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His smile lingered, faint but unshakable. “Not yet,” he had said—and the words hung in the silence that followed, soft as breath. Elizabeth brought his hand once more to her cheek, holding it there.

“You saw James,” she said, almost to herself. “You saw him running. That means something.”

“I think it does,” he said. “And I think you were right. Pemberley… this place… it holds more than memory. Even if we only dreamed it—those moments were real to me.”

“And to me,” she whispered.

But as she looked up, she saw the change in him—his eyes a little glassier now, the lines around his mouth a little deeper. He was fading. Not in spirit, but in strength. His breathing had grown shallower, and though he sat upright still, she could see how much the effort cost him.

She longed to speak more—there was still so much unsaid—but one glance told her it would be selfish.

“Colonel,” she said gently, stepping to the door and opening it a little. “He is ready now.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared almost at once. “Ready?” he echoed, though his gaze went straight to his cousin.

Elizabeth nodded. “He will not say so. But yes.”

Darcy made no protest. He simply looked at her once more, then allowed his cousin to help him rise.

He leaned on the Colonel heavily, more than Elizabeth had ever seen, and though he tried to hide it, it was clear the exertion cost him dearly.

When they reached the threshold, a footman stepped forward silently to assist. Together, they guided him back to his rooms.

Elizabeth watched from the doorway, heart aching with something more than sorrow. She longed to follow, to be the one at his side, to help him undress and see him safely to sleep.

But it was not time. Not yet.

What he had given her in that hour was more than comfort.

He had dreamed of James as a toddler—laughing, running, calling him Papa—and she had never seen her son take his first step.

But Fitzwilliam had. Somehow. In some dream or vision or deep imagining, he had seen what she had longed for, what she had feared might be lost forever.

He had dreamed of a daughter, too. A daughter who did not yet exist. She prayed that the future he had seen, and the one she remembered, might still become the same.

The next morning brought true signs of recovery. He ate with better appetite. His colour had returned in small but certain measure. And though Dr. Wentworth gave his permission with no small amount of theatrical caution, Darcy insisted upon being taken to the west sitting room before noon.

“If I do not reclaim that chair,” he said, “my cousin will begin redecorating in the Gothic style.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. “You may limp, Darcy, but I assure you: your sense of melodrama survives intact. ”

Darcy chuckled, and by the time they reached the sitting room—supported again by the Colonel and a footman—his steps, though slow, were steadier.

This time, the whole party was gathered for a light tea.

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner sat on the settee nearest the serving table, the Colonel had taken the one beside the bookshelf, and Elizabeth sat with Mr. Darcy in the matching wing-backed chairs by the fire.

It was the first time he had faced any company since the attack.

And though Elizabeth knew he would never reveal discomfort, she watched him closely all the same.

He did not falter.

“I believe I heard you enjoy fishing, Mr. Gardiner?” he asked, once formal introduction and tea had been poured.

“I do indeed,” Mr. Gardiner said, smiling with some surprise. “Though I confess I haven’t had much success this summer.”

“There’s a spot just beyond the ridge,” Darcy replied, “where the fish seem far less philosophical. You should try it while you’re here—though I regret I can’t accompany you. Next time, perhaps.”

Elizabeth watched her uncle’s brows lift just slightly in pleased astonishment.

“You are very kind,” he said. “I should be glad of it.”

Mrs. Gardiner had begun to relax as well. She spoke of her childhood in Lambton, of walking to market with her sisters and stopping at the smithy by the green. “There was a broad-chested chestnut tree there,” she said, “we used to pretend it was our castle.”

“I remember it,” Darcy said. “My nurse used to take me past it. I once tried to climb it and ended up with a gash to the knee that bled like a Shakespearean tragedy. I was six.”

Mrs. Gardiner laughed, and Elizabeth saw in her aunt’s expression something like dawning affection. It was not the grandeur of Pemberley that had softened her—it was the man beside the fire, with his quiet humour and unexpected humility.

Even the Colonel, lounging near the window, offered his own contribution to the warmth. “Mrs. Gardiner,” he said with exaggerated gravity, “do you still claim the north is superior to London?”

“In every possible respect,” she answered, “except perhaps the walk from the main doors to this room. I required a full five minutes and a quiet prayer to reach it.”

Elizabeth laughed, and even Darcy smiled—though it was clear the visit had begun to tire him .

The conversation did not stretch long. When Darcy’s voice began to fade and his teacup went untouched, the Gardiners made their farewells with perfect grace.

The Colonel excused himself a moment later, muttering something about ensuring the path back to Darcy’s rooms was clear, though Elizabeth could see the slight curve at the corner of his mouth. He was giving them a moment.

Darcy remained where he was, his eyes half-lowered. Elizabeth reached for the teacup he had not finished, set it aside, and knelt quietly to adjust the blanket over his lap. Her hand brushed his as she did so.

He looked at her then. “Your aunt and uncle are not at all what I expected.”

She smiled. “They are our favourite relations. Equal to Jane and Mr. Bingley in affection—though perhaps superior in conversation.”

Darcy gave a low laugh. “Then I hope they visit often.”

“They do,” she said. “Or rather—they will.”

He met her gaze, steady now, and said nothing. But the look in his eyes made her breath catch.

After resting, Mr. Darcy insisted on sitting with Elizabeth again that afternoon.

The Colonel remained nearby, seated in the corner with a book open on his lap, offering no intrusion beyond the occasional turn of a page.

Darcy and Elizabeth spoke softly, not with urgency, but with that ease which only comes when too much has already been endured.

They spoke of their shared pasts—what had occurred, and what had not.

Of memories that belonged to them both, and those that belonged to only one.

They did not speak of the future, though it hovered between them—half-remembered, half-dreamed. It was not the right time.

The days passed in quiet rhythm. After that first gathering in the sitting room, a new pattern emerged—soft-footed and unspoken, but quickly understood by them all.

Each morning, they shared tea together. Mr. Darcy, though still somewhat pale, sat with greater strength and a steadier gaze.

The Colonel often took up a place near the fire, his long legs stretched out with practiced indolence, while Mr. Gardiner lingered over a volume of estate maps that had somehow made their way onto the sideboard.

Mrs. Gardiner stitched or read, and Elizabeth—Elizabeth watched.

And in the afternoons, he would ask for her.

Not formally. Never so much as a direct request. But Mrs. Reynolds would find her with a quiet message, or the Colonel would appear with a nod and say, “He is up to conversation, if you are. ”

She always was.

They sat in the sitting room again, often beside the fire, always with a chaperone somewhere in the corner—Mrs. Gardiner with her needle, or the Colonel pretending to read while surreptitiously feeding scraps to the terrier Mrs. Reynolds had taken in—one he claimed not to like.”.

Elizabeth and Darcy spoke of everything.

Not only of the life they had lived, but of the one only she remembered—and the one he had dreamed.

He did not flinch when she spoke of James.

He did not falter when she confessed her fear that she had changed too much, that she had come back too knowing, too determined, too altered to be the woman he once could have loved.

“I never loved that woman,” he said quietly one evening, when Mrs. Gardiner had nodded off in her corner. “I never truly knew her. But the person before me now… she holds my heart.”

Elizabeth drew in a slow breath. She meant to reply—had meant to for days—but no words came. Her chest ached with feeling too large for speech.

Still, neither of them spoke of the future directly. Not yet. The desire was there—rising between them with every glance, every silence—but the moment had not come.

And so the days slipped on.

On the morning of the Gardiners’ second-to-last day at Pemberley, Dr. Wentworth arrived once more with his usual brisk nod and scuffed shoes, and announced, with the authority of one well-practiced in managing proud patients, that Mr. Darcy might, at last, go downstairs for as long as he pleased—provided he took no walks longer than the hall and sat down whenever ordered.

Darcy bore the instructions with amusement, but Elizabeth noticed the way his hand clenched slightly on the arm of the chair.

He was nervous.

He did not show it. Not in any way others might detect. But she knew. She had spent too many hours reading the smallest changes in his face—the careful economy of gesture that came only when something mattered.

After luncheon, they all sat out in the garden.

The Colonel vanished with a conveniently vague remark about needing to consult with Mrs. Reynolds.

Mrs. Gardiner, with a rather more deliberate smile, remarked that she had promised to write to her children and feared she had put it off too long.

Mr. Gardiner, at least, had the decency to pretend he believed her .

Elizabeth could not speak. Her voice would not come. She wanted him to propose. She wanted to begin their life—truly begin it. But she had once feared that moving too quickly, marrying too soon, might shift the path too far from what she remembered. That James might not be.

But so much had changed.

Jane and Mary had told her to have faith. When she wavered, they reminded her to believe in Fitzwilliam—and they had been right. Whatever happened now, she knew it would be all right. She was tired of waiting. And she dared to hope he might be, too.

Darcy looked at her, then turned away slightly, as though needing the steadiness of the view beyond the windows before he could begin.

“I have thought,” he said, “of a hundred ways to say what I feel. I have had a lifetime to consider the words—two, if we are being precise. But in the end, I no longer care if they are perfect. Only that they are true.”

Elizabeth turned toward him, her breath caught in her throat.

“I love you, Elizabeth,” he said. “I love you more than I knew a man could love—with memory, and longing, and hope. I love you for the woman you are now, and the mother you were, and the mother you may yet be again. I love you for James. And for the life we haven’t yet lived.”

Tears burned behind her eyes.

“I do not ask for haste,” he continued. “I know what you have feared. I know why you have waited. But if waiting until Michaelmas gives James the best chance—if it gives us the best chance—I will wait. Gladly. Only tell me that I may wait as your intended husband , and not as your friend.”

He turned back to her fully now, and though his voice was steady, there was a vulnerability in his gaze that undid her.

“Will you marry me, Elizabeth?”

She did not hesitate.

“Yes,” she whispered. Then again, stronger, “Yes.”