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The morning broke fair and golden over Longbourn, yet Elizabeth awoke with a heaviness she could not explain.

There was no disappointment to mark the hour.

Mr. Bingley had said "a day, perhaps two at most," and this was the third.

By all ordinary calculation, Fitzwilliam should arrive today.

She had gone to sleep with hope resting gently on her breast, yet woke with a quiet unease beneath it, as though some distant current had shifted in the night.

She lay still for some time, eyes tracing the familiar ceiling above her bed, trying to dismiss the feeling as fancy. But it lingered nonetheless.

The promise was recent, the hour appropriate—there was no true cause for doubt. And yet her heart stirred with something quieter than fear but more stubborn than reason.

She rose with determined cheer, pushing away her premonitions as one might brush off a clinging shawl.

She was not, after all, a woman given to fancies.

If Fitzwilliam Darcy were delayed, there would be reason for it—reason sensible, predictable, and free of mystery.

She would not begin the day in speculation.

She had repeated this to herself with a calmness she scarcely felt.

The breakfast room felt unchanged—light poured through the windows, china clinked, and the usual hum of conversation surrounded her.

And yet, something beneath the surface pressed on her mind, as though the harmony she observed were but a pleasant veneer.

Mr. Bennet sat in his corner with an expression of exaggerated forbearance, while Lydia recounted to Kitty—loudly and with considerable embroidery—her plans to call upon Aunt Philips in Meryton.

Elizabeth had only just settled into her chair, her thoughts still half caught in the quiet weight of morning, when Hill entered with the announcement that Mr. Bingley had arrived.

“Oh, my dear Mr. Bingley!” cried Mrs. Bennet, springing to her feet with all the fervour of a woman whose fondest hopes had just walked through the door. “How punctual! How very attentive!”

Bingley entered with his usual buoyant step and easy smile, offering cheerful greetings to each member of the household. Elizabeth’s eyes, however, flicked almost at once to the hallway beyond him. Empty.

Her heart gave the smallest jolt before she could stop it .

Jane, serene and luminous as ever, tilted her head gently. “You are still alone, sir?”

Mr. Bingley laughed, an easy, untroubled sound.

“Darcy is not yet arrived, no—but I do not think it a cause for concern. He is an early riser, certainly, but even he cannot travel from Town at dawn and expect to arrive by breakfast. I daresay he will appear by noon, or shortly after. He left word of his intention to come as soon as he was able.”

This, Elizabeth knew, was intended as reassurance.

Jane offered a soft smile, and Mary murmured an approving "Indeed," returning to her jam with methodical grace. Mrs. Bennet, more absorbed in her own triumph at Mr. Bingley’s attentions, barely registered the absence. Yet in Elizabeth’s chest, the tightness did not ease.

Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands together. “Well then, all is as it should be. Lydia and Kitty, you may go to Meryton after breakfast, but do not loiter. I must speak with your aunt about wedding matters—there is ever so much to plan—"

Lydia, already half out of her chair, gave a delighted squeal. “Oh yes, we must tell Aunt Philips everything! Come along, Kitty—do not drag your feet as you did yesterday.”

But Kitty did not rise. Her spoon paused in her bowl, and a flush crept up her neck. “I don’t know that I wish to go today,” she said quietly.

Lydia stared. “Don’t be absurd. You always go.”

“I didn’t yesterday,” Kitty replied, her voice low but steady.

Lydia scoffed. “That was because you were sulking. If you are still sore over what I said about the baker’s boy, then I suppose I ought to say I’m sorry—but truly, it was only a jest. You must learn not to be so thin-skinned.”

Kitty’s brows drew together. “It wasn’t very funny.”

Mary, setting down her knife with deliberate care, interjected. “Kitty had thought to look over the church accounts with me. They have been left in terrible disorder since Easter.”

Mrs. Bennet, who had been only half-attending the exchange, now turned her full attention upon them. “Nonsense, Kitty! A little walk will do you good—and your sister was only teasing. Do not make a fuss over nothing.”

Kitty hesitated, her eyes flicking toward Mary, who gave her a subtle nod of encouragement. Then, with a sigh more weary than willing, she stood. “Very well.”

“There now!” Mrs. Bennet declared with satisfaction. “All settled. The two of you may be off as soon as breakfast is done. We must not waste the morning. ”

And with that, she launched into fresh speculation about the wedding—whether white roses or blush would better suit Jane’s complexion, whether Bingley’s coach could be relied upon for a proper procession, and whether lace was still being made in Bath, as she had once heard it was.

There was ever so much to plan, she said, and she insisted that a full six months’ notice was absolutely necessary for proper arrangements.

“Hasty?” Mr. Bennet drawled, lowering his paper. “My dear, if the wedding lasts as long as your planning, they shall celebrate their golden anniversary before they reach the altar.”

Mrs. Bennet did not dignify her husband’s remark with anything so formal as a reply.

She sniffed, declared lace a precious and endangered commodity, and resumed her disquisition on wedding cakes with renewed vigour.

The room soon filled with her delighted chatter and Jane’s soft blushes, while Elizabeth, feeling the weight of unspoken thoughts, rose and mentioned, with quiet intent, that she meant to walk out for air.

Mary, who had observed the breakfast proceedings with her usual composure, set aside her book and offered to accompany her.

They had scarcely reached the front door before Jane and Mr. Bingley appeared in the hall—smiling, flushed, and clearly relieved to find opportunity.

“May we join you?” Jane asked at once. “I believe I should go quite mad if left to help Mama count ribbons again.”

Mr. Bingley, with laughing eyes, added, “It is a very serious matter, Miss Elizabeth. We have already spent half an hour debating the difference between ivory and cream.”

“Come then,” Elizabeth said, managing a smile, though the lightness in her voice did not quite reach her heart. “There is air enough outdoors to cure any number of colour disputes.”

They made their way along the shaded path just beyond the garden, where the hedgerows stood in full leaf and the sun filtered gently through the branches.

The quiet rhythm of walking soon loosened Mr. Bingley’s tongue, and it was not long before he exchanged a meaningful glance with Jane, who gave a small encouraging nod.

“We hoped,” Jane began softly, “to speak with you, Lizzy. There is something we wish to do—but Mama, I fear, will not hear of it.”

Elizabeth turned her head. “What is it?”

“We wish to be married soon,” Mr. Bingley said quickly. “Not in six months’ time. It feels too far away—and Jane agrees. We are both quite decided.”

Elizabeth slowed her pace. “How soon? ”

Jane gave a small smile, steady and untroubled. “We had thought of August fifteenth. It will be after your journey with the Gardiners, and soon enough to begin our life together before the autumn settles in.”

Elizabeth said nothing for a moment. Her thoughts were whirling.

August fifteenth. She had thought—she had hoped—that September 29 might come again.

That date had meant something once. It had stood as a symbol of a future fully earned, a unity not only of hearts but of lives.

It had been the day they wed—both she and Jane—together.

She turned slightly, gathering herself. “If you are certain you do not wish to wait, then perhaps…” Her voice caught. “Perhaps September 29 would suit. It is a lovely time of year, and the weather is often settled.”

Mr. Bingley laughed, not unkindly. “September! Miss Elizabeth, if Jane and I are made to wait that long, I fear your mother will plan us into ruin—or madness. I cannot be held responsible for what I may promise after a sixth consultation on lace.”

Jane touched Elizabeth’s arm gently. “We did not choose the date to distress you,” she said. “Only—it seemed the soonest that might suit, without rushing or impropriety. And we hoped you would be returned by then.”

Elizabeth nodded, though the motion felt stiff. “Of course,” she said. “It is entirely reasonable. And I am glad for it—truly glad.”

And she was, in part. Jane deserved happiness unshadowed by delay.

But even as she spoke the words, a small ache took root in her chest. That future she had once known—the shared wedding, the twin joy of beginning anew together—was gone.

And though the love remained, the moment would not come again.

Jane, ever perceptive, did not press. She only gave her hand a quiet squeeze, and Mr. Bingley, sensing the matter was settled, began to speak cheerfully of guest lists and music, and whether he might persuade his steward’s cousin to send a string quartet from London.

Elizabeth listened with a smile, but her thoughts wandered.

Would Fitzwilliam, if he were here, feel the absence as she did—the quiet ache of something once shared, now lost?

To Jane, August was simply sooner; to Elizabeth, it was a crack in the path she once believed they would walk together.

Jane trusted that all would unfold as it must, that love would find its way in any season.

But Elizabeth knew better. She had seen how easily a future might slip from one’s grasp.

Would Fitzwilliam understand why August felt like too soon?

Would he understand what she could not bring herself to say ?

Elizabeth turned her face toward the garden once more, but the moment had passed. The others had already begun to move ahead, and when she followed them back into the house, the rhythm of the day resumed as though it had never faltered.

As they returned from their walk, the sunlight beginning to mellow against the eaves of the house, a maid met them just beyond the front steps with a small curtsy and a hint of fluster in her voice.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” she said to Mr. Bingley, “but a groomsman from Netherfield is arrived—he brought two expresses and a bundle of contracts from your steward. Said they was to be signed directly, and he’s waiting with tea in the kitchen.”

Mr. Bingley paused, blinking. “Two important items, did you say?”

The maid hesitated. “Two expresses, sir, and the contracts.”

But Bingley, already distracted, nodded cheerfully. “Ah yes, yes—I remember now! My steward mentioned something of the sort. Dull affairs, of course, but urgent. I suppose I must see to them before your mother drags me into another lace consultation.”

Jane gave a quiet laugh, and the party made their way indoors.

In the drawing room, the papers were brought in—a neat sheaf of folded documents, tied with blue ribbon and accompanied by two letters. In the act of receiving them, Bingley’s hands fumbled slightly, and several sheets fell in a fluttering cascade to the carpet.

Mary bent at once to assist, as did Elizabeth, and between them they gathered the pages with efficient care.

One envelope, however—light, thin, and addressed in a bold masculine hand—slid unnoticed behind the leg of the escritoire.

No one saw it fall. No one thought to look for what they did not know had been sent.

Mr. Bingley, quite content with the remaining items in hand, resumed his seat and began to read.

“Ah,” he said after a moment, “this is from my steward. Something about grazing rights—yes, yes. I’ll sign it.” He reached for the inkwell with the comfortable air of a man who signs many things without reading them too closely.

He made his way through the first few pages with mild interest, then opened the the express letter, which bore his sister’s seal.

A groan escaped Bingley as he opened the second letter. “Caroline writes to say she and the Hursts shall arrive by week’s end—to celebrate our impending nuptials, she says. ”

He smiled faintly. “Which I take to mean she heard Darcy was to be in Hertfordshire and wishes to be near the excitement.”

Elizabeth said nothing, though her gaze drifted to the window.

She could not have said why, precisely, but the air seemed subtly altered now—less bright, somehow. As though something had shifted just out of reach.

Mr. Bingley signed the final page with a flourish and stood. “Well, that is settled. The man may return to Netherfield with the lot, and I am once again a free man.”