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“You cannot mean to retire already, Mr Darcy,” Miss Bingley protested as he began gathering his writing materials. “The evening is still young, and I am sure we could arrange some music. Or perhaps another rubber of whist?”

“Thank you, no.” Darcy had endured quite enough of her attention for one evening. “I have several matters requiring my attention.”

“But surely your letter to dear Georgiana can wait until tomorrow? We so rarely have these pleasant, intimate evenings any more.”

Finding it impossible to complete his letter under such persistent attention - or to politely refuse further entertainment - Darcy made his excuses. The card players were too absorbed in their game to notice his departure, Hurst’s voice carrying on about proper technique as he left the room.

As Darcy climbed the stairs to his temporary quarters, he could not help glancing toward the corridor that led to his rooms, where a faint light still burned.

A cry from his rooms made him freeze. “No… trapped… the walls…” Elizabeth’s voice, raw and tight with fear, cut through the corridor like a blade. He did not think. He simply moved-propriety forgotten, heart pounding-as he pushed open the door.

The night-candle cast just enough light to see Elizabeth caught in some nightmare, her face pale and drawn. “Cannot move… the chaise is too small…” Her evident terror of being confined made his chest tighten with understanding.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly, forgetting he had no right to be there. “You’re not trapped. You’re safe now. ”

Her eyes flew open at his voice, though she seemed to look through rather than at him. The realisation of where he was - alone in a lady’s bedroom at night - finally penetrated his consciousness. He retreated hastily, though her ragged breathing followed him down the corridor.

Upon reaching his temporary quarters, Darcy rang for Fletcher. His valet appeared almost immediately, clearly having waited up.

“Why was Miss Elizabeth unattended?” Darcy demanded without preamble.

“Meg was meant to sit with her tonight, sir.” Something in Fletcher’s carefully neutral tone suggested this was not an ideal arrangement. “I shall speak with Mrs Nicholls about ensuring proper attendance for the remainder of the night.”

“See that you do.” Darcy turned to the window, unwilling to let even Fletcher see how shaken he was by Elizabeth’s evident distress. “And ensure someone reliable is with her for the remainder of the night.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Have her nights been disturbed?”

“I shall inquire, sir.”

Darcy nodded sharply. He stood silently as Fletcher helped him out of his evening clothes, his mind still dwelling on Elizabeth’s evident terror.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” Fletcher asked, gathering up Darcy’s evening clothes.

“No, that will be all.”

“I shall return as soon as I have made the necessary arrangements, sir.”

Only after his valet had gone did Darcy allow himself to move to the window, where Elizabeth’s distressed voice continued to echo in his thoughts. Some time later, Fletcher’s quiet return roused him from his brooding .

“Martha will sit with Miss Elizabeth for the remainder of the night, sir. And Mrs Nicholls reports this is the third such incident since the fever broke.”

Darcy nodded, dismissing him. He stood at the window long after Fletcher had gone, one hand braced against the sill. Elizabeth’s voice echoed still in his mind, the fear in it lodging deep beneath his ribs-impossible to silence.

* * *

Netherfield Park - Elizabeth’s Sickroom - Elizabeth

Elizabeth woke with a gasp, her heart pounding. For a moment, she could not place where she was-the unfamiliar shadows and strange bed disorienting her further. Then Jane’s gentle voice pierced the haze.

“Lizzy? You were dreaming of the chaise again.”

Elizabeth forced herself to take slow, deliberate breaths, focusing on the open space around her-so different from the confined prison of her nightmare. “I am quite well,” she managed, though her voice trembled slightly. “You should not have been disturbed.”

“Perhaps we might talk for a while?” she added, unable to face the prospect of closing her eyes again just yet. The memory of being trapped was still too fresh, too immediate.

Jane settled into the chair beside her, understanding without need for explanation.

“Tell me about your evening,” Elizabeth said, her voice steadier now, though she still gripped the coverlet tightly. “Was Mr Bingley as attentive as ever?”

Even in the dim candlelight, she could see her sister’s colour rise. “ He was… most kind. Though I fear I tired too quickly to remain long in company.”

After a pause, Jane added softly, “I believe… I heard Mr Darcy’s voice just now. Did you see him?”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling, her expression troubled. “I… I am not certain. Everything is rather confused.” She frowned, trying to sort memory from dream. “Though I think I heard him say something about being safe?”

Jane tilted her head slightly. “It is possible. He passed by your door earlier. Perhaps your mind remembered his voice even in sleep.”

Elizabeth hesitated, her fingers twisting in the coverlet. “It felt so real, Jane. I remember… the sound of his voice in the dark. Calm. Steady. Not part of the nightmare-but pulling me out of it.” She shook her head, frustrated. “And yet I do not know if he was truly there or if I imagined it.”

Jane reached for her hand gently. “Whether dream or memory, it comforted you. That is enough, for now.”

“He has been most attentive to your welfare,” she added, her voice quiet. “The way he carried you through the rain, and walked beside his horse despite the storm…”

Elizabeth nodded slowly, then blinked hard. “I remember very little of the journey. Only his voice. Telling me I was safe.” A pause. “Though I confess, I never thought to find Mr Darcy so… considerate.”

Jane gave a small, knowing smile. “Perhaps,” she said gently, “we have not known him well enough to judge.”

Elizabeth gave a small, mirthless laugh. “It is disorienting, waking in a bed one does not recognise, with memories that do not feel entirely one’s own.”

Her gaze swept the room-the fine woodwork, the orderly writing desk, the gleaming brass fittings, the fire still burning low in the grate. Everything bespoke quiet elegance .

“…And yet, for a man who does not live here,” she murmured, “he certainly makes a place feel his own.”

Jane looked over, curious.

Elizabeth offered a soft huff of laughter. “It’s ridiculous, I know. I lie in a borrowed bed, surrounded by borrowed things, and yet everything speaks of him. Quietly expensive. Utterly composed. A little too proud.”

She paused, then added more quietly, “But warm. Surprisingly warm.”

Jane said nothing, but the corner of her mouth tilted upward.

Elizabeth looked away. “It would be most improper, of course, to let one’s opinion of a gentleman be softened by the comforts of his taste.”

And yet, as she lay back against the pillows, the feel of fine linens beneath her fingertips and the memory of his voice in the dark lingered longer than she would admit.

* * *

Netherfield, Blue Room - Darcy

The pen in Darcy’s hand hesitated above the page. A drop of ink bloomed and bled outward before he finally moved to blot it.

My dearest Georgiana, he had begun-only to stop halfway through the next line, his thoughts refusing to arrange themselves into anything resembling coherence.

He reached for the fresh sheet, drew in a breath, and tried again.

The weather at Netherfield remains disagreeable, though the sport was fair this morning. Bingley is as good-natured as ever, and his sisters continue to -

He stopped again. Continue to what? Plague me? Hover? Pry? He scratched a sharp black line through the sentence and set the pen down altogether.

His gaze shifted toward the window, though the glass only reflected the candlelight behind him.

Somewhere down the corridor, a woman slept in his rooms- not merely a guest , but Elizabeth Bennet herself.

Still pale from fever. Still haunted by whatever horrors the overturned chaise had imprinted upon her.

Her voice echoed in his mind: panicked, fragile. “Cannot move… the chaise is too small…”

The sound had pierced him. Even now, hours later, it echoed beneath his ribs.

He should not have gone in. He knew that. And yet, in that moment, he had not felt like a man with choices. He had simply heard her distress and moved.

He had told her she was safe. Had she heard him?

His fingers tightened on the edge of the desk.

That room had never felt particularly personal before. He had occupied it as a guest, no more than that. But now-it carried the imprint of her presence. The warmth of the fire. The stillness after a storm. His books in her hands.

He did not flatter himself with illusions about her opinion of him. And yet, a part of him-stubborn and treacherous-hoped she had noticed the quiet order, the comfort, the care. That she had understood something about him through the space he had left behind.

It is foolish, he thought. She is not a woman to be swayed by surroundings. She would laugh at the notion.

And yet… she had lain there, vulnerable and unguarded. She had heard his voice in the dark, and clung to it.

He rose and moved to the window, pushing it open just enough to let in the night air. The candle flickered behind him, casting long shadows across the writing desk.

Downstairs, the house was silent. Behind him, the letter remained unwritten.

Darcy rested his hands on the windowsill and stared out into the dark.

It was not his house. Not his room.

But somehow, tonight, it had felt like something more than borrowed.