would prefer my company at this moment, but it is not one that I care to entertain just now."

Miss Bingley bristled at his cool indifference but pressed on. "Oh, Mr. Darcy, you are impossible! Why must you be so unapproachable?"

Elizabeth, watching the interaction carefully, knew that Darcy’s response was driven more by his own turbulent thoughts than by any genuine irritation with Miss Bingley.

She glanced at him again, trying to gauge his mood, but his expression was unreadable.

He wasn’t angry, exactly, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanor—a wariness, as though he were evaluating her in ways he hadn’t before.

She lowered her gaze quickly, uncertain of what he might see if he continued to look at her so intently. Had she miscalculated? Had her slip the night before set his mind on a course she could not predict?