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Elizabeth dropped her gaze to her gloved hands, smoothing the fabric though it needed no smoothing.

"Yes," she said, almost to herself. "I had studied the letter he gave me for months while we were separated.

I had read it again and again, searching its meaning, learning his heart word by word.

I had begun to understand how very wrong I had been…

but it was at Pemberley where I truly saw him—not through the lens of pride or prejudice, but clearly, for the first time. "

She drew a breath, steadying herself against the ache of memory.

"I saw how he cared for his tenants, for his land—how he served those in his care quietly, without thought of praise or recognition.

I saw the strength of his character, the kindness he kept hidden behind his reserve.

It was there I knew," she said, her voice nearly breaking, "that I could love him. That I already did. "

The Colonel studied her for a long moment, his sharp gaze softened by a gravity rare for him.

"And you believe," he said at last, his voice slow and thoughtful, "that if fate has been altered, it might yet lead you to that place once more."

Elizabeth looked up, meeting his eyes squarely .

"I believe," she said simply, "that if there is any justice in this world—or the next—we shall find our way there."

He studied her a moment longer, his eyes searching hers with a frankness rare in a man so used to measured words.

At length he said, "If he has any sense left in him, he will not keep far. You must know, Miss Bennet—he is not indifferent."

"I know he is not," she whispered, her voice nearly lost to the stirring breeze. "But I fear… I fear that knowing may not be enough."

The Colonel gave a half-smile—wry, but touched with unmistakable melancholy. "He will come. He may storm about and grow silent and pace the carpets at Rosings until he has worn them threadbare, but he will come."

A breath escaped Elizabeth then—a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, the brittle music of hope too fragile to bear its own weight.

"May I?" he asked then, more formally, his manner suddenly brisk, though the kindness in his voice did not falter. "Should it become necessary—should Fitz be too great a fool for too long—may I know the direction of your uncle’s house?"

She blinked, startled by the question—and then, warmed by the unexpected alliance he offered, she nodded. "Yes. Of course. It is number twenty-five, Gracechurch Street."

He bowed slightly, the gesture precise and yet touched with rare intimacy. "I shall commit it to memory."

For a moment longer they stood in stillness, the pale spring sun dappling the grass at their feet, the fragile hush between them heavy with all that might yet come to pass—or might yet be lost.

"I thank you, Colonel," Elizabeth said at last, her voice soft but clear. "You have no notion how much your words mean to me."

"I think," he said gently, with a small, sad smile, "I have some idea."

Then, after a slight incline of his head, he added, "Take care, Miss Bennet."

"And you, sir."

He turned and departed with a soldier’s purposeful tread, leaving Elizabeth alone beneath the wide, restless sky. She stood for a long time after he had gone, listening to the soft susurrus of the breeze through the budding branches, the solitary ache of waiting settling once more upon her heart .

It still hurt—more than she could easily bear—when she heard from Mr. Collins the next day that they had left.

She was not completely surprised. She had told herself not to expect miracles. And yet— She had hoped. Hoped against sense, against experience, against even her own careful understanding of Fitzwilliam Darcy's soul.

She had thought— perhaps —he might come for her. Might defy reason, tradition, fear itself, and come to her sooner.

But he had not.

And though Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words lingered, a fragile balm against despair, the old fear gnawed at her still—that by knowing him too well, too soon, she had somehow unstitched the delicate tapestry of fate.

Would James still be born, if Fitzwilliam made a different choice? The very thought unsettled her, hollowed her from within.

She had already hastened Bingley and Jane’s union—a choice she did not, could not, regret—but now she wondered: would that sweet union still bear fruit? Would little Clare Elizabeth—Jane’s firstborn, her goddaughter, her radiant joy—never exist in this altered world?

The thought was a knife twisting slowly in her heart.

Not all her changes weighed so heavily. The fact that she had prevented Lydia’s ruin—that she had spared Meryton the burden of Wickham’s debts, and spared Fitzwilliam the quiet agony of repaying them out of duty and honour—was a mercy she could not question.

Nor could she grieve the blossoming of her bond with Mary, once a stranger, now a sister of her heart.

There were blessings in the changes. There was hope.

And yet—

Her love for Fitzwilliam remained a constant, a lodestar that neither memory nor time could dim. It was timely. It was true. She knew it in the marrow of her bones, in the trembling of her hands, in the way his eyes— dear heavens, his eyes —had softened when she spoke of James .

The yearning was there. Whether he would name it or not.

But he needed time. Time to reconcile the impossible. Time to believe in a future she had already lived and lost once before.

Elizabeth wandered alone through the grove where the trees bent their ancient arms overhead, their early leaves whispering in a language she almost understood.

The ache in her chest did not lessen. The uncertainty did not fade.

But she had made her choice. She would wait. She would hope.

The trees swayed gently above her, the breeze weaving through the boughs like a prayer carried heavenward—promises she dared not speak aloud, lest she shatter them.

She would wait. And she would hope. Even if it cost her everything.