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Elizabeth had scarcely stepped beyond the hedge when she saw him. Mr. Darcy, tall and serious as ever, emerged along the path as if conjured by her thoughts. Her heart gave a small, involuntary leap, a curious mix of joy and dread that she had long associated with him—particularly now.

He paused at the sight of her, his eyes warming with the recognition he would not speak aloud. "Miss Bennet," he said, bowing slightly.

"Mr. Darcy," she replied with a nod and the faintest smile. "You find me at my favourite walk."

"Indeed," he said, stepping in beside her. "A fortunate coincidence, though I must confess I had hoped for it."

They proceeded a few paces in silence, the early spring breeze stirring the branches overhead and tugging at Elizabeth's bonnet strings.

She held her hands clasped before her, willing herself not to betray the quickening of her breath.

He seemed equally contemplative, though there was a tension to his movements, a restlessness born not from the walk but from his own internal unease.

At last, he spoke.

"You are… difficult to read, Miss Bennet. I find myself puzzled more each time we meet."

Elizabeth’s lips curled. "I daresay that is the safest way to be read, sir. Confusion tends to slow judgment."

"And yet you provoke it," he replied, glancing at her. "Your words, your… manner. I cannot help but believe there is more than simple wit at play."

"I have been accused of many things," she said lightly. "Being too clever by half among them."

"And yet still no answers," he murmured .

Elizabeth turned slightly, catching his gaze. There was frustration there, yes, but something else—hope, perhaps. Or something more dangerous. She could not say.

He continued, "There was a time—not so long ago—when I believed myself deceived by you. When I questioned your intentions."

"And now?" she asked, her voice quieter.

"Now I question everything."

She stopped then and looked out at the field beyond. "You need not worry about my town anymore, Mr. Darcy," she said, very deliberately not meeting his gaze. "The matter has… resolved itself."

"You speak of Wickham."

"Yes."

He was silent for a long moment. "You say he is no longer a threat. How can you be certain?"

"He has left the area. I do not know where he has gone," she answered, choosing each word with care. "But I believe his influence there has expired."

"May I ask—what gave you such confidence before? To speak as you did, with such certainty?"

Elizabeth turned to him then, her expression serene though her heart beat fast. "Let us say that I had cause to look more closely at the world than most young women of my age are expected to."

"That is not an answer."

"It is the one I am prepared to give."

He frowned, not in anger but in continued bewilderment. There was a quiet hunger in his gaze, a desire not merely to solve her mystery but to understand it, to protect it.

"You have seen more than you will admit," he said at last. "And yet you speak with caution."

"Caution is often a wiser companion than pride."

He gave a quiet, humourless laugh. "Perhaps I ought to learn that lesson."

They approached the parsonage gate. Elizabeth’s steps slowed. She sensed the moment was not yet done, that he might reach out once more with a question she could not evade .

"Miss Bennet," he said softly. "If there is something I may do—if you find yourself again in danger, or…"

She turned to him then, her expression warm. "You have already done a great deal, Mr. Darcy. And I thank you for it."

He looked at her a moment longer, as though trying to commit the moment to memory. Then he gave a slight bow.

"Good day to you, Miss Bennet."

She curtseyed. "And to you, Mr. Darcy."

He turned and walked back down the lane, his figure receding into the spring light. Elizabeth stood watching him until he vanished from view. Her heart was a fluttering, uncertain thing, caught between hope and fear, truth and silence.

That she should discover him a Second time was no surprise to her; Elizabeth had long suspected that Mr. Darcy, whether by design or chance, would find himself upon her accustomed path again.

And indeed, as she turned a shaded bend near the copse, there he stood—silent, tall, and, for a moment, seeming as though he too questioned the wisdom of such repeated encounters.

"Miss Bennet," he said with grave civility, inclining his head. "It appears I am intruding upon your solitude yet again."

"Intrusion is not the word I would choose, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth replied lightly, though with a heart that beat a shade too quick. "The path is common to all walkers, and your presence is always marked by such fine silence, it hardly disturbs."

He offered the barest smile, but it faded quickly. They turned and walked, the rustle of the path beneath their boots the only sound for several moments.

"I have wondered," he began suddenly, glancing at her from beneath his brow, "whether you often favour Haydn above other composers."

Elizabeth felt her composure falter, but only briefly. "Indeed I do. He has a clarity and sweetness that appeals to the heart."

"Then 'Ode to the Happy Heart' must be a particular favourite. It is not often played—at least, not in Hertfordshire. Yet I recall you performed it at Lucas Lodge, did you not?"

"Yes," Elizabeth answered, and then, catching her breath, added, "It is not often appreciated. I only knew it from... from a collection I encountered while visiting my aunt in London. "

Darcy gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable. Elizabeth did not dare meet his eye fully but pressed on, striving to shift the conversation.

"Have you been long acquainted with the piece?"

"It is familiar to me," he said slowly, still watching her. "My mother once played it, and Georgiana has taken it up—though she prefers Clementi for the piano."

"A woman of excellent taste," Elizabeth replied warmly. "From all I have heard, she must be very accomplished. I confess I would greatly enjoy meeting her."

"She would be honoured by your acquaintance," he said, and for a moment his tone softened. "You remind me of her in some ways."

Elizabeth smiled but felt a tightening in her chest. They walked a little further in silence before Darcy asked, as though the question had long been forming in his mind:

"You have spoken of Georgiana before... even before you could have heard of her through natural means. I must ask—" he hesitated, frowning. "Have you—did someone speak to you of her at length prior to your time at Netherfield?"

Elizabeth paused a beat too long. "Not at length, no. I—some things one intuits. A young lady’s preference for Clementi over Beethoven might be guessed from a style, a temperament."

"Intuition," Darcy repeated quietly.

He said nothing more on the matter, but Elizabeth, watching from the corner of her eye, noticed the faint tightening around his mouth and the way his gaze settled on the distance, as if seeking answers from the hills beyond. He had not missed the inconsistency. She had hoped he had.

Yet their conversation took a lighter turn as they approached a break in the trees.

"Miss Bennet," Darcy said, changing the subject abruptly, "I have often found these grounds quite soothing. You must find them a pleasant place for reflection."

"Indeed," she said, grateful for the reprieve. "There is much to reflect upon."

They continued for some time, speaking then of indifferent subjects—books, weather, even Maria's astonishment at Lady Catherine’s silver tea service. But as they neared the parsonage gate once again, Darcy paused.

"Miss Bennet, I thank you for the pleasure of your company. These walks have been... unexpectedly restorative. "

Elizabeth dipped into a curtsy, her eyes meeting his for a lingering moment. "The pleasure has been mine, Mr. Darcy."

“Two days now,” she murmured to herself as she returned toward the parsonage, “and not one question I could not answer. But how long can I go on giving him half-truths? How long before he demands the whole?”

That she should discover him a third time on her walk was, by now, no great astonishment to Elizabeth Bennet.

Indeed, she found herself anticipating the encounter with something nearing satisfaction.

He had not deviated from the pattern she remembered, and in this moment of repetition, she felt oddly reassured.

Yet, though she expected to see Mr. Darcy, she could not always anticipate the course their conversations would take—or the peculiar turns that might slip from her own tongue.

Upon their greeting, which was carried with mutual civility, Mr. Darcy, after a moment’s hesitation, inquired after her sister.

"She is very well now, thanks to you, sir. I was able to write to her and let her know where to find Mr. Bingley."

She smiled as she spoke, pleased to finally share the success of her efforts, but Mr. Darcy looked at her with furrowed brow, as if parsing every word. Elizabeth continued, unaware of his scrutiny.

"In her letter this morning, Jane wrote that Mr. Bingley had expressed genuine surprise upon meeting her in Hyde Park.

He said he had no idea she was in town. It seems his sisters assured him they had written to Jane faithfully—claiming they had told her he would remain in London until the end of the season, and that he intended to return to Netherfield only after.

But they also said she never answered them, which, naturally, gave him pause. "

"I cannot say I am surprised by their reaction," Mr. Darcy replied slowly. "But I am saddened. After all, I am only Bingley’s friend."

Elizabeth regarded him with a gentler expression than she had perhaps intended. "I know you are. And you have been a very good one, Fitzwilliam."

It was said unconsciously, the name falling from her lips with ease, as if it had long belonged there.

And in another life, it had. At Pemberley, in the quiet between duties and daylight, they had walked often—along the garden paths or beneath the shade of the elms—speaking of their sisters, their burdens, their hopes.

There, she had called him Fitzwilliam with easy affection, a name softened by laughter and shared confidences.

The sound had once been a comfort, a rhythm familiar to them both.

But now, here, the moment passed unnoticed by her—spoken not with intention, but from a place of instinct, as though her heart had remembered what her mind had not yet realized.

Mr. Darcy’s eyes turned sharply to her, though his expression remained measured. The name struck him with a force that belied its gentleness. It sounded so natural—so right—on her lips. It stirred something deep and unbidden within him.

Yet it was wrong.

Improper.

They were not so acquainted, and she should not—could not—know him so well. That familiarity, so intimate and casually spoken, unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He did not speak at once.

Though he stood with all the rigid dignity expected of his name, within him stirred a confusion he could not neatly order.

That single word—Fitzwilliam—echoed with a closeness that should not exist. She had said it as if she always had, as if they belonged to each other in a way no degree of acquaintance or social alignment could explain.

It disquieted him.

He had dreamed of her. Of course he had. Any man might. She was clever, beautiful, and unlike any woman in his circle. But dreams meant nothing—they were the idle wanderings of an unsettled mind. Fleeting. Weightless.

At least, that was what he told himself.

And yet—

There it was again. That dangerous pull. Not affection, he insisted. Never that. It was curiosity, surely. A need to solve her, to understand what she was and how she knew so much. That was all.

Still, her voice speaking his name had awakened something deeper—something he dared not name. If it was not affection, why did it feel so much like yearning?

He seized upon the mystery of her knowledge as a safer path to focus on. It was something he could examine—dissect—without risking more than his pride. Yes, better to dwell there, in the realm of logic and unanswered questions.

And so, he said nothing.

A hush settled between them, no longer companionable but strained with unspoken thoughts. Elizabeth, unaware of her slip, glanced at him with quiet concern. His sudden withdrawal unsettled her. Had she offended? What had she said ?

Her words had seemed ordinary.

They walked on, the gravel path crunching beneath their feet, the silence stretching taut.

She watched him from the corner of her eye, but he gave no sign of returning to their earlier ease.

His gaze remained fixed ahead, brow drawn, as if his thoughts were far from the spring-green lane they traveled.

For Darcy’s part, he was clinging to logic—seeking explanation. She knew too much. And yet her sorrow, her sincerity, even her confusion seemed real. Too real for games. He could not reconcile her knowledge with artifice.

At last, he spoke, though his voice had cooled. “I am glad to hear your sister is well.”

Elizabeth offered a soft smile, sensing something had shifted, though she did not know what. “Yes,” she said gently, “she was much heartened by the encounter. Thank you, again, for telling me.”

He inclined his head but said no more. The walk concluded with an awkwardness neither could dispel.

As they reached the lane that led back to the parsonage, Elizabeth looked at him once more, searching his face for a clue to the change she had not meant to cause.

He bid her good day with his usual courtesy, but it was the distance in his voice that lingered.

She remained where she was, watching him walk away, a strange ache blooming in her chest.

What did I say? she wondered. But the question echoed into silence, and no answer came.