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Three days of rain confined the inhabitants of Longbourn within doors, and to Elizabeth, who possessed knowledge none other could, it was a period of rising dread.

She knew—she remembered —what these days would bring.

Her family, in their usual manner, would parade their absurdities before Mr. Bingley, mortify Mr. Darcy, and ultimately drive both gentlemen from Hertfordshire.

Worse still, Mr. Collins, unrelenting in his self-importance, would propose.

She must prevent it. She would prevent it.

On the first morning, with a resolution born of desperation, Elizabeth sought her father in his library. She found him reclining in his chair, spectacles perched low on his nose, and a book in hand that seemed of more interest to him than any daughter’s crisis.

“Papa,” she began, with as calm a voice as she could manage, “I wonder if I might speak with you on a matter of some urgency.”

He looked up slowly, arching a brow with the sort of bemused patience he reserved for storms he deemed would pass. “By all means, Lizzy. If it does not concern the price of lace or a neighbour’s cow, I shall do my utmost to remain attentive.”

She sat opposite him. “It concerns Mama—and my sisters—and the behaviour I fear they shall display before our guests.”

“My dear child,” he said with a dry chuckle, “your concern is noble, but you may as well try to train a flock of geese to curtsy before royalty.”

“Papa!” she protested. “It is no laughing matter. You know as well as I do that their behaviour may drive Mr. Bingley away and with him, all chance of—of happiness.”

He waved a languid hand. “Let the men run if they are so faint-hearted. If Mr. Bingley is frightened by your mother’s exuberance or Kitty’s coughing giggles, he is perhaps not made of husbandly mettle.”

Elizabeth rose, pacing. “You could speak to them, ask them to exercise restraint.”

“I could,” he agreed amiably, “but it sounds dreadfully like work. Your mother is impervious to sense, and your sisters take after her. You, Lizzy, were our only sensible investment. ”

She halted, vexation tightening her brow. “Then what is the use of your intelligence if you will not employ it where it may do good?”

At this, Mr. Bennet stiffened. “That is unjust, Lizzy. I have provided this family with a library and the occasional witty observation. What more can a man offer?”

She stared at him, disappointed beyond words, and he, catching something of the depth in her look, turned back to his book with a muttered, “You grow too earnest. It does not suit you.”

She left the room with her heart heavy and steps slow. But she had not given up.

Later that afternoon, she found Mr. Collins by the parlour window, extolling the virtues of the rain for nourishing Lady Catherine’s favourite hedgerows. She approached him with forced civility.

“Mr. Collins,” she said, “as a man of propriety, I thought perhaps you might caution yourself before becoming too familiar with any young lady under this roof, lest misunderstandings arise.”

He turned with alacrity, folding his hands across his breast. “Miss Elizabeth, I assure you, I am the soul of discretion. When I consider matrimony, I do so with every regard to propriety. But until a gentleman makes his intentions clear—and seeks the permission of her father—I can hardly act or restrain another’s actions. It would be most presumptuous.”

She swallowed a retort. “But surely, some vigilance—some forethought—”

“Miss Elizabeth,” he interrupted with a pained expression, “you must excuse me, but I think your manner borders on disrespect. I am not accustomed to being chastised for the faults of others. I believe it best you take your leave.”

She blinked, half in astonishment, half in fury. As she turned away, her hands clenched, she wondered if indeed Mr. Collins and her mother might share more than household proximity—perhaps some strain of willful deafness to sense.

Thus concluded the first day.

The second began with renewed determination.

Elizabeth had spent a restless night, haunted not by the wind that battered the panes nor by the thunder that occasionally growled in the distance, but by the certainty of impending humiliation.

She could not, would not allow Netherfield to be lost to folly.

That morning, with Jane occupied in attending to their mother’s minor complaints, Elizabeth found an opportunity to speak plainly .

“Mama,” she began carefully, yet firmly, “might I beg that you take some care, particularly before the ball? I fear that if Mr. Bingley is too early convinced of his consequence with Jane, he may be frightened away rather than drawn closer. Gentlemen of sense are often cautious.”

Mrs. Bennet, comfortably seated with a shawl around her shoulders and a cup of negus in hand, blinked at her daughter.

“What nonsense you speak, Lizzy! Frightened off! As if any man would turn from Jane, the most beautiful creature in Hertfordshire. If he has sense, he will be glad to have her. And I shall say so to all who ask it, for I see no harm in being proud of my girl.”

Elizabeth pressed on. “Indeed, Mama, but there is a delicacy in courtship. And Lydia and Kitty—perhaps their liveliness might be better tempered? It could be mistaken for… for want of propriety.”

Mrs. Bennet bristled at once. “You sound just like your father. Always ready to scold the younger ones. They are merely spirited! And what is the use of daughters if they cannot dance and laugh and enjoy a ball? As for you, Lizzy, you may be dull as you please, but do not drag the others into it.”

Mary, who had been half-listening from behind a volume of Fordyce’s Sermons, looked up and added, “Modesty and reserve are the ornaments of feminine virtue. A young woman should be amiable without ostentation, and chaste in both thought and action.”

This contribution was met with a loud sigh from Lydia, who had just bounced into the room to search for her dancing slippers. “Oh, pooh, Mary! Who wants to hear a sermon before breakfast? We’re not nuns!”

Elizabeth watched as her mother nodded approvingly at Lydia’s retort. “Well said, my dear. That’s what I always say—let girls be girls. Lizzy would have us all sitting in corners like old maids if she could.”

“I only wish,” Elizabeth said, her voice tight with frustration, “to prevent embarrassment. To allow Jane her proper happiness, and all of us the chance of a future unmarred by imprudence.”

“Oh, you do go on,” said Mrs. Bennet. “As if you know best! And since when were you so invested in Jane’s future, when you won’t even take Mr. Collins seriously?”

Elizabeth turned her head quickly at the mention of Mr. Collins and noticed, for the first time, his eye upon her from the other end of the room.

He had paused in his inspection of the bookshelves and regarded her now with less admiration and more…

suspicion. His manner, though still civil, was no longer filled with such anxious de votion.

She had spoken too freely the day before, and it appeared that the blow had not gone unnoticed.

Though exasperated with her mother’s obstinacy and the impossibility of governing Lydia and Kitty without support, Elizabeth felt a small ember of relief.

If Mr. Collins’s affections were beginning to wane, perhaps she might avoid his proposal after all.

That thought, at least, brought her some consolation.

Jane entered then, having completed her task, and, seeing the tension in the room, gave Elizabeth a look of quiet entreaty.

She spoke gently, with that serene composure which marked her character.

“Perhaps,” she said with a smile, “we might all try to enjoy the preparations for the ball with a little less anxiety. Everything will settle itself in time.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly at her sister’s peaceful expression and thought that she must try, once again, to find a solution. There was yet time, and she would not waste it.

Thus ended the second day.

The third dawned no less grey than the previous two, the heavy skies and persistent rain hemming the inhabitants of Longbourn within doors, and Elizabeth with them.

Tomorrow the weather would break, and with it the long-anticipated Netherfield ball would arrive.

A ball which, to Elizabeth, represented not gaiety and pleasure, but an ordeal fraught with danger, misunderstandings, and the risk of irretrievable loss.

Her mother could not—would not—be curbed.

Mrs. Bennet moved about the house in raptures of expectation, her spirits effusive and loud, her tongue ceaseless, boasting with increasing fervour of Mr. Bingley’s attentions to Jane, and of the consequence it must bring to the family.

No caution, no temperance, could reach her ears, nor did she seem to comprehend the notion that her behaviour might drive the gentleman away.

Elizabeth had tried everything short of revelation to moderate her mother’s conduct, but to no avail.

At least Mary had promised not to seize the opportunity of the ball for her usual public display.

Though wounded by the suggestion, she had been mollified when Elizabeth, in a moment of sincere tenderness, assured her that once she was married, she would see to it that Mary had a proper music master.

This small act of reassurance brought forth a reluctant smile and a nod of promise, and Elizabeth, though grateful, could not help but feel a pang for all that her younger sister might have become under a more attentive father.

She withdrew from the company of her family that last day, choosing instead the solitude of the upstairs sitting room, where she might stare out the window at the drenched hedgerows and contemplate the tangled skein of her thoughts.

Her mind, ever prone to rapid and restless wanderings, circled again and again around the same questions: what to say, what to do, and what to hope.

Fitzwilliam. No—Mr. Darcy. She must remember to call him so, for propriety’s sake if nothing else.

It was not difficult, they were always formal in company, and he had ever maintained a dignity in public that allowed few liberties.

And yet, in her heart, he remained Fitzwilliam, the man she had loved and who had loved her.

The man she had married. That knowledge, too immense to share, weighed heavily on her, especially when she recalled their conversation in the library and on top Oakmont Hill.

She had been so distressed, so overcome with the burden of memory and the fear of misstep. They had not been alone since.

Tomorrow, she knew, Wickham would depart—volunteering to return to London for a time, ostensibly on duty, though Elizabeth could guess at his motives.

That he meant to remove himself before the ball was both a relief and a concern.

If only she could have reached the town, warned some few of the more observant shopkeepers, planted a whisper among the right ears.

But the roads were impassable with mud, and any attempt to walk would result in scandal—or, worse, her mother’s unrelenting displeasure.

Her gaze drifted over the gardens, sodden and dim.

How to prevent disaster? How to win a single dance with Fitz—Mr. Darcy?

Could she confess her knowledge of future and hope he would trust her?

But she had already aroused his suspicions.

He believed her to know too much. If she revealed more, might he think her conniving, dishonest, or fit for Bedlam?

Might he remove Bingley, take him back to Town, and leave Jane broken-hearted?

The thought of Charlotte came, unbidden, and with it a pang of guilt.

She had kept her distance from her dearest friend these weeks, for Charlotte's knowing eyes and calm insight posed too great a risk to her secret.

Yet if Mr. Darcy were to depart, and Mr. Collins were to propose, might she steer him toward Charlotte?

Would that be kindness or cruelty? Charlotte had surely begun to suspect her avoidance, and Elizabeth feared her silence had caused unintended pain.

And Jane—sweet, luminous Jane—how strange that even their sisterly bond now bore traces of distance.

It had never been so before. But Jane's goodness sometimes blinded her to truth, and Elizabeth could not help but feel the weight of loneliness in her vigil.

When Jane entered the room just then, her step light and her face soft with concern, Elizabeth looked up with a startled smile.

"Lizzy, you are very quiet today."

"Only thinking, dearest. "

Jane seated herself beside her, taking up some needlework. Her presence, gentle and steady, stirred affection and grief in equal measure.

Later, it was Mary who came seeking her, bringing a copy of Fordyce’s sermons and a comment on the virtue of patience in the face of worldly tribulation.

Elizabeth listened, half amused, half exasperated, until she laughed—a true, if wearied, laugh—and promised Mary a chapter's discussion after the ball.

If Fitzwilliam—Mr. Darcy—did not ask her to dance, she would bear it. If he left, she would survive it. But she would not—could not—allow Wickham to triumph again. This time, she would act. Somehow.

Before retiring for the evening, she knelt at her bedside and prayed. Not for her own happiness, not for Darcy’s love, though her heart ached with longing. No—she prayed only for one thing:

"Let me dance with my husband tomorrow night."

Even if he did not know he was her husband. Even if he never would.