Page 40

In contrast, Colonel Fitzwilliam stood steady, watchful, his gaze that of a soldier surveying uncertain terrain. He did not look upon her with sentiment, but with the cold clarity of duty—a commander taking stock of an uncertain ally, ready to intervene if necessary.

It was the Colonel who spoke first, his voice calm yet firm.

"Miss Bennet, I must ask that you remain by the window during your conversation. This is not a mere formality—it is for Mr. Darcy’s protection from compromise, and for my own peace of mind.

I shall remain just outside, within view, and will intervene if necessary. "

Elizabeth inclined her head, the gravity of his words settling on her like a heavy mantle. "I understand," she said quietly, her voice steady though every nerve within her trembled. "And I thank you, Colonel."

He bowed with formal precision and withdrew, the door closing behind him with a soft but final click that seemed to echo louder than any gunshot.

They were alone.

Silence bloomed between them, thick and suffocating, so complete it seemed to have a sound of its own.

Elizabeth moved mechanically to the bell and rang for tea, her hands steady though her breath was not.

The small, familiar motions were a refuge—a defense against the unbearable weight of his presence.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him give a single, almost imperceptible nod, the muscle in his jaw tightening, as though even the acceptance of refreshment required a fierce act of restraint.

They sat at last upon the settee—its placement, she realized, no accident: the window framing them both, so that Colonel Fitzwilliam might observe them easily from without.

Elizabeth turned her attention to the teacups, to the small, careful rituals of hospitality. She measured the tea leaves with painstaking precision, poured the hot water as though it were the most important task she had ever undertaken. Anything to keep her hands from betraying the tempest within.

Her mind, however, could not be so disciplined. It churned and twisted with memory, fear, desperate hope. Would he listen? Would he believe? Or would he look at her, and see only madness where once there had been love ?

She dared not look at him yet. Not until she found the courage to meet whatever lay written upon his face.

At last, she spoke. Her voice, though soft, broke the tension like a breeze stirring a still, heavy air.

"At the ball," she began slowly, her eyes fixed on the teapot rather than daring to meet his, "you asked questions. You sought answers I could not give. I said then that, if I told you the truth, you would think me fit for Bedlam."

Still, he made no reply.

The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring. Elizabeth could feel his gaze on her — steady, weighing, merciless — and yet she could not look up. Her fingers tightened around the porcelain cup in her lap until the delicate china protested faintly against the strain.

It is too soon," she whispered. "Even now, I fear it may be."

Darcy’s gaze remained steady upon her, his expression inscrutable. Yet, in the quiet tension of his silence, there was something—an unspoken readiness—that assured her he had not dismissed her. Not yet.

He was listening.

In that fragile hope, she found the courage to lift her head.

He did not yet know whether he desired to hear the answer, but he knew this—he would listen.

"Then tell me," he said at last, his voice low, deliberate. "Whatever it is, Miss Bennet. I would know what weighs upon you so heavily."

Elizabeth stared down at the untouched teacup cradled in her hands, gathering the courage she scarcely possessed.

"Very well," she said softly. "But you must prepare yourself. Once I begin… I fear nothing shall ever be the same again."

Darcy did not move. His own teacup sat forgotten on the table between them. Only the steady ticking of the clock filled the space where neither dared to speak.

At last, Elizabeth lifted her eyes to his. "I do not know whether I ought to begin with the past or the future. But perhaps..."—her voice caught slightly—"the past will be easier."

He inclined his head a fraction, an invitation—not yet assent .

"About a fortnight before you arrived at Netherfield," Elizabeth began, her voice low and steady, "I was out walking.

A horse broke loose from its rider and struck me to the ground.

I lost consciousness. And when I woke...

" She faltered, the memory catching painfully in her chest. "I had memories—vivid, complete memories—of another life. A life I had not yet lived."

She lifted her gaze to him, meeting his eyes without flinching. "Our life, Mr. Darcy. As husband and wife."

He blinked, and for the first time, the carefully guarded mask he wore faltered. Disbelief flickered across his features, chased swiftly by something harder to name—concern, confusion... perhaps even fear.

"You claim... what precisely, Miss Bennet?" he said, his voice taut with skepticism, though not unkind. "That you have seen the future?"

"Lived it," she corrected gently. "I know how it sounds.

There are moments when even I wonder if it was a dream.

But then—" she leaned forward slightly, the plea unspoken in her gaze—"how else could I know the things I do? Georgiana’s true preference for Clementi over Beethoven. Your fondness for Ode to the Happy Heart , a piece nearly forgotten now, known mostly in your mother’s day.

I played it at Lucas Lodge, hoping you might recognize it. "

Darcy sat back, stunned into silence. His lips parted as if to speak—but no words came.

"Could Georgiana have told me such things? How? We are not even acquainted in this life."

"Then how?" he demanded at last, his voice low but intense. "How can you explain it? Have you spoken to anyone else? Is this… is this some elaborate tale?"

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, the sting of the question clear. "Do you truly think so little of me, Fitzwilliam, that you believe I would invent such a thing—simply to gain your notice?"

The use of his Christian name struck him like a blow. His heart jolted, and for the first time, he looked away—as if her gaze had become too much to bear.

"I do not know what to think," he confessed quietly. "You have turned every certainty I possess into doubt."

Outside, the Colonel remained at his post—but within the room, a storm had gathered, silent and swift, with no promise of calm .

Elizabeth clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as if to still their trembling.

"I am not asking you to believe it all," she said, her voice low and steady.

"Only to consider—that if I seem strange to you, it is because I have walked paths you have not.

And yet here we are again. You at this window, me with tea in my hands, trying not to lose you once more. "

Darcy’s brow furrowed, a shadow crossing his face. His voice, when it came, was scarcely above a whisper. "Once more?"

"Yes," she said, with a smile both sad and brave. "I lost you once. I hope not to do so again."

Darcy’s breath stilled. He had come expecting to hear nonsense, madness—he had steeled himself against it. And yet the look in her eyes, so full of sorrow and fierce hope, undid every shield he had raised.

"The first time through," Elizabeth began, her voice trembling, "the first time we lived this life, it began with your insult at the assembly.

You said I was tolerable—but not handsome enough to tempt you.

" She hesitated, a small, breathless laugh escaping her—one without mirth.

"You said it then... and you said it again, this time too.

" Her hands twisted together in her lap.

"I pretended not to care, but I did. I took it to heart.

I became prejudiced against you. I resented you, perhaps because I was already drawn to you and could not bear it. "

Her fingers twisted in her gown, restless with remembered pain.

"And then Wickham…" Her voice faltered, but she pressed on. "He appeared—all charm and falsehood. I had no reason to doubt him. I believed every lie he told about you. I trusted him, because he was kind to me—and you were proud, and silent, and judgmental."

She lifted her eyes fully to his then, her gaze steady—not pleading, but painfully earnest. "And you…

you were not without your own pride. My family, my lack of fortune, my poor connections—you saw them all too clearly.

You judged me, even as you were drawn in.

And I—I only saw you fighting it, and believed you hated me. "

Across the small space between them, Darcy stiffened, as though her words had struck some deeply hidden nerve.

He looked away, slowly, as if an unseen blow had found him. His hands, clasped rigidly together, betrayed the tightness of his control .

He had told himself—only hours ago—that what drew him to Elizabeth Bennet was curiosity.

A puzzle to be solved. A mind unusually quick, a wit unusually sharp.

Nothing more. He had repeated it like a prayer: It is not affection.

It is fascination. And yet, hearing her now—so open, so heartbreakingly earnest—shook the certainty he had clung to.

No, he could not allow himself to believe it. Not yet. Not when sense and honor demanded resistance.

“And when you did speak,” Elizabeth continued, her voice quieter now, “it was this very night. You came to me—proud, passionate. You confessed how ardently you admired and loved me… but in the same breath, you told me all the reasons you should not.”

Her voice faltered. “You insulted my family, my standing, my circumstances. You had already torn Bingley from Jane.”

She paused, her hands twisting together in her lap. “And I rejected you. Fiercely. I told you what I thought of your character, your pride. I accused you of cruelty to Wickham. I had no idea then… how wrong I was.”