Page 74

The garden at Longbourn was in full bloom that August morning.

A gentle breeze stirred the branches of the old elm by the southern wall, and the scent of lavender and honeysuckle drifted lazily across the path.

Darcy and Elizabeth sat together on the wooden bench just beyond the shade—close, though not indecorously so, their voices low and easy in the hush of the hour.

“I cannot stop thinking of it,” Elizabeth said at last, her gaze fixed on a bee busily at work in the roses. “How near we came to disaster. Again. ”

Darcy’s brow furrowed slightly, but he did not speak at once. She had said as much before, in quieter moments at Pemberley. But here in the hush of Longbourn’s garden, the words held a different weight.

“It was not your doing,” he said finally.

“No,” she agreed. “But it was not unexpected.”

She drew a breath. “We spoke of it once, do you remember? The other path. The life I remember. One where Lydia ran off with Wickham—and you stepped in. Quietly. At great cost. Ten thousand pounds, I believe, to secure the marriage.”

Darcy’s expression tightened, but his voice remained steady. “If I could have prevented it, I would have.”

She nodded. “I know. You carried that guilt. And now I carry another. In my haste to protect Lydia, I nearly lost what was most precious to me—the man I have loved in every life. The man who, at last, will truly be my husband.”

Her voice faltered, and he reached for her hand. Their fingers met between them, familiar and warm.

“But you did not lose me,” he said gently. “And it was not your fault. You could not have known of Wickham’s wickedness, any more than I could. I am quite certain that when I carried the guilt, you told me the same.”

Elizabeth smiled through the shimmer of unshed tears. “I see you are beginning to know your future wife well.”

He returned her smile and lifted her hand to his lips for a kiss—only to be interrupted by a sharp voice from the window above.

“But I did nothing wrong! Why should I be locked in like a prisoner?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Lydia…”

She turned back to Darcy. “It seems she needs no villain to ruin her. She is determined to do so all on her own.”

He was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “I had hoped it would not come to this. But during those long weeks of enforced idleness”—he glanced at her with a wry tilt of the brow—“I had ample time to reflect on all we had spoken of.”

Her eyes met his.

“I trust I have not presumed too far,” he continued, “but I made a few discreet inquiries. There are schools—reputable, restrained. Not the sort to indulge idle girls, but neither so severe as to crush their spirits. A few will admit pupils of Lydia’s age, provided the arrangements are carefully managed. ”

Elizabeth exhaled slowly. “How much?”

“Seventy pounds a year,” he replied. “For the one I judged best suited to her particular… disposition.”

She studied him. “You would pay it?”

“Gladly,” he said. “But only if it is understood as a gift to you, not a charity imposed on your father.”

She touched his sleeve, uncertain. “My father would never accept such a thing—not from you. He would see it as an insult. Or worse, as a condition.”

Darcy hesitated. “Then let us speak with him plainly. I will not offer it in secret. But perhaps, if he hears it from you first—if he understands it is for Lydia’s protection, and not his humiliation—he may see reason.”

She tilted her head, considering. “That may work. In the other lifetime, Papa agreed to send one hundred pounds a year to keep up appearances. He told himself it was a small price to avoid ruin.”

Elizabeth was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “If we tell him together, he may be less inclined to argue.”

Darcy nodded. “Together, then.”

With that, he stood and helped Elizabeth to her feet, and together they turned toward the house, ready at last to face her father.

Mr. Bennet was in his library with the door firmly shut when Elizabeth knocked and stepped inside, Darcy just behind her. A faint sound of protest echoed from upstairs—Lydia, no doubt, railing against her confinement.

Mr. Bennet looked up from his book, his brows lifting with weary amusement. "Sanctuary," he said dryly. "Or have you come to see what villain I’ve cast into the upper tower this time?"

Elizabeth managed a faint smile. "Neither. We’ve come to speak to you about Lydia."

His eyes flicked to Darcy, then back to her. "Ah. Well, you’ve chosen the proper man for such a conversation. He at least possesses a fortune, which may give him an edge in managing foolishness."

Darcy said nothing, but offered a polite inclination of the head .

Elizabeth stepped forward. "Papa, we have a plan. Lydia is not improving—she grows bolder by the day. You heard what Mrs. Philips said. And what Kitty saw."

He leaned back, fingers steepled. "You intend to marry her off to one of the butcher’s sons, then? That would certainly bring variety to the family register."

Elizabeth’s temper flickered. "No. But if we do nothing, there will be no family register at all—only ruin."

Darcy spoke then, his voice quiet but firm. "We have made inquiries. There is a school. Respectable. Private. Firm, but not cruel."

Mr. Bennet turned his eyes on Darcy with something approaching suspicion. "A school, is it? And who will pay for this sudden rescue of my youngest daughter’s virtue?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth, but Darcy answered first. "The cost is manageable. Seventy pounds a year. I will see to it."

"Ah," Mr. Bennet said, and now his tone shifted. "So it is not lace and lawn, but school fees. Lizzy, my dear, have you brought Mr. Darcy to plead for you, or to buy your arguments outright?"

Elizabeth flushed. "He offers it out of generosity, not interference."

"He offers it because you asked him to."

"I asked him because you will not act. Because you sit back, as you always do, and let the house burn around you."

That silenced the room. Mr. Bennet’s expression darkened—not in fury, but in something slower, heavier—as he set his book aside, his brow furrowing while he leaned back in his chair.

"I sent her to her room. I forbade her from going to Brighton at your insistence.

I've punished her more than any of your sisters—and they turned out tolerably well. I fail to see how a school will accomplish more than what’s already been done. "

Elizabeth stepped forward, her voice low and tight. "Because Lydia is different. She will not stop until she ruins herself—and us with her."

Mr. Bennet's eyes narrowed. "You’ve said that before. With more detail than a maiden ought to possess. How did you come by such certainty? Was it this young man who filled your head with grim fantasies?"

Darcy stiffened. "Sir, you forget yourself. "

Mr. Bennet turned his gaze on him sharply, but Darcy held firm. "Elizabeth speaks from experience—not imagination."

"Experience?" Mr. Bennet echoed. "Lydia has never been anywhere. What could she have done that I would not know?"

Elizabeth’s breath caught. Her voice shook. "Not in this life."

A silence fell, sudden and strange.

Mr. Bennet stared. "This life? What nonsense—"

"Papa, think," she said, her voice rising. "You are not a fool. When did you first notice I’d changed?"

He hesitated. "After your fall."

She nodded. "And yet you said nothing. You never asked. If you had—I might have told you. I might have asked for your help."

His expression faltered.

Elizabeth turned away for a moment, then back again. "But you did not ask. And I could not risk being dismissed."

Darcy stepped closer, quietly placing a hand at the small of her back.

Elizabeth met her father's gaze. "Yes, Papa, when I woke up, I remembered another life. I remember everything—how Mr. Darcy and I struggled to find each other, how misunderstandings kept us apart. I remember Lydia’s reckless behavior, how it nearly ruined us, and how we were forced to pay a price for it.

And I remember the heartbreak of seeing her future slip away.

But now, I have a chance to change it. I know it won't be easy, but I cannot watch us make the same mistake twice.

That lifetime, her recklessness cost you one hundred pounds a year for the rest of your life—and a daughter bound to a cad who taught her those things.

And that is why I am pleading with you, Father. Please, make it right this time."

Mr. Bennet sat very still. He could not quite process what he had heard.

At last, he began to ask questions—his voice cautious, measured.

He sought clarification, occasionally glancing at Darcy with thinly veiled unease.

It unsettled him—though he would not admit it—that this man seemed to share the weight of Elizabeth’s memories, that he had known it all before her father himself.

And yet, as he listened, the strangeness gave way to something quieter, something like belief.

"You remembered," he said slowly. "And you said nothing. "

Elizabeth’s eyes shone with tears. "I carried it alone for months because I was afraid if I spoke I might change everything and lose the future I dreamed of with Mr. Darcy. I was not going to tell anyone—but eventually I knew I had to, just as I know I have to now."

“She has lived under that weight every day,” Darcy said. “And every day, she has acted to change what she could. If she were not the daughter you hoped for, sir, she is surely the daughter you needed."

Mr. Bennet looked from one to the other. His expression was no longer amused or skeptical. Only tired. And moved.

"Then let us speak of this school."

"Thank you, Papa," Elizabeth said softly.

Together, they spoke through the particulars—when Lydia would go, how it would be framed, and what Mrs. Bennet would be told to soothe her inevitable distress.

Mr. Bennet asked only a few questions, but he listened more than he had in years.

And when it was settled, something in his expression eased.

Mr. Bennet’s tone softened. "You should have told me. But I understand why you didn’t."

And then, more quietly, "You are not the daughter I believed I had. You are far more."

Darcy reached for Elizabeth’s hand. Mr. Bennet saw the gesture, said nothing, and opened his book again.

"Go on, then. One wedding still awaits you—and perhaps one scandal still to be averted."

Lydia was sent off to school the following week, complaining bitterly all the way to the carriage.

She protested the injustice, the weather, and her lack of new ribbons—but went nonetheless.

Mary and Kitty were quietly relieved. Jane and Bingley returned from their honeymoon just in time to see Lydia off and found the house markedly calmer for her absence.

Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got rid of her most deserving daughter.

The ceremony was held at Meryton’s modest but cheerful chapel on a soft autumn morning.

Elizabeth wore a gown of cream muslin, the bodice trimmed with a scallop of lace that Jane had hand-stitched herself.

Mary stood with her, serene and unflustered in a lavender gown they had repurposed and altered together.

Kitty wept before the ceremony even began .

Colonel Fitzwilliam stood up with Darcy, his dry smile tempered by the soft pride in his eyes. Georgiana, seated beside Kitty, clasped her friend’s hand and held it all through the vows.

Elizabeth walked down the aisle with her father alone this time.

In another life, she had shared the walk with Jane, their arms linked on either side of him.

But today, he offered his arm to her alone—and she was happy with her choice.

She saw her family gathered—her mother weeping loudly; her sisters close at hand.

She saw Darcy at the altar, and nothing else mattered.

The vows were spoken. The ring slid onto her finger. She looked into his eyes and saw the man she had once loved, had always loved—and would love again.

It was not the wedding she remembered from another life. But she still had hope. Perhaps more now than ever.

As they walked out beneath the soft September sun, hand in hand, Georgiana and Kitty among the first to throw petals, Elizabeth thought—not of what had been, but of what could be.