Page 44

Elizabeth’s final week at Hunsford passed with a peculiar mixture of familiarity and unrest. The rhythm of the days bore the same structure: morning calls to the village, readings in the drawing room, and near-daily excursions to Rosings.

Outwardly, little had changed. And yet beneath the sameness stirred a quiet, relentless current—a pulse of expectation, of hope, of fear—that she could neither hasten nor resist.

Lady Catherine, at least, remained wholly unchanged. At the gentlemen’s departure, her sentiments were pronounced with their usual grandeur.

"I assure you, I feel it exceedingly," her ladyship declared over dinner, her spoon pausing dramatically in its course to her mouth.

"I believe nobody feels the loss of friends so much as I do.

But I am particularly attached to these young men; and know them to be so much attached to me!

They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are.

The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Mr. Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely—more, I think, than last year.

His attachment to Rosings certainly increases. "

At this, Elizabeth could not suppress a slight smile. If Lady Catherine imagined that Mr. Darcy’s attachment lay with Rosings—rather than with something, or someone, beyond its hedges—she would not be the one to disturb so comfortable a delusion.

Yet as she stirred her tea, Elizabeth felt a pang she could not quite quell. He is gone, her heart whispered. And still, he has not come.

But she pushed the thought aside with practiced steadiness, willing herself to trust the course she had set.

He needed time. And she would give it to him.

It was after dinner, a day or two later, that Lady Catherine, with her usual imperious condescension, addressed Elizabeth directly.

"Miss Bennet, you appear rather out of spirits. I can only suppose you do not wish to return home so soon. That is most natural. But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company, I am sure."

"I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation," Elizabeth replied, with her usual civility, "but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday."

Lady Catherine waved her hand in a half-dismissive gesture, though her narrowed eyes betrayed her displeasure at being refused. But it was not her ladyship's countenance that held Elizabeth’s attention.

It was Anne's.

The girl, usually content to observe the world from behind a veil of indifference, allowed the faintest flicker of emotion to cross her pale features. Disappointment—mild, but unmistakable. And was there not a glimmer of curiosity too?

It was not the first time that week Elizabeth had caught Anne watching her with an intensity far beyond her customary listlessness.

Quiet though she was, Anne had always been more perceptive than her mother allowed, and Elizabeth could not help but wonder: had the Colonel, in some quiet moment, confided something of her strange confession?

There had been no opportunity to ask. They were never alone. And she could scarcely imagine Colonel Fitzwilliam—or Mr. Darcy—entrusting anything of real importance to Lady Catherine's care .

Still, a subtle change lingered in the air between them, like mist that clings long after the rain has passed.

On the final morning of her stay, Elizabeth rose earlier than usual and slipped from the parsonage into the grove. The path—their path, she had come to think of it—was still moist with dew, and the birds chattered in the hedgerows as if nothing in the world had changed.

She paced the worn trail slowly, her fingers brushing the fresh leaves as she passed. The memory of his voice, his gaze, the heavy stillness that had fallen between them in this very place returned with almost painful clarity.

Would he come back?

That question had haunted her from the moment Mr. Collins delivered the news of their departure.

She had not been surprised—how could she be, when she had lived the memory of his rejection once before?

And yet, foolish though it might be, she had hoped.

Hoped that this time, with Colonel Fitzwilliam perhaps better understanding the truth, Fitzwilliam Darcy might have found his way back to her—sooner.

But he had not.

Still, she reminded herself, not all was lost.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had said, "We need time. He needs time. But I will help, if I can." And Elizabeth knew: a soldier’s promise was not given lightly.

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the clean, rain-sweet air.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was not a man to be hurried. He would not be driven by passion alone—not when so much had been upended. He would weigh her words, consider their meaning, measure them against his own instincts and affections.

No, she did not like how things stood now. But she understood.

As she reached the bend in the grove where the trees opened to a wider view of the park, Elizabeth paused. The wind tugged gently at her shawl, and she wrapped it more tightly about her. The breeze whispered through the branches above her like a secret only nature could keep.

She thought of the future—not with certainty, but with hope .

When she returned from her morning walk, she found Charlotte standing by the gate, her arms folded across her chest, a pensive look upon her face.

"You will be missed," Charlotte said quietly.

Elizabeth offered her friend a soft smile. "And you shall be well rid of me, I imagine."

Charlotte’s answering smile was gentle, but wry. "Not at all. Your company has made this time brighter. You have given me much to think on."

There was a brief pause before Elizabeth reached for her friend’s hand.

"I want to thank you again—for everything."

Charlotte tilted her head, her expression fond. "For tolerating my husband?" she said dryly.

Elizabeth laughed. "Among many things, yes. But also for being exactly who you are. Steady, practical, kind."

Charlotte’s eyes softened. "You have changed, Lizzy. Grown more thoughtful. More serious, even. Not duller—but deeper."

Elizabeth said nothing, but her heart stirred at the truth of it.

Charlotte squeezed her hand gently. "I do not ask questions," she added with a small smile. "I have learned, with you, it is better to let answers arrive in their own time."

"You are wiser than I deserve," Elizabeth said warmly.

Charlotte only shook her head, her smile unwavering. "Perhaps. But I do believe you are meant for something extraordinary. And whoever walks beside you in that future is a very lucky man."

Elizabeth's throat tightened, but she managed a smile. "I will write to you from Gracechurch Street."

"Do. And let me know if… anything should change."

With a final embrace, they parted.

As the carriage pulled away, Elizabeth looked back once at the parsonage—the tidy garden, the crooked chimney, the quiet air of contentment that had sheltered her in its own plain way.

And so she turned her face forward—toward London, and whatever would come next .

London was very different from what she recalled.

The streets bustled with life as ever, but the tone of her visit had shifted profoundly.

This time, Mr. Bingley himself was there to greet her and Jane, his joy evident in every smile, every gesture.

His presence at Gracechurch Street lent the household a lightness, an air of affectionate cheer that Elizabeth had not realized she had missed until it enveloped her.

Jane glowed with happiness—there was no other word for it—and Elizabeth allowed herself to feel it, too. It was a comfort beyond words to see her sister so beloved, so cherished. And for once, Elizabeth could enjoy it unreservedly, without the shadow of doubt that had so long clouded her heart.

Maria Lucas had returned to Hertfordshire earlier than planned, having been collected by Sir William just two days after their arrival.

News of Mr. Bingley’s calls—more than one, and attended by every evidence of preference—had reached Longbourn swiftly.

Mrs. Bennet, in her particular way, had been adamant that her eldest daughters remain in town a while longer.

It was not a request easily refused—nor was it unwelcome, given the evident pleasure Bingley took in Jane’s company.

During tea, Mr. Bingley, in his usual cheerful and unsuspecting way, happened to mention that he had seen Mr. Darcy only a few days prior. Elizabeth, though outwardly composed, felt her entire frame tighten at the mention. Her teacup paused mid-air, her smile frozen as her mind leapt forward.

"Oh, he seemed well," Bingley said with an easy shrug. "Though he did ask some rather peculiar questions, now that I think of it."

Elizabeth forced herself to breathe evenly. "Did he?" she asked lightly, striving to match his tone. "What sort of questions, if you remember?"

Bingley tilted his head thoughtfully. "Something about—oh, nothing serious.

He asked after Miss Bennet, of course—how she was, whether she seemed in spirits.

And then he inquired, quite casually, whether she had spoken much of her family—particularly of you.

Whether she had seemed worried for you, or mentioned anything out of the ordinary.

I thought it rather curious at the time," Bingley added with a cheerful shrug, "but you know Darcy—he always did favour precision above all. "

Elizabeth nodded, unable to summon words immediately. Her heart was racing now, pounding so fiercely she feared it might be heard. He is thinking of me, she realized with a jolt— still trying to make sense of me. Not forgotten. Not dismissed. But watching, questioning, fearing.

Does he believe me mad? Does he suspect Jane? Or—worst of all— does he think I have involved my sister in some great deceit?

She set down her teacup with careful precision, lest her trembling hands betray her .