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The ladies of Longbourn soon waited upon those of Netherfield, as propriety demanded.

The visit was returned with all due civility, and though Mrs. Bennet declared herself satisfied with their condescension, Elizabeth found her own thoughts less generous.

If anything, the passage of time—both lived and remembered—had only strengthened her opinion of the Bingley sisters.

In their elegant gowns and affected airs, they performed the semblance of politeness with all the enthusiasm of an actress repeating a tired role.

Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst directed their attentions toward Jane, as Elizabeth knew they would.

Their every kindness, however, was as insincere as she remembered, their regard for Jane driven only by the admiration of their brother.

Elizabeth watched them with keen amusement, but her heart held quiet concern.

She had witnessed too well the effect their influence would later have on Jane’s happiness.

That evening, when the two sisters sat together, Elizabeth turned to Jane with measured caution. “You must not trust them,” she said at last, her voice low and serious.

Jane blinked in surprise. “Lizzy, you cannot mean to say that they have given offense?”

“Not in the manner you mean, my dear, but offense is not always so boldly given. They are insincere, Jane. Their warmth toward you is not true affection; it is no more than obligation—a display performed to please their brother. I would not see you hurt by mistaking courtesy for friendship.”

Jane shook her head, smiling faintly. “You are too severe. Yes, their manners are perhaps less open than our own, but that is no crime. And how can we know that their regard is not genuine? I would rather think well of them until they prove unworthy of it.”

Elizabeth sighed, but did not press further.

In this, Jane had changed not at all, and perhaps it was for the best. To warn her too strongly might cause distress, and despite all, Jane had found her happiness in the end.

Elizabeth had no desire to rob her sister of her natural goodness, even if it left her vulnerable.

Still, she resolved to remain watchful .

The next day, as Elizabeth sat beside Charlotte Lucas, the conversation naturally turned to Mr. Bingley’s attentions to Jane.

“You see how he looks at her,” Charlotte observed with an arch smile. “It is evident to all that he admires her.”

Elizabeth nodded, but her expression remained guarded. “Yes, but admiration, though pleasant, is a fragile foundation.”

Charlotte glanced at her curiously. “Surely you are not in doubt of Jane’s feelings?”

“Not at all. She is in a fair way to be quite in love. I only wonder if Mr. Bingley’s admiration, however strong, is enough to withstand the influence of those around him.”

Charlotte considered this. “Then you think he may be persuaded against her?”

Elizabeth hesitated. She knew he would be, but how much could she say? “It is not impossible. He is a man of easy temper. Gentle persuasion could move him in any direction.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Then Jane must make herself indispensable to him. Men do not marry women who give them no reason to believe they are wanted. If she hides her affection too well, she may find herself overlooked.”

Elizabeth laughed lightly, though there was no true mirth in it. “That is your advice? To act with calculation? Jane does not play such games, nor would I wish her to.”

“My dear Eliza, you misunderstand me,” Charlotte replied with a knowing look. “It is no game, only wisdom. Few men fall into marriage blindly; they must be guided.”

Elizabeth smiled, but did not argue further.

The conversation was too familiar, and she knew well enough that Charlotte’s practical views on marriage were immovable.

Yet, despite her foreknowledge, she could not dismiss a growing unease.

She had always scoffed at Charlotte’s advice before, believing Jane’s natural goodness would prevail. Now, she was no longer so certain.

But what could she do? Would she allow events to proceed as they had, or would she attempt to change them? The weight of the future pressed upon her, yet she knew that even knowledge did not grant certainty. For now, she could only watch, and wait.

Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was well aware that she, too, was being observed.

She could feel Fitzwilliam’s eyes upon her, though he did not yet carry the weight of love in them.

Curiosity, perhaps—an interest he had denied himself upon their first meeting in the past. She remembered the way he had once told her, long after their marriage, that his first inclination had been to dismiss her, only to find himself drawn in despite his best efforts.

Now, he seemed to be retracing those very steps, yet she walked them with the knowledge of their destination.

It was at Sir William Lucas’s, during a large gathering, that she noticed his particular interest in her conversation with Colonel Forster.

A flicker of amusement passed through her; he had once mistaken her natural wit for flirtation.

This time, perhaps, she would allow him to think so with knowledge that it is.

“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” she said to Charlotte, lowering her voice just enough to feign innocence, “by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”

Charlotte’s gaze flickered toward Mr. Darcy before returning to Elizabeth with a knowing arch of her brow. “That is a question which only Mr. Darcy can answer.”

Elizabeth smirked, considering. Should she provoke him as before? Of course but—this time, she had an advantage, and she intended to use it. When he drifted closer, she seized the opportunity.

“Did not you think, Mr. Darcy,” she asked, her voice light with amusement, “that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?”

Darcy regarded her with careful neutrality, though his eyes held the faintest trace of something deeper. “With great energy, Miss Bennet. But it is a subject that often inspires such in a lady.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, feigning contemplation. “Indeed? Then perhaps you shall have to endure such energy again. We are quite determined.”

“It will be her turn soon to be teased,” said Charlotte, stepping in at just the right moment. “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”

Elizabeth turned toward her friend, shaking her head in mock exasperation.

“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend—always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable.” She turned her gaze back to Darcy, her lips curving ever so slightly.

“But as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.”

Charlotte, undeterred, gestured toward the instrument, and Elizabeth relented with an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. If it must be so, it must.”

She took her seat, her fingers poised above the keys. The knowledge of Fitzwilliam’s preferences, learned under Georgiana’s tutelage, whispered in her mind. A slow smile touched her lips as she began to play—his favorite piece, one that she had practiced endlessly in their married life.

Darcy’s reaction was minute, yet unmistakable. His posture shifted, his expression briefly unreadable. She had caught him off guard.

Charlotte, watching, narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. Elizabeth knew that look. Suspicion. An awareness that something about her had changed—an awareness that Elizabeth had not been as careful as she thought.

Still, she played on, her fingers moving with practiced ease. If she was to relive this life, she would do so with intention.

Mary’s eyes lingered on Elizabeth longer than they ought.

The realization sent a flicker of unease through Elizabeth, though she could not quite discern why.

It was not Charlotte’s steady, knowing gaze that assessed without intrusion.

No, Mary watched with a keenness Elizabeth had never before noticed.

The music she selected followed Elizabeth’s own repertoire too precisely, as though she had committed her habits to memory.

How much had Mary observed? How much did she understand?

Elizabeth let her fingers falter over a note.

She should not have known this piece—she had never learned it before.

But Mary, with her meticulous and tireless practice, had surely noted her familiarity.

Mary said nothing, but Elizabeth could feel the weight of her regard as the final notes faded into polite applause.

Elizabeth did not dwell on it long, for she had other matters to consider.

Her mind replayed the conversation she knew was going on between Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley.

The smug amusement in Miss Bingley’s voice, the sharp edge of her wit, and Darcy’s calm, unruffled replies.

She smirked to herself, pleased in a way she could not fully explain.

It was one thing to know a man’s thoughts; it was another to recall them before they were spoken.

And then, of course, there was Sir William Lucas.

She knew precisely what he would do, and she had steeled herself for it.

But the knowledge made her want to accept this time.

How often had she thought of it? Had she not regretted declining before?

Fitzwilliam had never held it against her, but she remembered—oh, how she remembered—that he had wished she had accepted.

Could she? Should she? She had never made any promise to her family that she would refuse him.

So when Sir William, with all his usual delight in matchmaking, extended his gallant invitation, she hesitated. The words she had spoken before were at the edge of her lips, waiting to be repeated, but this time, she did not utter them.

Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested the honour of her hand once more. And this time, she gave into her desire .

The moment their hands met, she knew she had made a mistake.

It was not regret, not truly, but a realization that this would be no simple dance.

His touch, steady and warm, was unbearable in its familiarity.

Her breath hitched—memories of how intimately she had once known those hands, how they had clasped hers in trust, in anguish, in devotion.

Here, now, all was restrained, but the sensation sent a shiver through her. Did he feel it, too?

They danced, their steps measured, their conversation polite. She would not give too much away. Yet every glance, every brush of fingertips, was a quiet torment. She had wished for this, and now she could hardly bear it.

Darcy spoke, his voice low. "You surprise me, Miss Bennet. I had not thought you inclined toward dancing."

She forced a smile. "Nor I, Mr. Darcy. But one must allow for unexpected impulses."

"Indeed."

The pressure of his hand against hers sent another wave of heat through her. She should not feel this so keenly. She should not remember so much. Yet, with every turn, she was acutely aware that she had altered something between them.

When the dance ended, she curtseyed, her breath unsteady. He released her hand with reluctance—so slight, so fleeting, that another might not have noticed. But she did.

She turned away swiftly, unwilling to meet his gaze again. What had she done?