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Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, her ministrations unwearied, her devotion complete; yet, though her hands were employed in smoothing Jane’s pillows, in adjusting the blankets with tender precision, her mind was oft elsewhere, wandering down the hall to a chamber wherein resided a gentleman she had long known to be the best of men—her husband, and yet not.

The cruel trick of fate had placed them once more at the beginning, and though her heart ached with the knowledge of all they had been, she could not reach for him as she longed to do.

He was not yet hers, nor she his, and though she knew he dreamt of her, though he must be struggling against thoughts that intruded against his will, he would not—could not—give them credence.

She had, at first, thought to quicken matters between them, to press forward where once she had resisted, but caution stayed her hand.

Fitzwilliam Darcy had needed time to learn his heart; he had required the sting of rejection, the pain of longing, the trial of self-reproach before he could deserve her as he had, in their own time, so dearly done.

And yet, ten months! Ten months of coldness, of misunderstandings, of separations—she was not certain she could bear it.

If there was a way to spare them both such suffering and hasten their felicity, should she not attempt it?

But how? How to guide him without leading him?

How to soften her own prejudices while ensuring he would be humbled?

Her duty to Jane allowed some distraction from these thoughts, but not enough to still them entirely.

The morning arrived, pale and uncertain, much as Elizabeth felt herself.

Jane had rested, though not soundly, and Elizabeth was quick to ease any fears that might arise among the household by sending reassurances of her sister’s improving health.

Yet, one task she had resolved upon: she would not send a note to Longbourn.

The memory of her mother’s fluttering exultation at Jane’s illness, of her barely concealed triumph at the inconvenience inflicted upon their hosts, was too fresh.

The promise of future civility toward Mr. Darcy was a fragile hope, and Elizabeth knew well enough that her mother’s manners were dictated by whim rather than wisdom.

Though she had professed, after overhearing Mrs. Long’s report, a resolution to be more gracious, Elizabeth understood that, when confronted with his reserve and superiority, Mrs. Bennet would feel herself affronted anew.

And she would make it known. The past had proven as much.

No, this time, she would not invite the intrusion.

But fate had no need of an invitation. For despite her silence, despite her decision, Mrs. Bennet arrived, accompanied by her two youngest daughters, her expression at once beset by maternal anxiety and something far less estimable.

Elizabeth’s stomach tightened as she beheld her mother’s eager glances about the grand room, the ostentation of Netherfield pleasing her as much as the presence of its wealthy master.

Though Jane’s illness had been her stated purpose, Elizabeth could already perceive that the thought of her daughter remaining at Netherfield was a far greater balm to Mrs. Bennet’s spirits than the assurance of her recovery.

Elizabeth had thought herself prepared. She had, after all, lived through this moment before.

But no memory could shield her from the fresh wave of mortification as her mother, rather than tending quietly to Jane, embarked upon a stream of effusions and flatteries so transparent that even Mr. Bingley’s habitual good nature could not quite conceal his discomfort.

Nor was Mrs. Bennet alone in her exertions; Lydia and Kitty, eager for attention, whispered and giggled between themselves, their exuberance unchecked by either the setting or the company.

She dared not look at Mr. Darcy. And yet, even without turning her gaze, she knew what she would find—the stiff, imperious posture, the carefully composed expression that could not wholly disguise his distaste.

And he would be right. If she had ever wondered how he had been able to resist his growing admiration for her, the answer was now made painfully clear.

This. This was what he had witnessed. A family so entirely unguarded, so lacking in propriety, that the attachment of any man of sense must be entirely discouraged.

It was worse now, seeing it with his eyes.

She recalled his words—his unguarded, cruel words—of six months hence.

The degradation. The want of connection.

The impropriety so frequently exhibited by nearly all her nearest relations.

These were not merely cutting insults designed to wound; they were simple facts.

Facts which, until this moment, she had never been able to see with quite so much clarity.

As Mrs. Bennet, emboldened by Miss Bingley’s reluctant civility, extolled the virtues of Netherfield and its master with unchecked fervor, Elizabeth longed for nothing more than to shrink into the floorboards.

Perhaps, in another life, she might have mustered a jest, a witticism to deflect attention, but in this moment, shame robbed her of all ingenuity.

She had lived these moments once, but never with such a keen awareness of how they must appear to the man whose love she so desperately needed to secure.

The very man who, as of yet, had no reason to believe himself in danger of loving her at all.

When at last Mrs. Bennet and her youngest daughters departed, Elizabeth did not remain to suffer Miss Bingley’s smug amusement or Mr. Bingley’s earnest attempts to smooth over the morning’s disasters.

She escaped at once to Jane’s room, where she could be alone with her humiliation, alone with the fear that she had perhaps misjudged everything.

For though she had promised herself she would not despair—that she would, through patience and wisdom, lead her husband back to her—she had not truly accounted for the weight of his reservations. Nor had she considered how deep they ran .

She had always known, of course, that his first impressions of her family had not been favorable.

But now she had seen it. Lived it. She had watched her mother preen and flatter, seen her younger sisters titter and prattle, all with the full and horrifying awareness of how it must look through his eyes.

And those eyes. Those dark, inscrutable eyes, which had lingered on her more than once since her arrival at Netherfield, had been unreadable to her at breakfast, had remained unreadable even as her mother’s triumph had swelled unchecked.

What had he been thinking? Had his dreams of her, the ones she knew had come unbidden, still haunted him even as he had stood in silent judgment of her family?

Or had they been chased away entirely by the undeniable proof that an alliance with her must be beneath him?

In another part of the house, Mr. Darcy stood in thoughtful silence as Miss Bingley embarked upon yet another witticism at Elizabeth’s expense.

He scarcely heard her. His thoughts were too much engaged, though not, as they ought to have been, with relief.

Relief would have been the proper response to such a morning.

Instead, he found himself disturbed. Not merely by the antics of Mrs. Bennet and her youngest daughters—though they had certainly been as lamentable as ever—but by Elizabeth herself.

By the look in her eyes when she had spoken to him last night.

By the depth of feeling with which she had played at the pianoforte.

By the way her presence unsettled him in ways he could not begin to name.

His dreams had been lascivious, yes—but that was to be expected.

What man, once bewitched, could not be tempted to imagine such things?

But those were not the dreams that troubled him.

No, the ones that disturbed him most were the quiet ones.

The ones in which she sat beside him, speaking to him as though she had always known him.

As though she understood him. The ones where she looked at him with an affection that was utterly inexplicable, and yet, so deeply familiar that it left him shaken upon waking.

And yet—he could not. He must not. Not after this morning. Not after the undeniable proof that nothing could ever come of it. His admiration for Elizabeth Bennet had been, and must remain, a folly. One which, for the sake of his own peace, he must endeavor to forget.