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“I do,” Elizabeth assured him. “And I believe your conditions are most sensible. It will be an excellent introduction to society in a safe environment.”

Darcy nodded, though a shadow of concern remained in his eyes. “I only wish to protect her.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said softly. “But sometimes the greatest protection we can offer is the freedom to grow.”

The following afternoon, having excused herself from the drawing room where Caroline Bingley was expounding at length upon the superiority of London modistes to anyone unfortunate enough to be within earshot, Elizabeth made her way to Georgiana’s chambers where Georgiana and Kitty had retreated immediately after Kitty’s arrival.

As she approached the door, the sound of muffled giggles reached her ears, followed by excited whispers and the rustle of fabric. Curious, Elizabeth knocked gently before entering, not wishing to intrude.

“Come in,” Georgiana called, her voice carrying a note of happiness that warmed Elizabeth’s heart.

The scene that greeted her brought an immediate smile to her lips.

Georgiana and Kitty sat cross-legged on the carpet before the fire, surrounded by a veritable sea of ribbons, fabric swatches, and fashion plates torn from magazines.

Between them rested a large silver tray that had clearly been borrowed from the Netherfield kitchens, now serving as an impromptu display stand for a collection of delicate lace collars and silk flowers.

“Elizabeth!” Georgiana exclaimed, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Look what Kitty has brought! All her ribbons and trimmings for us to choose from. Is it not wonderful?”

“Most impressive,” Elizabeth agreed, crossing the room to examine the colourful array of adornments. “I see you are already making preparations for the ball.”

“We are trying to decide which colours will suit Georgiana best,” Kitty explained eagerly, holding up a pale blue ribbon against a cream-coloured length of lace. “I think this blue would complement her eyes beautifully, especially with her new gown.”

“And we are discussing which gentlemen we might like to dance with,” Georgiana admitted with a becoming blush. “Though of course, I may only dance with those Fitzwilliam approves.”

“A wise precaution,” Elizabeth said, settling herself in a nearby chair to observe the girls’ preparations. “And which gentlemen have made your list of hopefuls?”

Kitty giggled, holding up a silver ribbon. “Georgiana thinks John Lucas has a very elegant bearing, though she would never admit it to her brother.”

“Kitty!” Georgiana protested, her blush deepening. “I merely said he maintains proper posture.”

“For a full ten minutes,” Kitty teased, causing both girls to dissolve into fresh giggles.

As the girls returned to their animated discussion of sleeve styles and dance steps, Elizabeth found herself reflecting on the quiet joy of this moment.

There was something deeply satisfying in witnessing Georgiana’s gradual opening to life’s pleasures, guided not by the artifice of Caroline Bingley’s worldliness but by Kitty’s genuine, if somewhat na?ve, enthusiasm.

They were both growing up, these young women before her.

Not quite children anymore, but not yet fully adults either, poised in that precious threshold moment where possibility beckoned and the future stretched bright with promise.

For all Darcy’s protective concern, Elizabeth knew he too must see the necessity of allowing his sister this gentle introduction to the wider world.

And if John Lucas’ bearing happened to catch Georgiana’s eye at the ball, well, Elizabeth would simply have to ensure that Darcy was looking elsewhere at that particular moment. Some things, after all, were best left to a sister’s discretion rather than a brother’s scrutiny.

Elizabeth made her way toward the drawing room, intent on retrieving the book of poetry she had left there earlier when she went upstairs.

The house had fallen into that peculiar quietude that often descended in the hour before dinner, when guests retreated to their chambers to dress and servants bustled silently below stairs in preparation for the evening meal.

She had nearly reached the partially open drawing room door when Caroline Bingley’s voice, sharp with calculated cruelty, arrested her steps.

“Really, Charles, your persistence in this matter borders on the pathetic. Miss Bennet has made her preference perfectly clear to anyone with eyes to see.”

Elizabeth froze mid-stride, her hand half-raised toward the door panel.

The conversation clearly concerned Jane, and propriety dictated she should announce her presence immediately.

Yet something in Caroline’s tone, a venomous conviction that suggested a confrontation long in the making, held her motionless.

“I fail to see how this is any concern of yours, Caroline,” came Bingley’s reply, his normally cheerful voice uncharacteristically tight. “My friendship with Miss Bennet is my own affair.”

A cold, brittle laugh answered him. “Friendship? Is that what you still call it? How charmingly na?ve you remain, brother. Let me speak plainly, since you refuse to acknowledge what stands before you. Jane Bennet never cared for you. Not last year, and certainly not now when she has gained the attention of an earl’s son. ”

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat.

She knew she ought to move away, to retreat back down the corridor rather than eavesdrop on this most private conversation.

Yet concern for both Jane and Bingley rooted her to the spot.

Caroline’s deliberate cruelty demanded witnessing, if only to understand the damage she sought to inflict.

“You know nothing of Miss Bennet’s feelings,” Bingley responded, his words measured in a way Elizabeth had rarely heard from him. “Nothing whatsoever.”

“I know she accepted your attentions with the same placid smile she gives to everyone,” Caroline countered, her voice dripping with disdain.

“I know she has shown more animation in a single conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam than in all her interactions with you combined. I know you made yourself utterly ridiculous over her last year, and are in grave danger of doing so again.”

The silence that followed was so complete that Elizabeth could hear the faint ticking of the mantel clock within the room. Unable to resist, she shifted slightly, positioning herself to peer through the narrow gap between door and frame.

The scene within was one of taut restraint.

Bingley stood with his back to Caroline, who lounged on the sofa with a look of smug certainty.

What caught Elizabeth’s attention, however, was Bingley’s right hand, extended to rest upon a mahogany console table where a crystal bowl sat.

His fingers curled around the glass with such tension that his knuckles had whitened, and the crystal itself trembled slightly with the force of his grip.

This was not the amiable, pliant Charles Bingley she had come to know. This was a man exercising enormous self-control in the face of deliberate provocation.

“You have said enough, Caroline,” he said at last, his voice low and carefully modulated.

Caroline, either oblivious to or unconcerned by the warning in his tone, merely adjusted her shawl with an elegant flick of her wrist. “I say only what any true friend would tell you. It is your own weakness that has brought you to this point, Charles. Last year you allowed Darcy to persuade you of her indifference because, deep down, you knew it to be true. Now you persist in this fantasy despite clear evidence that her affections lie elsewhere.”

Elizabeth watched as Bingley’s fingers tightened further around the glass, the pressure so intense she feared the crystal might indeed shatter in his grasp.

A muscle worked in his jaw, visible even from her limited vantage point, suggesting a depth of emotion entirely at odds with his usual cheerful demeanour.

“Her ‘indifference’, as you call it,” Bingley said with careful precision, “was a creation of Darcy’s mistaken impression and your deliberate manipulation. Do not think I remain ignorant of your role in our separation, Caroline. Darcy has been forthcoming about the entire affair.”

Caroline sat up straighter, her composure faltering momentarily. “Darcy had your best interests at heart. As did I.”

“You had your own interests at heart,” Bingley corrected, turning at last to face his sister. “As you always do.”

Though Elizabeth could now see only his profile, the unusual severity of Bingley’s expression shocked her.

Gone was the perpetual smile, the eager-to-please affability that characterised his normal countenance.

In its place was a firm resolve that transformed his features into something altogether more formidable.

“How dare you speak to me that way,” Caroline gasped, colour rising to her cheeks.

“Everything I have done has been for the advancement of this family. Your continued fixation on a girl with no fortune, no connections, and apparently no particular regard for you threatens to undermine all I have worked for.”

The crystal bowl quivered dangerously as Bingley’s grip tightened again, then suddenly relaxed. He released the glass as though making a conscious decision to master himself, his hand falling to his side.

“And what exactly have you ‘worked for’, Caroline?” he inquired, his tone deceptively mild. “Darcy’s good opinion? A position in society beyond what our father’s trade afforded us? Perhaps you imagine yourself mistress of Pemberley still, despite the impossibility of that ever occurring?”

Elizabeth felt a surge of something like admiration for this new, resolute Bingley. How mistaken she had been to think him weak- willed and easily led. The strength she observed now had always been present, merely concealed beneath layers of good humour and sociable compliance.