Page 62

The morning sun filtered through Longbourn’s lace-curtained parlour, lighting the writing desk where Elizabeth sat with unmoving hands.

A single sheet of paper lay before her—blank, untouched, though she had been there nearly half an hour.

She had thought, briefly, of writing to him.

He had once written to her when all hope seemed lost. Could she do the same now?

But what would she say? And if he did not wish to hear from her—if silence had been his choice all along?

She had set down her pen without writing a word.

Three weeks had passed since Mr. Darcy was meant to arrive.

Twenty-one days, and still no letter, no word—nothing but the thin comfort of Mr. Bingley’s easy reassurances and the oppressive company of his sisters, who had taken up residence at Netherfield and seemed determined to make themselves a fixture at Longbourn.

Miss Bingley, in particular, had become a daily presence.

Though her stated purpose was to “assist dear Jane,” her real aim appeared to be control—of the conversation, the schedule, and most especially, the silence surrounding Mr. Darcy.

Not once in the past fortnight had she spoken his name, but somehow it hovered over every drawing room moment, every question left unasked.

At first, Elizabeth had endured her with civility. Then with effort. But now, on the twenty-first morning without word, even civility felt like a trial.

It had not always been so. In the first week, Elizabeth had tried, in the beginning, to hold fast to hope.

Bingley had reminded them that letters could be delayed, that travel was often unpredictable.

One lost letter might mean nothing—two, perhaps a coincidence.

But now, the silence stretched too long to ignore.

It was unlike him. And it felt unbearable.

She had clung to what she knew of Fitzwilliam’s character—his honour, his word, his heart. But silence, sustained long enough, can dull even the sharpest convictions. She had begun, almost against her will, to doubt everything—her memory, her purpose, even her decision to travel north.

Today, her aunt and uncle were expected. She had once counted down the days to their visit with real anticipation. But now, she hardly knew what she hoped for.

Would he come before they departed? Would he come at all?

The not knowing was the hardest part. She had once told Colonel Fitzwilliam that, in the life she remembered, she had not seen Mr. Darcy again until Pemberley.

That had been true then. But now everything had shifted.

If he did not come to Longbourn—if these long, silent days ended with no word—should she go to him?

To Pemberley?

The thought unsettled her. Not because it was improper, though others might judge it so, but because she no longer knew whether it would be brave—or simply foolish.

Shortly before midday, the familiar sound of a carriage reached the parlour. Elizabeth, who had not risen in days to check, looked up with no particular interest—until Jane quietly murmured, “Charles.”

The drawing room stirred. Mary closed her book. Mrs. Bennet bustled in, nearly breathless with excitement, and before long, Mr. Bingley entered with his usual bright energy, cheeks still tinged from the ride.

“My dears,” he said cheerfully, “forgive my tardiness—I was waylaid by my steward, and you know how he can go on.”

There were smiles all around, though Elizabeth noted that Jane’s smile, while warm, held a touch of weariness—a reflection, perhaps, of the strain they all felt beneath the surface.

And yet, Jane bore it with grace, never doubting Bingley’s devotion, never questioning the wisdom of an August wedding.

Perhaps she had the right of it. Perhaps there was something noble in trusting love to find its way, even when all signs pointed elsewhere.

They had chosen this date for a reason—six weeks had been enough the first time through, and she began to see the wisdom in Jane’s word again when her mother spoke.

Mr. Bingley greeted them all with his habitual good-natured courtesy, and soon took the seat beside Jane. Elizabeth, seated nearby, waited only a moment before she spoke.

“Have you had any reply from Mr. Darcy?” she asked, carefully light.

Mr. Bingley’s smile dimmed just slightly. “Not yet. But I have written again—this time to both his house in town and to Pemberley, in case he has gone north earlier than expected.”

Elizabeth nodded, but the quiet thump of her heart did not settle.

“That seems excessive,” Miss Bingley’s voice chimed from the doorway, “considering how very close the two of you are. One would think a gentleman so devoted would not need prompting.”

They turned. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had arrived in their usual finery, unannounced but entirely expected.

Miss Bingley entered with the air of one resuming a performance halfway through the act.

She settled into her preferred chair with a delicate rustle of ribbons and continued as if she had never stopped speaking.

“I should think,” she went on with a smile far too polished, “that the silence might be more telling than the delay. Particularly under the circumstances of your recent engagement.”

Jane turned slightly in her seat. “Caroline.”

But it was Elizabeth who answered. Her voice was quiet, even, but unmistakably firm.

“I should be very surprised,” she said, “if Mr. Darcy’s silence had anything to do with Jane’s happiness.”

There was a pause—brief but taut.

Mrs. Hurst glanced between them, clearly regretting the direction of the conversation. Miss Bingley merely gave a thin smile and reached for her fan.

“Well,” she said airily, “no doubt it is all a great misunderstanding. Gentlemen are dreadfully inconsistent creatures.”

“Some are,” Mary observed, not looking up. “Others merely dislike being spoken for.”

The quiet that followed was broken—blessedly—by Mrs. Bennet, who had chosen the worst possible moment to reenter with a flurry of notes in her hand.

“Now, I’ve narrowed it down to four colours for the gown,” Mrs. Bennet declared, flourishing a small swatch book she had assembled from scraps.

“Pale blue shows off Jane’s complexion, of course, but ivory is more elegant—and the vicar’s wife wore white when she married, though I always said that was too plain.

Lavender would bring out her eyes, and Mrs. Long said green was fashionable again. Oh, but I cannot decide!”

Jane smiled with admirable patience, though Elizabeth could see the strain creeping back into her posture.

Mrs. Bennet turned to Miss Bingley. “And I expect you and your sister will wish to be seated with the family—dear friends that you are.”

Miss Bingley blinked. “Oh… of course.”

And with that, the subject of Mr. Darcy was—at least for the moment—closed.

Conversation turned again to gowns and ribbons, cakes and carriages.

Miss Bingley offered opinions with languid authority; Mrs. Hurst chimed in only when prompted.

Jane answered with steady composure, and Elizabeth, though silent, remained seated through it all, her smile practiced and her thoughts elsewhere .

The wedding talk continued for another half hour, unbroken by sense or ceremony.

At last, Miss Bingley and her sister rose, declaring they had other calls to make—though none of them, Elizabeth was quite sure, involved genuine affection.

They offered farewells with perfumed cheek kisses and more remarks about lace, then departed in a flutter of shawls and fan-rustling civility.

Only after the door had closed and the Bingley carriage rolled away did the house begin to breathe again.

The drawing room fell into one of those silences too complete to be peaceful—a silence born not of calm, but of exhaustion.

Jane bent again to her needlework with quiet precision.

Mary excused herself, a faint furrow between her brows.

And Elizabeth remained seated for a moment longer, unmoving, her thoughts caught somewhere between the echo of Miss Bingley’s voice and the quiet hum of what had not been said.

Later, Mary and Jane managed to find her alone in her room, where she sat by the window in restless stillness, watching the sky for signs of the Gardiners’ carriage. The soft hush of the house around her was almost comforting—if only it did not feel so much like waiting.

Jane, as ever, brought warmth into the room simply by entering it.

She crossed to Elizabeth’s side and sat, her voice calm, but this time laced with a trace of uncertainty.

“Of course there must be a reason, Lizzy,” she said.

“You know Mr. Darcy—he is not thoughtless. But I admit, even I begin to wonder. Still, I believe love will find a way—it did for Charles and me, though not without trials.”

Elizabeth offered her a faint smile, grateful but unable to match the sentiment. Her heart was too crowded with doubts to make space for easy words. Before she could gather a reply, Mrs. Bennet’s voice called from the hall—something about lace, and the virtues of satin trim over taffeta.

Jane rose with a knowing glance, pressed Elizabeth’s hand, and went to answer.

Mary lingered. She crossed the room quietly and took the chair beside Elizabeth without asking, her hands folded neatly in her lap. For a time, she said nothing at all.

At last, Elizabeth spoke. The words came carefully—measured and restrained.

She admitted to Mary the unease she could no longer dismiss, her growing concern over Mr. Darcy’s continued silence.

And though she did not say it with bitterness, she confessed how heavily that silence had begun to weigh.

Jane had never faltered in her belief. Elizabeth, who had once thought herself the more discerning of the two, now wondered if it was not wisdom, after all, to trust so completely.

If love asked for anything, it was faith—and Jane had offered hers freely.

Elizabeth could no longer say the same .

Mary listened with the attentiveness of someone who expected nothing in return. She asked no questions, offered no judgments. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm and low.

“Jane is not wrong. Faith is a strength—and not only in matters of doctrine. It is good to hope, even when one cannot yet see the path ahead.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “But is it wise to place one’s heart in the hands of uncertainty?”

Mary considered this. “That depends, I think, on whose hands you believe truly guide it.”

Elizabeth gave a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “You sound more like a Bennet every day, Mary. A better one.”

Mary tilted her head slightly. “Perhaps. But I also think you are holding something back. Whether it is because we are sisters, or because there is more than you dare name aloud—I do not presume to know. But you have always said that Aunt Gardiner is the wisest woman you know. And now, with her arrival—and the journey ahead…”

Elizabeth glanced toward the window, the motion small, unconscious. Her shawl slipped slightly from her shoulder, and she tugged it back with a steadying breath.

“You’ll have time to speak with her,” Mary finished gently. “And perhaps… time to hear yourself.”

Elizabeth stood in silence for a long moment, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. Then, in a voice scarcely louder than breath, she said, “I am not certain I should go.”

Mary blinked. “Why not?”

Elizabeth hesitated, her throat tightening. “Because,” she whispered, “if I go—and he has not come—if he has chosen to stay away—then I will see it. I will see Pemberley, and know I could never live there. Not as I once did. Not with him.”

Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Mary reached for her hand and clasped it gently. “Then all the more reason to speak to our aunt. She may see what we cannot. And Lizzy… you do not know why he has not come. Please—do not assume the worst.”

Elizabeth didn’t answer. But her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes drifted toward the window .

“You were so certain when you returned,” Mary continued. “So full of hope. Hold on to that, Lizzy. Hold on to it just a little longer.”

That was the moment Elizabeth’s breath caught. She turned slightly, blinking hard—but the tears came anyway, quiet and unannounced.

“It has been three weeks,” she whispered. “No letter. No word. If he were ill—if something serious had happened—surely someone would have written.”

Mary’s hand tightened around hers.

Elizabeth drew a breath. “I told myself it was just a delay. But what if he never meant to come?”

Her voice broke entirely then, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, her shoulders trembling.

From below, a soft knock echoed through the house.

Both sisters turned.

Elizabeth rose instinctively, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. Her heart was not ready—but she stood, nonetheless, as though the sound itself required her to try.

Mary stood as well, but instead of stepping away, she pulled Elizabeth into a quiet embrace. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Mary leaned back, her hands still resting on Elizabeth’s arms.

“One step at a time,” she said softly. “And not alone.”

Elizabeth nodded, grateful, though her eyes had not quite cleared.

Arm in arm, they began their slow descent—one careful step, then another.

At the stair’s turn, the noise of the house grew clearer: the sharp rise and fall of voices, the unmistakable stir of arrival.

Somewhere below, Mrs. Bennet was already in full command.