Page 47

On the final morning of her stay with the Gardiners, Elizabeth Bennet expected nothing more than the mild bustle that accompanied any well-organised departure.

Trunks were being seen to, parcels tied, and goodbyes prepared.

The household moved with practiced ease, and Elizabeth—though outwardly calm—found herself distracted by thoughts she had no desire to examine too closely.

Mr. Bingley was expected, of course. He had become a near-daily fixture in Gracechurch Street during their stay, his visits always warm, always well-meant.

There was comfort in the familiarity of his presence, and Elizabeth had supposed—quite sensibly—that he would merely come to bid her and Jane a fond farewell.

Jane and Elizabeth had settled in the morning sitting room after breakfast, attending to a few small tasks before the day's journey.

Jane sat nearby, sorting through a small stack of correspondence to ensure nothing was left unanswered before their departure, while Elizabeth—though she held a small bundle of mending in her lap—found her fingers uncharacteristically still .

She had tried to focus, to steady herself in the rhythm of needle and thread, but her thoughts refused to quiet.

The events of the previous evening clung to her like a mist she could not shake—that brief, strained meeting in the theatre’s corridor.

Bingley, full of cheer, had unwittingly ushered her into the company of people she already knew too well.

Lord and Lady Matlock—formal, courteous, and distant. Colonel Fitzwilliam—gracious, but watchful, his eyes too sharp by half. And Mr. Darcy—silent, contained, his bow no deeper than courtesy required, his gaze a wall she could not climb.

They had spoken only a few words. Even those had felt like the pale echoes of another life. He had not sought her out. He had made no attempt to speak to her again. He had only bowed—and turned away.

She had gone to bed that night resolved not to expect more. He needs time, she reminded herself, again and again, clutching the memory of the Colonel’s reluctant encouragement like a talisman. Time to consider the impossible. Time to find his courage.

And yet—beneath all her rational thoughts, a quiet ache stirred, persistent and unbidden.

She could still feel his gaze from across the theatre—feel it as surely as if he had touched her.

The silent plea she thought she had seen in his eyes.

The longing she had not imagined. The certainty that, whatever else might stand between them, he had not forgotten.

No, she would not allow herself to hope too wildly. Hope was a fragile, treacherous thing. But neither would she surrender it entirely.

With a small, shaky breath, Elizabeth set down her needle and reached for a nearby book—a familiar volume, its spine softened by use, meant to soothe and distract.

But the words blurred before her eyes, and the page held no interest. Her mind refused to follow the lines; it wandered elsewhere, unresolved.

A brisk knock sounded from belowstairs—familiar, expected. Mr. Bingley, no doubt. He had become so much a part of their daily pattern that even now Elizabeth barely looked up, her thoughts already half returning to the open book in her lap.

Moments later, a soft knock came at the sitting room door.

"Mr. Bingley, ma’am," the maid announced with a curtsy.

Elizabeth inclined her head absently. But the maid, hesitating for half a heartbeat, then added—almost as an afterthought, almost as if she herself scarcely understood the import of her words—"and Mr. Darcy. "

Elizabeth stilled, the book forgotten in her lap.

The name landed like a bell struck softly—unexpected, resonant, impossible to ignore.

For a moment, the sounds of the household—the clink of porcelain, the rustle of footsteps—seemed distant, oddly muffled.

Her fingers tightened around the book’s worn spine, but she did not move. She did not breathe—not quite.

And then—they were shown in.

Mr. Bingley entered first, warm and animated as ever, his cheerful energy filling the room with effortless ease.

Behind him—a step slower, a shade more hesitant—came Mr. Darcy.

His bearing was impeccable. His expression, composed.

But his eyes—those dark, unrelenting eyes—were fixed upon her.

Not with surprise. Not even with confusion.

But with something quieter. Something like recognition.

Elizabeth felt it before she understood it—a shift in the air, as if a long-held breath had been drawn between them. She rose, as did Jane, and both dipped into graceful curtseys as the gentlemen entered.

Mrs. Gardiner looked up from her embroidery with a polite smile. "Good morning, Mr. Bingley. Mr. Darcy. You are very welcome."

Mr. Bingley bowed with cheerful warmth. "Mrs. Gardiner. Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth. A pleasure, as always."

Darcy bowed more gravely beside him. "Mrs. Gardiner. Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth." His voice was quiet, but steady.

A pause followed—light, but charged. No more was said. And in that stillness, something began—something fragile, tremulous, and undeniable.

Elizabeth felt it before she could name it. Her awareness had narrowed to the man who had spoken, to the sound of her own breath.

But it was Mr. Bingley who, after only a moment, brightened the room once more.

"We have come with a particular hope, ma'am," he said, offering a slight bow to Mrs. Gardiner. "It is such a fine morning, and the park so near, we wondered if Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth might be permitted a walk. We thought it a pleasant way to mark our last day in town."

Mrs. Gardiner, ever observant, cast a glance toward Elizabeth—and then, more shrewdly, toward Mr. Darcy.

There was a pause—fleeting, but telling.

Then she smiled, serene and knowing. "Indeed, I believe it would be a very good thing.

I have some matters to attend before luncheon, so I shall stay behind. Jane, Lizzy—you may go. "

There was the soft scrape of chairs, the quiet adjustment of gloves and bonnets, the polite rustle of departure.

Mr. Bingley offered his arm to Jane with boyish enthusiasm, clearly delighted by the scheme he had contrived.

Elizabeth, her pulse still not quite steady, exchanged a brief glance with Jane—more question than encouragement—and, heart pounding, followed them out.

Darcy moved behind her, his silence a presence more eloquent than any speech.

Thus dismissed, the younger party set out, making their way toward the nearby park. It was a charming morning: the sky high and pale above them, the air brisk but not unfriendly. The early sunlight shimmered against the budding trees, and the first true scent of spring rode the gentle breeze.

As they entered the green expanse, the path soon curved and widened into broader lanes and shaded groves.

By some unspoken accord, Jane and Mr. Bingley gradually drifted ahead—their steps slowing, their voices lowering—as they grew engrossed in conversation, leaving Elizabeth and Darcy trailing behind, with only the quiet murmur of the leaves and the restless pounding of her heart for company.

Elizabeth, left to walk beside Mr. Darcy, felt a sudden rush of anticipation—and uncertainty.

The sun dappled the path ahead, the breeze stirred the budding branches overhead, and yet it seemed the very air between them was thick with all that had not been said.

She stole a glance at him, quick and furtive, wondering—why had he come?

Had he sought her out deliberately? Or was this merely circumstance, a polite obligation undertaken for Bingley’s sake?

The question had lingered in her mind since the moment the maid had spoken his name at the door. And now, with him so near—so near she could feel the quiet gravity of his presence pulling at her—she found no easier answer.

They walked on in silence, each step tightening the coil of tension between them. At last, his voice—lower than she remembered, but just as steady—broke the stillness.

"I trust your time in London has been agreeable, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth clasped her hands before her, willing her heart to slow, her voice to remain composed. "Very agreeable, sir," she replied lightly. "And yours?"

There was a pause—barely a breath—and then he said, with a trace of dry candour, "I find myself wishing it had passed more swiftly."

The words were simple. Unremarkable, even.

And yet, Elizabeth turned her face away under the pretense of admiring the distant skyline, hiding the smile that tugged unbidden at her lips.

The wryness in his tone—the subtle, half-shielded honesty—was so like the man she had come to love in another life that it struck her with a bittersweet pang.

It felt, impossibly, like a thread tugging her back to him—whether she wished it or not.

"You must not judge it too harshly, sir," she said, casting him a sidelong glance she could not quite help. "London has its charms."

His mouth quirked slightly—almost a smile—but it was his eyes that held her. Steady. Searching. There was something unreadable in them, as though he were struggling to piece together a puzzle with only a few scattered fragments.

Elizabeth felt an odd flutter in her chest—part fear, part aching hope. What did he see when he looked at her now? Did he see only a familiar acquaintance—a lady he could scarcely comprehend? Or was she something more troubling still—a stranger who knew too much, and yet remained so unknown to him?