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The morning following Mr. Collins’s most unwelcome proposal found the household in much the same disarray as Elizabeth recalled from before—though this time her thoughts were shared, in part, by one sister who had begun to see matters through a newly sharpened lens.

Mrs. Bennet’s lamentations, so full of theatrical distress and shrill reproach, echoed through the house with equal parts despair and scheming resolve.

She bemoaned Elizabeth’s obstinacy as if it were an affliction, a direct offence against providence and family fortune alike.

Mr. Collins, for his part, was undeterred by refusal; rather, he appeared affronted that his generosity should be so ill-received, and wandered about the house muttering citations from Fordyce and hints of female ingratitude.

Yet in the shadow of all this, Mary Bennet sat in quiet reflection, her eyes watchful, her mind astir.

She had not made her decision lightly, but as she beheld her cousin's tiresome posturing and her mother’s ceaseless prattle, she felt the strength of her resolve affirmed.

She had, in her heart, considered whether she ought to accept the mantle so clearly being passed on—should she be the one to divert Mr. Collins's intentions?

But witnessing his conduct, the utter lack of conversation of substance, and the self-importance cloaked in humble servility, she knew she had chosen rightly.

Her soul recoiled from the notion of binding herself to such a man.

She might endure solitude, but she could not endure perpetual condescension.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, was seized with a gratitude toward Mary she had never before known so keenly.

Their understanding, forged late but strong, lent her fortitude through the ordeal.

Mr. Collins had proposed nearly as he had before—no memory from a future life had proven enough to sway his self-congratulating speeches—but at least this time Elizabeth had not stood so alone.

Mary had diverted their mother’s interruptions when possible and made attempts, however subtly, to forestall the disaster.

But the wheels of Mrs. Bennet’s ambitions turned too noisily to be halted by reason .

And so, as Charlotte Lucas arrived to offer her company and her remarkable gift of composure, Elizabeth looked to her old friend with something akin to reverence.

Never before had she been so thankful for Charlotte’s practicality, nor so aware of what it would cost her.

But this was how things must proceed—for now.

And though the faces and voices around her played the same familiar tune, Elizabeth knew the notes beneath had changed.

In Mary’s steady eyes, she saw the reflection of her altered fate.

And for the first time that morning, she dared to hope it might not all be for naught.

After breakfast, Lydia, still buoyed by Netherfield ball's flirtations and determined to bask in the delights of her own making, suggested a walk into Meryton.

Elizabeth, though reluctant, found herself rising to the occasion when Lydia, with a sly glance and mocking tone, said, "You need not come, Lizzy, for I daresay Mr. Wickham will not be there.

" The provocation worked as it always did.

Elizabeth's pride stirred, and Mary, observing the shift in her sister’s demeanour, promptly added, "I believe I would like a walk as well. "

Thus it was that the five Bennet sisters set out for Meryton, Kitty and Lydia ahead, giddy with anticipation and laughter, while Jane, Elizabeth, and Mary followed at a more temperate pace.

Elizabeth walked between her elder and younger sister, thankful for their quiet company—at least until Mr. Wickham appeared, just as she had foreseen.

He greeted them all with a polished bow and genial expression, and soon attached himself to the younger girls.

With practiced ease, he fell into conversation, apologizing in earnest tones for his absence from the ball.

Elizabeth, walking still beside Mary, cast a glance her way—one that needed no words to convey her unease.

Mary returned the look, understanding perfectly.

As they reached the tea shop, Lydia exclaimed in delight and invited Mr. Wickham to join them.

"You must come in! We shall have a treat—Mrs. Wentworth always makes the best biscuits. And you will see, Lizzy, I shall laugh when I see you blush at him, for he is joining us at our aunt’s card party too. "

They entered with a flourish, and Mr. Wickham, not to be outdone in gallantry, offered to pay for the tea and pastries with a casual confidence that belied the fact he had no ready coin. "Mr. Wentworth knows me," he said, waving his hand as if his word alone should be enough.

Mr. Wentworth, a stout man with silvering hair and the weary air of one long acquainted with the whims of gentlemen and the schemes of flirtatious militia, frowned slightly at the exchange.

He said nothing, but his furrowed brow remained fixed as he returned to the counter.

Elizabeth, taking her seat beside Mary, narrowed her eyes slightly .

"Indeed, sir, and does he also know your purse?" she said lightly, her tone one of gentle jest, though the meaning was sharper. Mary added, more gravely, "It is not every day that a gentleman’s honour rests upon his account at the tea shop."

Wickham laughed, waving away their concern. "I shall settle it within the week, I assure you. These are trifles."

Lydia, already halfway through her biscuit, rolled her eyes. "Really, Lizzy and Mary! Must you always spoil a little fun? If Mr. Darcy hadn’t interfered, Wickham would not be inconvenienced at all."

Elizabeth said nothing in reply, though her thoughts were fierce.

At that moment, Miss Wentworth, Mr. Wentworth’s pretty sixteen-year-old daughter, came to the table to deliver the tea.

She cast a shy glance at Wickham, and Elizabeth saw it for what it was—a young girl easily enchanted by charm and a red coat.

Mary leaned close and said in a voice meant to carry only so far, "It is the sweetest things that are often laced with the sharpest regrets."

Elizabeth, picking up her cup, followed with, "Indeed. And the cost of a gentleman’s attention is often dearer than the tea he cannot pay for."

Lydia paid them no heed, but Kitty looked uncertain, her eyes flitting between Wickham and the sisters. Jane, ever gentle, tried to smooth the moment with, "I am sure we are all very grateful for Mr. Wickham’s company today. It is a fine thing, after all, to be so sociable."

"Quite so," Wickham replied with a smile, though his glance at Elizabeth held a flicker of annoyance.

Meanwhile, from behind the counter, Mr. Wentworth's frown deepened. His wife, Mrs. Wentworth, had not yet returned from visiting a neighbour, but Elizabeth could only hope he might discuss the matter with her. The Wentworths were known for their discretion in accounts but not in opinions, and Mrs. Wentworth’s tongue, once stirred, was a mighty force in Meryton’s gossip circles.

The tea visit concluded, the girls made their way home, chattering as they went.

But Elizabeth, though she smiled and laughed with the others, was quiet in her thoughts.

Wickham, with his clever tongue and ease of manner, had woven a tale much as he had before.

Yet this time she saw every thread unraveling—his inconsistencies, his shifting blame, the way he danced between pride and poverty with practiced step.

She had once thought herself astute, but it was only now, with new eyes, that she truly understood how thoroughly she had been duped the first time .

Mary, walking beside her, gave her a sidelong look. "You did well not to call him out entirely, Lizzy."

"Yes," Elizabeth murmured. "But I do hope Miss Wentworth thinks a little more before she smiles again at his gallantries."

"And perhaps Mr. Wentworth will discuss the matter with his wife," Mary added thoughtfully. "If he does, I dare say half the town shall know by the morrow."

"We shall have to see what tomorrow brings."

"Indeed," said Elizabeth. "For I have little doubt Mr. Wickham means to return."

Soon after their return from Meryton, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet.

The handwriting was instantly known to them all—it came from Netherfield.

Jane opened it without delay, and Elizabeth stood beside her, the past echoing so keenly in her mind that it almost felt as though time itself had stilled.

The letter was exactly as Elizabeth had remembered it, each phrase a mirror to the one received in her other life.

The formal civility, the restrained regret, the careful phrasing that cloaked cruelty in courtesy—nothing had changed.

Jane’s face, too, was unchanged in its gentle confusion and heartbreak.

Elizabeth felt her own heart clench with quiet pain. This moment had returned, just as before. And just as before, she would not allow it to pass without resistance.

“They are acting without their brother’s knowledge,” Elizabeth said softly, her voice calm and sure. “Of that I am certain.”

Jane looked up, her expression troubled. “But why would they write such things, if they are not true?”

“Because,” Elizabeth replied, “they fear your connection. They see your gentleness and goodness as a trap, a snare for their brother. They know not how deeply he already esteems you, or how undeserving they are of your trust. And this tale of Miss Darcy? It is false—she is not even out yet.”

Mary, who had entered the room during this exchange, now stepped forward. “Elizabeth is right. Their reasoning is flawed, and their assumptions ungenerous. Why speak of a future match for Miss Darcy as if it were settled, when by all accounts she is scarce presented?”

Elizabeth glanced at her sister with a quiet flicker of surprise. Mary, it seemed, was more perceptive in this life, more willing to trust her judgment.

“Thank you, Mary,” she said, her voice warm .

It was agreed, then, that Mrs. Bennet should only be informed that the Netherfield party had returned to town, and that they did not know when they would return. Nothing more.

When Mrs. Bennet received the news, her lamentations filled the household.

“Oh, my poor Jane! Just when everything was going so well! To think he should be taken away—called to town—and without so much as a proper proposal!”

Elizabeth tried once, gently, to suggest restraint. “Mama, we cannot always understand the motives of others. Perhaps it was not in Mr. Bingley’s power to remain.”

But Mrs. Bennet would not be soothed. “Nonsense, Lizzy. Gentlemen may do as they please. He ought to have stayed. If he were truly in love with Jane, he would not have gone. I daresay his sisters planned it all!”

Elizabeth turned away, biting her tongue.

There was no comfort to be had in arguing with her mother.

Her father, as always, remained in the library, unwilling to involve himself beyond a dry remark or a wry smile.

He had long preferred amusement to responsibility, and it stung Elizabeth more than she liked to admit.

She found herself walking out with Mary again, this time not to Meryton, but along the edge of the gardens, where the last of autumn’s colours clung stubbornly to the hedgerows.

“He has gone,” Elizabeth said at last, her voice soft.

“You expected it,” Mary replied.

“I did. He needs time. Time to think, to understand himself, to grow. I love him—I do. But I do not expect him to love me as I am now. Not yet.”

“You think he is confused.”

“He is.” Elizabeth gave a small, sad smile. “He was confused last time, too, but I did not see it then. I only saw pride, not the vulnerability that pride tried to mask.”

Mary was silent a moment. “What will you do?”

“Focus on what I can do. On Jane. On saving Lydia. On keeping Wickham from destroying this town.” She stopped walking and looked ahead with quiet determination. “I could not save everyone last time. But I will try harder now.”

They turned to go back to the house, and Elizabeth’s gaze lingered on the narrow path winding away from Longbourn. She thought of Fitzwilliam—Mr. Darcy—and her heart ached, but she did not despair. Not yet .

He would think. He would reflect. And perhaps, when the time came, he would return.

Until then, she would do all in her power to protect her family, even those who did not wish to be protected.