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It was on an otherwise quiet morning, as Elizabeth sat in the parlour with her mother and sisters, that her thoughts wandered far from Longbourn.

While Mrs. Bennet discoursed at length on the prospect of new gowns and Lydia chattered of ribbons and regiments, Elizabeth’s mind was preoccupied with Fitzwilliam Darcy.

She thought of Pemberley, of her son James, and of the life she once had, as tangible in her recollection as the embroidery she held yet did not see.

Her heart ached with the slowness of time.

She longed for spring, for Rosings, for the moment she would see him again and try—if she could—to mend what damage her knowledge and missteps might have wrought.

Her reflections were not wholly hopeful.

Darcy's mistrust, his reticence, the way he warred against himself in her presence—all lingered in her memory.

But so too did his gaze at Oakham Hill, the concern behind his severity, and the fact that he had come to her even in the midst of suspicion.

These were not marks of a man entirely lost to her .

She was drawing up a mental list of excuses to remove herself from the room—anything to escape her mother’s prattling about Charlotte’s unfortunate engagement—when, as if conjured by her own dread, Sir William Lucas was announced.

“Oh, what can bring Sir William here so early?” Mrs. Bennet asked, though her tone was not so much puzzled as piqued. “We have not invited him today.”

Elizabeth immediately knew what his purpose must be, and her fingers tightened slightly on her needlework. Escape was now entirely impossible.

Sir William, ever beaming, entered with all the pomp he could summon. “My dear ladies,” he began, bowing grandly, “I bring tidings of the happiest sort. My daughter Charlotte has accepted the hand of Mr. Collins.”

A moment of perfect silence followed.

Mrs. Bennet gasped. “Mr. Collins! Engaged to Charlotte? This must be a jest.”

“Indeed, no jest, ma’am,” said Sir William proudly. “Charlotte has accepted him, and both families are quite delighted with the match. Mr. Collins, I must say, is a most fortunate man.”

Elizabeth set aside her work slowly. She had known this news would come.

It had not surprised her when Charlotte confided in her days earlier, but now, in the face of her mother’s shock and her father’s dry amusement, she found herself struggling with old and new emotions alike.

Jane, always eager to support harmony, was quick to offer her warm congratulations to Sir William, and Elizabeth, with a graciousness born of both foreknowledge and renewed understanding, followed with her own sincere good wishes.

Sir William, evidently gratified by their response, soon took his leave, allowing the Bennet family the privacy to react as only they could.

Mrs. Bennet’s colour had risen dramatically. “Engaged! Well—I never heard of such a thing in all my life. Charlotte Lucas! She is plain and nearly seven-and-twenty! What can he be thinking? Though I know what she was thinking, I suppose she will have a very snug life indeed.”

Elizabeth made no reply. Her eyes fixed themselves on her father, whose lips were already quirking with amusement. She knew what would come next. And yet, when it came, it still pierced her.

“So,” said Mr. Bennet, with a sardonic lift of his brow, “your friend Charlotte is not so very sensible as you believed her, Lizzy. I should have imagined her to know better than to marry a man such as Mr. Collins. Desperation must indeed dull judgment.”

Elizabeth’s head snapped around, her brows drawing together. "Papa, that is unkind. "

Mrs. Bennet blinked at her daughter, startled. "Why, Lizzy, are you defending Charlotte?"

Elizabeth turned back to her mother, her expression unreadable. "I only object to mockery where none is needed. Charlotte has chosen her path with clear eyes, and it is not for us to belittle her."

Mr. Bennet smiled thinly. "You surprise me, Lizzy. I had imagined you would be delighted to see your dear friend established so near. Or do you now regret your own refusal?"

Her cheeks coloured, though not with shame. "That is unworthy of you, sir."

He raised his brows. "Indeed? I thought it a fair question. You have made your views on Mr. Collins plain enough—so plain, in fact, that he sought the hand of your friend within hours of your dismissal."

Elizabeth rose from her seat, her voice quiet but firm. "You speak as though this were all some great amusement, Papa. As though every disappointment, every folly, were a comedy for your private enjoyment."

There was a pause, the silence in the room broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock.

Mr. Bennet folded his paper and leaned back in his chair. "I daresay it is not always amusing, but it is vastly preferable to engaging in every household battle. If I were to waste my energy correcting every instance of poor judgment in this house, I should never have a moment’s peace."

Mr. Bennet decided to walk away and just as he left the room, he replied in a tone of mild reproach, "Come now, Lizzy you did not always take things too much to heart."

Mrs. Bennet, scandalised by this unexpected exchange, began to scold. “Well, I declare, I never thought I’d live to hear you take Charlotte Lucas’s part against your own family. And poor Mr. Collins! After all the trouble he took to come here—and the hope I had that Mary—”

Mary, who had been quiet in the corner, merely looked up with a placid shake of the head. “I do not believe I should have suited Mr. Collins, Mama.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Mrs. Bennet huffed. “Well, I hope Mr. Collins will continue to visit. Perhaps he might yet be persuaded to reconsider one of you girls—though I know not what he could be thinking, passing over such excellent prospects.”

Jane, ever the peacemaker, ventured gently, “But Mama, he is already engaged to Charlotte, and we ought to rejoice in their shared happiness. ”

Outside the parlour, Elizabeth found Mary seated near the window with a book in her lap, though she had not turned the page in some time.

"So it is done," Elizabeth said, coming to stand beside her. "Charlotte and Mr. Collins are to marry."

Mary closed the book, placing a ribbon between the pages. "You are not surprised."

"No. But I am disheartened."

Mary tilted her head, regarding her sister with calm seriousness. "Was it truly the match that troubled you, or the way it was received?"

Elizabeth smiled faintly. "Both."

Mr. Collins’s return to Longbourn was not the tranquil occasion he might have expected.

Indeed, it introduced a degree of disquiet that rippled through the household in various, if predictable, ways.

Mrs. Bennet, once so eager for her daughter to accept the clergyman, now found her pride wounded by Charlotte’s success.

That Charlotte Lucas would become mistress of Longbourn, and she herself dependent upon the goodwill of her daughter’s friend, was a notion not easily borne.

Lady Lucas, for her part, took every opportunity to remind her neighbour of this very fact, often under the guise of cheerful civility.

Now, Elizabeth found herself flushing at the recollection of her mother’s loud lamentations and her younger sisters’ unchecked exuberance—but then she reminded herself, with no small measure of comfort, that even Fitzwilliam had kin of whom he was not proud.

"We all have relatives we blush for," he had once said with rueful affection, and she felt a quiet reassurance in his words, knowing he had never expected her to feel ashamed on his account.

Indeed, he had gently reminded her that embarrassment was universal, not particular to her own family.

Between herself and Charlotte there was now a gentle but firm restraint.

Their easy intimacy had given way to something quieter, almost formal.

Neither addressed the engagement directly.

Charlotte, once puzzled by Elizabeth’s sudden distance, now imagined she understood.

There was no bitterness between them—merely an acceptance of diverging paths.

It was not to Jane that Elizabeth turned in confidence, but to Mary. Since awakening to this second life, Elizabeth had found in Mary a sharper intelligence and quieter strength that had not been obvious before. Perhaps she had overlooked it once, as so many had. But now she saw Mary more clearly.

“It has been more than a week since Mr. Bingley departed,” Elizabeth murmured as they walked together in the pale sunlight, skirts brushing damp leaves on the path .

Mary looked at her steadily. "And you are certain his absence is not Mr. Darcy’s doing?"

Elizabeth nodded, though a faint shadow crossed her face. "Yes. He promised he would not interfere. And Fitzwilliam keeps his word. No, I fear it is his sisters alone who wield influence enough to keep him in town."

Mary was quiet for a moment. "Jane wrote to them?"

“Yes. Just as before.” Elizabeth’s voice grew softer. “And just as before, no reply.”

Mary glanced at her sideways. “And Jane?”

“She remains hopeful,” Elizabeth said. “But she speaks little of it now. And I… I am no longer comfortable pressing her. Mama speaks too freely of it, and Jane shrinks from all such conversation. I fear I only add to her discomfort.”

Mary made no comment but reached out and lightly touched Elizabeth’s arm—a small gesture of solidarity.

It was not only in matters of Bingley that unease crept into their days.

Elizabeth had begun to observe subtle changes in Kitty’s manner—so faint that they might have passed unnoticed by anyone who had not lived these moments before.

She recalled vividly a particular afternoon tea, once so unremarkable, and now—replayed—laden with implications.

Denny and Carter had stopped by, their uniforms as bright and cheerful as ever. Lydia had launched into animated flirtation with her usual abandon, encouraged by Mrs. Bennet’s effusive delight in the officers’ company. Kitty, too, joined in—but with less enthusiasm than Elizabeth recalled.

The change was minute. Her laughter came later, her eyes darted to the window more than once, and though she accepted Denny’s compliments, her replies were distracted. Elizabeth watched the scene unfold with narrowing eyes.

Later that day, she mentioned it to Mary.

“Do you think Kitty has grown quieter?” she asked.

Mary considered it. "Perhaps. Or perhaps she has grown thoughtful, which is not quite the same."

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “That would be a first.”

“Do you mean to speak with her? ”

Elizabeth hesitated. "Not yet. But I will keep watch. It may be nothing. But then again, so many things that seemed nothing before became… something."

Mary nodded. "We cannot afford to assume anything harmless."

Elizabeth sighed and looked toward the cloudy sky. “No. We cannot.”

So the days passed, dull and heavy, with too much introspection and too few distractions.

The absence of the Netherfield party left a void that could not be ignored.

Jane bore it with dignity, if not serenity.

Elizabeth with restlessness. And Mrs. Bennet with loud complaints and even louder speculations.

At least, Elizabeth thought, Charlotte’s presence would soon relieve them of Mr. Collins. For the first time, she looked forward to his departure not with mirth, but with deep gratitude.

Still, as the grey sky darkened toward evening, she could not help but lift her eyes northward and wonder where Fitzwilliam might be—and if, in that same moment, he thought of her too.