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It was not until Mr. Darcy had been carried to his chambers—white with exertion and scarcely coherent—that Mrs. Reynolds allowed herself a moment’s stillness.

She stood just beyond the threshold, hands clasped before her apron, watching the door close upon the physician's hurried entry.

Her master had returned, but not as he had left.

The visitors remained below, shown into the west parlour by the colonel’s specific instruction—a fact more unusual than most realized.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had issued the order with tones brisk and unyielding: Miss Bennet and her relations were to be treated with every civility.

No one was to question it, not even Mrs. Reynolds herself, though her thoughts were far from settled.

The young lady had known Thomas Harding by name—had stopped him cold with a word, and then gone on to speak of his father, his mother’s jam, and the cottage near the orchard with such ease it might have been her own household.

She had turned to Jameson next, naming the girl he loved and the father who disapproved. There had been no hesitation, no seeking for detail. The knowledge had poured forth as if remembered—not reported.

Nor was this all. The matter of Molly Jones—the girl not yet entered into service, whose name was scarcely known outside her family—had been raised with the calm assurance of someone long acquainted with her.

Miss Bennet had inquired after her as though the girl were already under her charge, her place in the household long established.

Mrs. Reynolds had served Pemberley for nearly four decades. She had seen fortune-hunters, flatterers, ladies of elegance and of ambition. But never had she seen one speak the names of her servants with such intimacy—unadorned, unboastful, and true.

And when the master—barely conscious, his breath shallow and his brow damp—had stirred at last, it was that same name he had whispered: Elizabeth.

At first, Mrs. Reynolds had thought she imagined it.

But the colonel’s response—neither shocked nor confused—confirmed the truth.

He had not asked how Miss Bennet came to be there.

He had not questioned the impropriety of her arrival.

He had only stepped aside, and that, too, was not customary.

Once certain the master was in good hands and nothing more could be done by her, Mrs. Reynolds turned to attend the guests, as duty required. Approaching the west parlour, she paused just short of the door, her step slowing uncharacteristically. She glanced within.

Within the modest and well-appointed west parlour, the guests waited in strained quiet.

The windows were shaded against the bright morning, the hearth unlit despite the mild chill.

Colonel Fitzwilliam stood with arms folded, pacing on occasion but saying little.

Mr. Gardiner lingered near the door, attentive but solemn, while his wife watched from the settee, hands folded in her lap.

Elizabeth sat by the window, her gaze distant, her hands motionless, her bearing calm but unyielding.

The hush had lasted some time when the door opened, and Dr. Wentworth stepped in—his case now closed, though his expression remained grave.

“I’ve finished my examination,” he said. “There is no sign of fresh bleeding. The wound is clean, the pulse is steady, and though he is clearly exhausted, he appears to have taken no additional harm in the past day. But I must ask—when exactly did the original injury occur?”

“More than three weeks ago,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied. “In London. He was under Dr. Annesley’s care there and had only recently begun to sit up unaided.”

Dr. Wentworth raised his brows. “Then why was he moved at all?”

The colonel exhaled sharply. “He insisted. Against every warning. He would not remain. I could not hold him back.”

The physician gave a soft sound of disapproval. “If the swelling has only recently begun to recede, this journey may have cost him dearly. Three days in a coach may well have set him back considerably. He ought never to have left his sickbed.”

Elizabeth, who had sat perfectly still until now, lifted her eyes. “Then why did he travel?” she asked softly. “If he was still unwell—why attempt such a journey?”

“Because he had to,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his voice taut with restrained emotion. “I sent an express the night of the attack—before he even woke. I thought Bingley should know at once, and I hoped… I hoped you would come.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “We never received it. ”

Mr. Gardiner leaned forward, concern sharp in his voice. “Nor has Mr. Bingley heard a word from him in nearly a month.”

“After he woke, he would not be satisfied with dictation,” the Colonel continued. “He insisted upon writing one himself, and demanded a desk be brought to his bedside. His hand was unsteady, but his mind was clear. He would not wait for assistance. He addressed it himself.”

He paused. “When no reply came, he assumed the worst—that Bingley had kept the letters, or that you had chosen silence.”

Elizabeth’s voice came low and stunned. “We wrote, too. Bingley sent two letters—perhaps more. I… I began to think he had changed his mind.”

The colonel’s gaze dropped. “Then something has interfered. Whether by design or accident, I do not yet know . ”

With that, Dr. Wentworth cleared his throat gently.

“Barring any return of fever, I believe the worst has passed. He must rest, and be kept quiet. If his sleep deepens rather than disturbs, it is a good sign. But if any new symptoms arise—confusion, heat, a sudden decline—you must send for me without delay.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam inclined his head. “You have our thanks, Doctor.”

With a bow to the room, the physician gathered his case and withdrew, his footsteps soon fading into the corridor.

For a moment, no one stirred. Then Elizabeth, her voice low but steady, asked the question that had lived in her heart since Lambton. “How was he injured?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam hesitated, then said, “It was Wickham.”

A stillness fell over the room.

“He broke into Darcy House under cover of darkness. Whether he meant only to rob the place or something worse, I cannot say. Darcy confronted him. There was a struggle. Wickham struck him with a poker—here.” He touched his own temple.

“He collapsed at once. He was unconscious for a full week. There was bleeding, swelling. Dr. Annesley feared a fracture, but the skull held. Even after he woke, he could hardly keep his eyes open. For days, he did little more than sleep and take broth. It was nearly a fortnight before he could sit upright unaided.”

Mrs. Gardiner brought a hand to her mouth. Mr. Gardiner muttered something under his breath and lowered himself heavily into the nearest chair .

Elizabeth’s voice, when it came, was faint. “He came to Meryton. Wickham. I used what I remembered.” She paused, the implication clear in her expression.

“He might have lingered if I had held my tongue. But I let truth slip into whispers and rumour. I thought to protect my family—to turn the town against him before he could charm or borrow. And I succeeded. But I made him desperate. I never meant for it to end like this.”

“You did what you could,” the colonel said, his voice firm. “No one could have foreseen he would flee to London, let alone break into Mr. Darcy’s home.”

“He did not escape it long,” the colonel said quietly. “I had him arrested that very night. The charges were many—assault, fraud, theft. The trial was swift. Justice was served.”

Elizabeth looked down. “I should have foreseen how desperation might drive him. He had lost his income, was wanted by the law—and I turned the village against him with truths he could not escape. I meant only to avert one disaster. But another followed, and Fitzwilliam… he bore the cost.”

“No,” Mrs. Gardiner said softly. “Lizzy, your instincts were sound. You saw what others would not. You acted with clarity and resolve.”

“But I was not the one who suffered,” Elizabeth whispered. “He did.”

“Then place the blame where it belongs,” Mr. Gardiner said quietly. “On Wickham. Not on yourself.”

The colonel's expression gentled. “Darcy does not hold you responsible, Miss Bennet. I give you my word—he never has. The very moment he could form a coherent sentence, it was your name he spoke. He asked for you.”

He paused, his voice lowering. "We waited as long as we dared. He told himself—told me—that something must have delayed the answer. But each day that passed without a word… it wore on him. He could not believe your silence was final. He would not."

A breath passed between them. "He was scarcely fit to sit upright. Dr. Annesley forbade travel outright. I urged him to wait—to send another letter instead. But his resolve had taken hold. He said that if there was even the smallest hope, he must come. That he would come."

Elizabeth drew a shaky breath. "But why here? Why Pemberley?"

Richard's eyes met hers steadily. "Because of what you told me at Rosings. You said this was where you fell in love with him. And he remembered. "

She stared at him, stricken.

"He said," the colonel continued quietly, "that if there was still hope—if anything could be mended—it would begin again in the place where it began the first time."