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The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and to a milliner’s shop just over the way.

The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions: their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and, however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt.

At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head-quarters.

Elizabeth knew she should not let herself be drawn too deeply into the giddy chatter of her younger sisters, but how could she ignore it?

The militia had arrived, and with it came all the excitement that would one day lead to disaster.

Lydia and Kitty were already enamored, speaking of red coats and handsome faces with breathless delight.

Elizabeth had heard it before, but this time, she heard it differently.

She had once dismissed it all as harmless folly, blind to what lay beyond.

Now, however, she knew precisely where such unchecked enthusiasm would lead.

She could not prevent the militia’s arrival, nor could she change the nature of her sisters, but surely, surely she could find some way to prevent the calamity to come.

Her thoughts turned to Colonel Forster, a decent enough man, though too easily distracted to serve as a proper guardian for Lydia.

His wife was kind but flighty, more interested in social amusements than in the careful chaperoning of young ladies prone to mischief.

Could Elizabeth blame them entirely? No, her parents bore the greater fault.

But blaming them would accomplish nothing—what she needed was a solution.

She considered her options as she listened to the lighthearted conversations around her.

Lydia and Kitty speculated on which officers might soon propose to eligible young ladies in Meryton, giggling over imagined romances.

Elizabeth clenched her hands in her lap.

They spoke of marriage as if it were a game, as if it could be won with charm and laughter alone.

If only they knew. If only she could make them understand.

But what could she do? How could she steer Lydia away from the recklessness that would lead her to ruin?

Elizabeth glanced toward her parents. Her father smirked behind his book, making no effort to curtail the girls’ enthusiasm.

Her mother, eyes bright with anticipation, only encouraged them further, dreaming aloud of wealthy officers and advantageous matches.

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. No help would come from them.

Nor could she expect much assistance from her aunt Philips, who delighted in the regiment’s presence as much as Lydia did. Aunt Gardiner might offer wisdom, but she was too far away to intervene.

Elizabeth exhaled slowly. She would have to find a way herself.

“Lizzy, you are terribly quiet,” Lydia said, nudging her. “Are you not excited? Think of all the dances to come! I am certain I shall be quite in love before the season ends.”

Elizabeth forced a smile. “Love, Lydia? Is that what you seek?”

Lydia laughed. “Why, of course! If a handsome officer were to fall madly in love with me, I should be the happiest girl in England.”

Elizabeth suppressed the urge to shake her. “And if he were not so honorable as you hoped? If he made promises he could not keep?”

Lydia blinked at her, confused. “Why would he do that? ”

Elizabeth hesitated. If she spoke too plainly, Lydia would only scoff and dismiss her words. She needed to be subtle, to plant a seed of caution without Lydia realizing she had done so.

“Not all men are as they seem,” she said at last. “A uniform does not make a gentleman.”

Lydia waved a hand. “Oh, you are always so serious, Lizzy. You shall see—this winter will be nothing but joy.”

Elizabeth sighed. If only she could believe that.

With that, a footman entered with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer.

Jane took the letter eagerly, breaking the seal with an anticipation Elizabeth both recognized and dreaded.

The moment she saw the handwriting, her own memories stirred.

Caroline Bingley. The invitation to dine at Netherfield.

The rain that would soon fall. The illness that would keep Jane there for days.

And for Elizabeth—an excuse to follow. A week under the same roof as him.

Her husband—no, not her husband. Not yet. Not now.

Elizabeth clenched her hands in her lap, forcing herself to remain still as Jane read aloud.

“My dear friend,

If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives; for a whole day’s tête-à-tête between two women can never end without a quarrel.

Come as soon as you can on the receipt of this.

My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. Yours ever, Caroline Bingley.”

“With the officers?” Lydia exclaimed. “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of that.”

Elizabeth barely heard her sister. She was too focused on the conflict waging within her own mind. She should stop Jane from going. She knew that. The right thing would be to protect her sister from the rain, from illness. To change the course of events. And yet…

Elizabeth bit her lip. To alter Jane’s visit meant altering what would follow.

She could not deny that she longed for that week—those fleeting days when she might steal glances, hear his voice, be near him again in a way she never thought possible.

She had already taken liberties, accepting that dance at Lucas Lodge.

It had been torture, but a sweet one, a reminder of everything she had lost. A test of her resolve. A test she had failed. And now?

“I had much rather go in the coach,” Jane said hesitantly.

“But, my dear,” Mrs. Bennet interjected, “your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm.”

Elizabeth saw her chance—one final opportunity to do the right thing. “If she must go, she should at least take precautions.” She fetched an extra scarf, wrapping it carefully around Jane’s shoulders, and pressed a small vial of oil into her hands. “Take this. It will help.”

Jane smiled at her, full of gratitude and unsuspecting trust. Elizabeth returned the smile, though it did little to ease her conscience.

The rain would come. The illness would come. And she—she would go to Netherfield.

Elizabeth walked beside her younger sisters, their chatter an endless stream of officers, bonnets, and the latest gossip from Meryton.

She had tried, once more, to lecture them on decorum, on the dangers of unchecked flirtation, but as ever, her words were wasted.

Lydia only laughed, tossing back some careless remark about how she would marry a redcoat before the year was out.

Catherine, eager to echo her sister, added her own girlish giggle.

Elizabeth sighed. They would not listen. Her warnings were pebbles cast into a rushing river—swallowed and forgotten before they had a chance to land.

As they reached Meryton, she left them to their foolishness, her thoughts slipping into something far more dangerous. She had known this moment would come. She had tried, half-heartedly, to prevent Jane from going, but deep down, she had known she would fail. Had wanted to fail.

Her steps quickened, as though fleeing her own conscience.

Fitzwilliam. She had been foolish to think she could come here without thinking of him.

Without feeling the weight of his absence in every breath.

A smile pulled at her lips despite herself.

He had once told her of the first time he dreamt of her—how she had stood before him, her petticoat six inches deep in mud, her hair wild, her cheeks flushed from exertion.

It had unnerved him, unsettled him, this vision of a woman so unlike the polished debutantes of his world. And yet, it had also undone him.

Even now, the memory of his voice, low and rough with longing, sent a shiver through her.

She blushed. Foolish girl. This was no time for such thoughts, and yet they came unbidden, stealing into her mind like a thief in the night.

She longed for him, longed for the safety of his arms, the quiet reverence of his touch, the way his lips had traced along her skin as though committing her to memory.

To be with him once more, as she had been before—before duty, before time unraveled their happiness—was a dream she dared not let take root.

But she was here now. It was too late to turn back.

Upon arriving at Netherfield, she was shown into the breakfast parlour, where all but Jane were assembled.

She could not help but meet Fitzwilliam's gaze as he took in her appearance, his eyes dark with something unreadable. She wanted to smirk but did not. Dream of me tonight, my love, she thought fleetingly, before she was directed to Jane’s room.

All thoughts of Fitzwilliam were cast aside as she took in her sister’s pale face, the fever-bright eyes that sought hers with weary relief.

Elizabeth took Jane’s hand in hers, smoothing back her damp hair.

When the Bingley sisters entered, their presence was as familiar as it was distant.

Once, she had been drawn into their world of polished civility, had entertained the illusion of friendship, mistaking their graceful manners for warmth, their careful flattery for true regard.

But now, she merely allowed them to speak, listening without truly hearing.

She had grown accustomed to their practiced, void of sincerity, a performance they had rehearsed since birth false words.

They do not change much in the future, perhaps they do not try as hard to be as fake with her and her sister in the future, but she did always find their conversations more of a performance than anything else.

When the clock struck three, Elizabeth put up a performance of her own, oh how she loved the irony she was finding in this situation, pretending she felt she must go, and very unwillingly said so.

But she knew her sister would testified such concern at her parting that Miss.

Bingley would be obligated to convert the offer of the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.

Elizabeth wondered what the maid would say when upon being told to retrieve her clothes so they could be brought back, that her trunk was already packed.