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Bingley, unsuspecting, prattled on about the weather and the shops, and Elizabeth let the murmur of conversation wash over her unheard. Her mind was already elsewhere—racing toward him.

She bit her tongue against a wave of questions she could not possibly voice. She felt her aunt’s eyes upon her, calm and observant, and knew her inner conflict did not go unnoticed.

Mrs. Gardiner said nothing then, but later, as they arranged for the evening’s plans, she took Elizabeth gently by the arm. "You are holding something tightly, my dear. You need not share what it is—only know that I see it."

Elizabeth smiled faintly. "Thank you, Aunt. I suppose I am still adjusting to being back."

"Mm," her aunt said softly. "Then I shall be content to wait until you are ready to speak."

Aunt Gardiner’s patience was almost dangerous, for it made her long to confess everything.

Elizabeth turned away, grateful for her aunt’s kindness—and yet, somehow, more unsettled by it.

The first few days at her aunt and uncle's house passed in a comforting routine.

Mr. Bingley called frequently, always full of cheer, his attentions more directed toward Miss Bennet than ever.

There was no mistaking the renewed warmth between them, nor the ease with which Jane once more opened her heart.

Elizabeth was sincerely happy for her sister, though a small, persistent worry lingered at the back of her mind.

Was it too soon? Would the swifter reconciliation shift other pieces of fate she had once trusted to fall into place?

Still, she could not bring herself to feel anything but gladness for Jane.

Whatever uncertainties the future held, Jane deserved this happiness.

Miss Bingley, however, was as tiresome as ever.

She had slipped easily back into her false affability toward Miss Bennet, lavishing her with cloying sweetness and shallow compliments that Elizabeth found difficult to endure.

Jane, ever gracious, accepted such overtures without protest, seemingly content to allow peace to reign.

Elizabeth, for her part, maintained her civility—but it cost her some effort.

The keen irritation she had suffered during their stay at Netherfield returned, prickling just beneath the surface.

And yet, even as the days moved forward with familiar faces and gentle diversions, Elizabeth could not shake the sense that change was already afoot—swift and unseen, gathering beyond her sight.

Their uncle, Mr. Gardiner, ever fond of providing his nieces with enjoyment, proposed an evening at the theatre. With Mr. Bingley’s encouragement and Miss Bingley’s eager delight at an opportunity to be seen in society, the plan was quickly made.

Elizabeth found herself looking forward to the performance more than she expected—not for the play itself, but for the brief escape it promised from Miss Bingley’s ceaseless fawning.

The theatre was crowded that evening, the house buzzing with expectation as fashionable London gathered in droves.

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner led the way, with Jane and Mr. Bingley following, arm-in-arm, lost in quiet conversation.

Elizabeth lingered slightly behind, flanked—rather unfortunately—by Miss Bingley, who was lamenting the inferiority of country assemblies compared to the entertainments of Town.

They had scarcely entered their box when Elizabeth’s gaze, wandering idly over the sea of faces, caught upon a figure—and froze.

Her breath stalled in her chest. There he was—Fitzwilliam Darcy, seated not two boxes away.

The cut of his coat, the proud slope of his shoulders—unmistakable. A flush rose swiftly to her cheeks, and she clenched her hands together lightly, willing her composure to hold.

Beside him sat his aunt, the Countess of Matlock, regal in bearing and resplendent in deep violet silk.

On her other side, the Earl himself, his ruddy face animated with conversation.

Last of all, Colonel Fitzwilliam—straight-backed, sharp-eyed, surveying the crowd with an easy geniality that only sharpened the contrast between him and his cousin.

Elizabeth willed herself to look away—but her heart had already leapt forward, unbidden, bridging the distance between them.

She turned sharply to face the stage, heart battering itself against her stays.

What was she to do ?

They had not parted in anger—no, worse: they had parted with everything unfinished. She had given him truth—more than she had ever dared offer another soul—and he had left her with no answer.

And now, after endless weeks of silence, he was here. So near she could almost reach out and touch him— and yet, he seemed farther from her than ever.

Would he speak? Would he look at her with the same confusion that had haunted him at Rosings? Or would there be tenderness now? Recognition?

Her hands trembled lightly in her lap, and she clenched them together, willing herself to stillness.

She had not expected to see him—not tonight, not without warning. There had been no word from Colonel Fitzwilliam, no sign, nothing but the endless ache of waiting.

She had wondered—oh, how she had wondered!—where he had gone, what decision he would make, whether he would return to her at all.

And now fate had flung them together without mercy or design.

Was it proper to greet him?

Her mind warred against itself: Courtesy demanded distance; Memory cried out for connection.

She had sworn to give him time. Would she betray that promise now?

Her gaze flickered sideways, betraying her even as she fought for composure.

The Earl was laughing; the Countess leaned in, graceful and dignified.

And Darcy— he sat with that same rigid grace, his shoulders stiff, his head slightly bent toward his aunt— but something about him was brittle, strained, as if the very air around him were too sharp to breathe.

The sight tore at her unexpectedly .

Elizabeth remembered—too well—those evenings at Pemberley: the glow of the fire, the low murmur of Darcy’s voice, the quiet sense of belonging she had once felt among these very people.

The Earl’s booming tales of Lady Catherine’s youthful tyranny; the Countess’s warm, knowing smiles; Darcy’s hand resting lightly atop hers, as though it had every right to be there.

How strange it was— to be so near to that life, and yet so utterly removed.

To see all she had once held dear as if through a glass darkly— distant, untouchable.

Her throat tightened painfully. She blinked hard, willing back the sudden burn behind her eyes.

This was the price of remembering. This was the price of loving a man who no longer knew how deeply he had been loved.

Perhaps she could simply nod. A smile, nothing more—a gesture of polite civility. That would not break any promise. It would not be improper.

But even as she resolved to keep her gaze fixed firmly upon the stage, she knew— her heart would betray her.

Already, every few seconds, it tugged her attention back— helpless, yearning.

And then—it was too late to decide.

Bingley's voice rang out, alight with delighted surprise: "Darcy! Why, there's Darcy! And the Colonel, too!"

"Come, Miss Bennet," Bingley exclaimed, already rising. "We must go greet them. What excellent company this night brings!"

Elizabeth barely heard him. Her heart seemed to stop altogether.

Across the crowded theatre, Darcy’s gaze had already found her— unwilling, unprepared, and utterly unable to look away.

Elizabeth .

Her name thundered silently in his heart, as if it alone could summon back every memory he had tried so hard to bury.

One glance, one mere second, and the careful, cold order he had fought to restore since leaving Kent shattered into a thousand sharp, invisible pieces...

She was here. She was real.

He had told himself, again and again, that time and distance would restore sense. That the wild impossibility of her claims, however tempting, would fade in the cold light of reason.

And yet— seeing her now, bathed in the low, golden light of the chandeliers, the familiar spark alive in her eyes even as she forced them toward the stage— he felt his resolve crumble at the edges, fragile as frost against morning sun.

He ought to look away. He ought to turn and engage his aunt or uncle in conversation, to behave with all the cold propriety a man in his position ought to show.

Instead, he sat frozen—every nerve taut, every breath caught painfully between his ribs—as though the very act of looking at her had reopened wounds he had thought long sealed.

Did she see him? Did she think of that night at Rosings? Did she curse him for his silence—or had she, perhaps, forgotten him entirely?

He scarcely had time to gather his composure before Bingley’s voice rang out, bright and oblivious, tearing the choice from his hands.

Darcy rose automatically, bowing slightly to the approaching party, every movement mechanical and strained. His heart pounded with humiliating violence against his ribs, a drumbeat of longing and dread.

He must not betray himself. He must not stare.

And yet—as Elizabeth drew closer—the world itself seemed to contract, narrowing to a single point: to her, and only her .

Elizabeth moved forward with the others, her own heart a wild flurry in her chest. He is here. He is real.

There was no decision left to her now. Fate had drawn their paths together once more, and she must walk forward to meet it.

It was Bingley who led the way, all cheerful bustle and good intention, delighted to present his companions to so distinguished a party.

Upon reaching the Matlock box, Mr. Bingley bowed with cheerful warmth and introduced himself to the Earl and Countess of Matlock, whom he had met briefly at a prior London gathering.

Their dignified bearing—seated beside Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam—left no doubt as to their familial connection.