Page 20

The Road to Meryton – Darcy

T he air was cold and damp, the kind of morning that promised more mud than sunlight. Darcy’s horse moved steadily along the lane, hooves muffled by the wet earth. Netherfield faded behind him as the trees closed in.

He had chosen to ride out early, before the household was properly awake. There was no need to consult Bingley or raise questions. It was a simple errand. A practical matter.

And yet he found himself slowing as he approached the bend in the road where the accident had occurred.

The verge was still gouged where the wheels had slid. A broken branch hung lower than it should. In the ditch below, a piece of dark cloth clung to the bramble-perhaps from a coachman’s coat. Perhaps from her shawl.

He stopped .

The chaise was gone, of course, but the memory remained: the tilt, the scream of the horses, the panic in Bingley’s voice. And afterward-Elizabeth’s damp curls against his coat, the sharp angle of her wrist, the way she’d muttered about the chaise being too small, even in her sleep.

He dismounted and stood for a moment, gloved hands resting on the saddle. The road stretched out ahead, winding toward Meryton. A simple journey.

But he had made up his mind. She would not be enclosed again. Not while he could prevent it.

He mounted and pressed forward, urging the horse into a steady canter.

* * *

Netherfield Park – Elizabeth’s Sickroom - Elizabeth

Elizabeth stirred at the sound of quiet footsteps outside the door, followed by the soft clink of china and low-voiced greetings exchanged between maids. Pale light filtered through the drapes, and for a moment she simply lay still, letting herself listen.

Her mind felt clearer than it had in days. The ache in her ankle remained sharp with movement, but the fever had broken, and the weight in her chest was no longer confusion-but something more difficult to name.

Across the room, a fresh fire crackled in the grate, and Meg entered quietly with a tray. “Good morning, Miss Bennet,” she said with a curtsy. “Martha said you might like tea and toast to begin. Mr Jones is to call mid-morning. ”

Elizabeth pushed herself upright with care and accepted the tea. “Thank you.”

Meg hesitated before setting down the tray. “And Mrs Nicholls asked me to apply the rose salve again this morning-for the bruise, miss. Mr Darcy mentioned it on his way out earlier.”

Elizabeth looked up sharply. “He did?”

“Yes, miss. He was very particular that it be continued.” Meg dipped a small curtsy, her tone carefully neutral. “He said it had soothed the swelling yesterday.”

“I see,” Elizabeth murmured, though she was not entirely certain she did.

After Meg left, she turned back to the tea, letting its warmth ground her. It was, of course, a practical concern. He was simply… observant.

Still, her gaze wandered around the room. To the folded blanket she’d used the night before. The book she’d set aside with his initials pencilled neatly inside the front cover. The fire-always burning steadily. The scent of soap and wax and leather.

Everything here was temporary. Borrowed. And yet it all felt distinctly his.

She closed her eyes for a moment and let the warmth of the tea, the fire, and the lingering traces of his care settle over her.

* * *

Netherfield Park – Breakfast Room - Jane

Jane descended the stairs quietly, the hem of her morning dress just brushing the polished steps.

She had been up to see Lizzy, who was awake and in better spirits, though still too pale for Jane’s liking.

Mr Jones was expected before noon, and Lizzy had insisted she did not need to be hovered over.

The breakfast room was warm with late autumn light, and the gentle clink of silverware accompanied the low murmur of conversation. Caroline sat at the table, perfectly arranged in morning silks, and Mrs Hurst occupied the far end with her embroidery, offering the occasional noise of agreement.

“Oh, Jane,” Caroline said, offering a smile polished to gleam. “I trust your sister slept well?”

“She did, thank you,” Jane replied warmly, taking her seat. “The fever seems entirely gone, and her spirits are better.”

“Excellent,” Caroline said, smoothing her napkin with unnecessary care. “Though of course, one cannot be too careful. I do hope she is not planning to exert herself.”

Jane’s reply was pre-empted by the door opening as Mr Bingley entered with his usual cheerful energy. “Miss Bennet! I hoped you’d be down. Shall I pour you some tea?”

Miss Bingley’s smile tightened, though only slightly.

“That would be lovely,” Jane said, returning his brightness.

As Bingley moved toward the sideboard, Caroline looked around and frowned delicately. “How strange that Mr Darcy has not come down. It is not like him to be late.”

Morris, passing with a fresh pot of tea, paused at the sideboard.

“Mr Darcy left quite early, miss,” he said with perfect composure. “Rode into Meryton not long after sunrise.”

“Meryton?” Caroline’s tone was lightly incredulous. “How very… provincial of him.”

“I believe he had some particular errand,” Morris added mildly. “He spoke with Mrs Nicholls before setting out.”

Jane glanced at Mr Bingley, who only shrugged. “He did not say. I thought he seemed rather determined.”

From behind the paper, Mr Hurst gave a theatrical sigh. “So no shooting, then?”

“No, Hurst,” Mr Bingley said patiently. “Not today.”

“Well.” Hurst folded the paper with a snap. “That’s a waste of good boots.”

Caroline returned to her teacup, lips pressed in a neutral line, though Jane noticed the way her eyes lingered on the door-as if willing Mr Darcy to return and explain himself to her, and to no one else.

Later that morning, after Mr Jones had been and gone, Jane climbed the stairs once more, letter in hand and her thoughts still lingering on breakfast. Caroline had spent the rest of the meal remarking upon Mr Darcy’s mysterious absence, clearly unsettled by his deviation from routine.

Mr Bingley had been more cheerful than curious, and Mr Hurst had resumed his toast with resigned grumbling about lost shooting days.

Mr Jones’s visit had been brief but encouraging. Lizzy was recovering well, he said. With care, she might be fit for travel by Monday. Jane had written to their mother at once.

Now, as she reached the sickroom door and raised her hand to knock, she hoped Lizzy would still be feeling as strong as she had earlier.

Jane knocked softly before entering and found Lizzy sitting up in bed, her tea untouched but her eyes bright. A small breeze stirred the curtains; someone had opened the window just a crack to let in the late-autumn air.

“Still reading Cicero?” Jane asked, closing the door behind her.

Lizzy gave a wry smile. “I have read the same sentence five times. I think I keep hoping it will suddenly become about something other than duty.”

Jane settled into the chair beside her, folding her hands loosely in her lap. “Mr Jones has just gone. He says you’re improving steadily. ”

Lizzy raised a brow. “That sounds like something he says to patients who are still pale and wobbly.”

“Possibly. But he also said he sees no reason you should not travel on Monday-if the weather holds, and you rest tomorrow.”

Lizzy nodded, exhaling slowly. “Then I will write to Mama this evening and ask her to send the carriage.”

Jane hesitated just long enough for Lizzy to notice.

“We did agree on that, did not we?” Lizzy asked, trying for levity. “To make our escape as soon as it was medically respectable?”

“We did,” Jane said softly. “And I have written the letter already that I will send in the morning.”

Lizzy tilted her head. “But…?”

“No but,” Jane said, smiling. “Only-I wondered if you’d prefer to wait for the chaise, or perhaps ask to borrow Mr Bingley’s carriage again. It might be more comfortable.”

“I think I would rather not,” Lizzy said, perhaps too quickly. “We have imposed enough.”

She looked down at her blanket, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle. “Besides, I think I have spent quite enough time in other people’s carriages lately.”

Jane did not press. She only nodded, then reached out and adjusted the edge of the coverlet where it had slipped slightly. “Then we will plan for Monday. Morris said he expects fine weather, and I am sure Mr Jones will be happy for us to travel then.”

Lizzy gave a small smile. “It’s odd. I thought I would be desperate to leave. But this room has been… kind.”

Jane’s gaze softened. “It has.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the late light slanting across the bed. Lizzy reached for her book again but did not open it.

* * *

Netherfield Park – Upper Corridor - Darcy

The house was quiet when Darcy returned. Bingley was out with Hurst, and Miss Bingley had retreated to her writing desk with a new supply of foolscap and complaints. Mrs Hurst, half-attending to her embroidery, listened with glazed patience to her sister’s commentary.

Darcy made his way upstairs to retrieve a book he’d left behind the previous day. As he passed the turn in the corridor that led toward the west-facing sitting room, he heard it.

A voice. Light, low, unmistakable.

Elizabeth.

He paused-not out of impropriety, but instinct. Her voice was muffled, half-lost through the door, but even in fragments it was familiar now. Threaded through memory. Rain. Darkness. A fire that never quite burned out.

He did not linger. Only listened for one heartbeat longer than he should have.

Then he turned and walked on, his steps perfectly measured.

* * *

Netherfield Park – Elizabeth’s Sickroom - Jane

The light had grown soft and golden, casting long shadows across the walls. The fire was burning steadily, and the room held the faint scent of rosewater and the lavender Caroline had insisted upon bringing up from the linen press .

The ladies had gathered as they had for the last several evenings-Caroline with her needlework and observations, Mrs Hurst dozing discreetly in the corner, Jane watching Lizzy with quiet attention.

There had been talk of a card party below, and dinner in the blue drawing room again.

Eventually, one by one, they had slipped away to dress.

Now only Jane remained.

She sat near the fire, the hem of her gown catching the light as she turned slightly to look at her sister. Lizzy was awake, quiet, her head resting against the pillows.

“Caroline brought the rose cushion again,” Jane said, not quite smiling.

Lizzy opened one eye. “I suppose I must look like I appreciate it.”

“You did very well.”

Silence settled between them, companionable and close. The house had quieted-the bustle of servants downstairs, the creak of floorboards above as someone moved about in evening slippers.

Jane reached for the letter on the side table. “Shall I send this down now? If Morris has a footman go tonight, Mama will have it before services tomorrow.”

Lizzy nodded. “Yes, please. The sooner she knows, the better.”

Jane rose and folded the letter neatly. She did not move to the door just yet. She looked back at her sister instead, brow creased in thought.

“You’re certain you want to go on Monday?”

“I do,” Lizzy said. Then, after a pause: “At least, I think I do.”

Jane waited.

“It’s just…” Lizzy’s fingers twisted in the blanket. “This room has been very quiet. Kind. I had not expected that.”

Jane nodded once, simply listening.

Lizzy added, more lightly, “I suppose I have grown used to being spoiled.”

“You deserve it.”

A beat passed.

“Do you think he minds?” Lizzy asked suddenly, eyes still on the fire.

“Mr Bingley?”

Lizzy blinked. “No. I meant-” She caught herself. “Never mind.”

Jane did not press. “I will send the letter.”

She crossed the room and paused at the door. “You will be all right for a little while?”

“I will,” Lizzy said. “Enjoy dressing for dinner. I trust you will wear the ribbon that makes Mr Bingley lose track of his sentence.”

Jane flushed and shook her head. “I do not know what you mean.”

But she smiled as she left the room, her footsteps soft on the rug.