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Longbourn - Breakfast Room

T he Bennet breakfast table was, as ever, a noisy affair. Kitty was asking whether one might hem a gown to suit a ball one had not yet been invited to, Lydia was suggesting loudly that she could fit two dances into the time it took Mary to finish a sermon, and Mary was reading aloud anyway.

It was Mrs Bennet who silenced them, quite unintentionally, by tearing open a letter and gasping.

“A letter from Jane!” she declared, and then, before anyone could respond, began reading with an expression that moved from pleasure to alarm with remarkable speed. “Well! I never-Mr Jones says Lizzy may travel on Monday! They want the carriage!”

“How very reasonable,” Mr Bennet murmured.

“Reasonable?” Mrs Bennet repeated. “When Lizzy cannot even walk properly? Mr Jones said her ankle will not be right for weeks yet. They cannot possibly be moved-what if the journey makes it worse?”

Mary offered, “But the letter says-”

“Never mind what the letter says,” Mrs Bennet cut in. “They must not risk it. And if Mr Bingley wishes them to stay, well! It would be the height of ingratitude to refuse such kindness. I shall write back at once.”

Mr Bennet gave a small, contented sigh. “Speaking of family obligations,” he said mildly, “I ought to mention-we are to have a visitor tomorrow.”

Mrs Bennet blinked. “A visitor?”

“Yes. I have known of it for some days, but I thought I should wait until you had sufficient energy to receive the news.”

Mrs Bennet, suddenly alert, leaned forward. “Who is it?”

“Our cousin. Mr Collins.”

The name fell with all the weight of the entail itself.

“Mr Collins?” Mrs Bennet gasped. “The one who-oh! But he is to inherit-! What does he want?”

“He wants, it seems, to promote harmony,” Mr Bennet said. “And having been recently ordained, and installed in a living most graciously provided by Lady Catherine de Bourgh, he has decided it would be commendable to visit the family he is soon to dispossess.”

Kitty and Lydia looked baffled. Mary frowned, clearly attempting to recall whether she had heard of Lady Catherine in her studies.

“And he wrote to you ?” asked Mrs Bennet.

“He did. Quite at length. It was… illuminating.”

“Well,” said Mrs Bennet, rallying with alarming speed, “then he must be coming to make amends. And quite right too! I daresay he feels remorse for his position and means to-well-offer something in return.” She clasped her hands. “Perhaps he intends to choose a wife from among our girls!”

“I would not be surprised,” Mr Bennet said, buttering his toast with great care. “He has that sort of confidence.”

“Tomorrow, did you say?”

“By four o’clock, if the roads are passable. He expects to remain for a se’ennight.”

“Then we must be ready.” Mrs Bennet turned to the girls with new purpose. “We must see to the linens. Kitty, fetch Hill. Mary, tell Cook there will be a guest. Lydia, stop talking about officers and go find the good napkins.”

“And the letter to Jane?” Mr Bennet inquired, as the room shifted into movement.

Mrs Bennet waved him off. “I shall tell her the carriage is entirely unavailable. They must stay at Netherfield a little longer-it is for the best. With Jane there, and Lizzy recovering, everything may be settled.”

Mr Bennet said nothing. But there was a glint in his eye that suggested he was looking forward to Mr Collins’s visit far more than he ought.

* * *

Netherfield Park – Elizabeth’s Sickroom - Jane

Jane’s steps were quiet on the upper landing, but her heart felt less so. The letter from Longbourn, still tucked in her hand, had been brief-but not unexpected.

She knocked gently and stepped inside. Lizzy looked up from her book with mild curiosity.

“A letter from Mama,” Jane said, closing the door softly behind her.

Lizzy’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “And? ”

Jane offered a rueful smile. “The carriage cannot be spared.”

There was a pause.

“Of course it cannot,” Lizzy said, too evenly. “And I suppose we are meant to take that as a sign of our own comfort and leisure.”

“She says it is needed tomorrow,” Jane added gently. “And that if Mr Bingley and his sister continue to enjoy our company, she can very well spare us for a few more days.”

Lizzy let out a soft, breathless sound that was not quite a laugh. “How generous of her.”

Jane approached the bed, perching on the edge of the chair beside it. “What shall we do?”

“I cannot walk,” Lizzy said, glancing down at her propped-up ankle. “And I have no wish to be carried out like some recalcitrant luggage. I suppose we wait.”

“We could ask Mr Bingley for his carriage,” Jane said, hesitant. “But I… I do not like to impose again.”

“I do not either,” Lizzy said, then sighed. “But I like the feeling of being imposed upon even less.”

She leaned back against the pillows, eyes on the ceiling for a moment. “This house has been very kind. But it is not mine. And I do not like feeling… kept.”

Jane was quiet for a moment, watching her.

“I shall write to Mama again,” she said softly. “Perhaps she can manage the carriage on Wednesday. Or we might speak to Mr Bingley, just once more.”

Lizzy closed her eyes. “Thank you.”

A beat of silence passed before she added, “Was there any other news?”

Jane smiled faintly. “Only that Kitty and Lydia are desperate to hear gossip about officers, and Mary believes you have suffered just punishment for vanity.”

Lizzy opened one eye. “Then all is well at Longbourn.”

* * *

Netherfield Park – Elizabeth’s Sickroom – Elizabeth

After Jane left, the hush returned-not oppressive, exactly, but too complete. Elizabeth sat by the window now, wrapped in a shawl, her feet resting on a low stool, her ankle propped on a cushion. Meg had helped her into the chair earlier, and the effort had left her tired but quietly proud.

It was her first time seeing the room from this vantage.

From the bed, everything had seemed distant: the desk, the books, the world beyond the window. But now, seated upright and still, Elizabeth could take in the whole space-and notice what she had been too feverish, too tired, or too grateful to see before.

It was his room.

The desk was neat, but not impersonally so-papers stacked with care, the inkstand uncapped, as if recently used.

A pair of gloves rested on a nearby table.

The armchair across the hearth bore the slight impression of regular use.

The titles on the bookshelf were varied and carefully chosen, the sort of library that had grown with its owner, not been assembled for show.

She felt like an intruder again.

The letter in her lap-her mother’s brisk hand declaring that the carriage was not to be spared-might as well have been stamped You must remain .

But it was not only the delay that unsettled her.

The thought of the chaise -of any carriage-made her breath catch.

Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the letter.

It had been just under a week since the accident.

She had not left this room since-had not even crossed the threshold without assistance.

And though she had spoken lightly of returning home, she had carefully avoided thinking how she would get there.

The lurch. The sudden slide of wheels in the mud. The scream of the horses. The helpless tilt of the world around her, as wood and leather closed in like a trap.

She had told no one-not even Jane-that the thought of returning to a carriage made her stomach twist. That her waking hours were shadowed not by pain, but by the memory of being trapped-unable to move, unable to escape, the world tilting wildly beyond her control.

Of being helpless.

And now, with her ankle still tender, her body dependent, and her choices narrowed by someone else’s decision-she did not know whether she longed more to leave… or to stay.

She turned toward the window, trying to focus on the softened lines of trees, the distant blur of orange leaves. Somewhere below, a door opened and shut. The house stirred again, moving gently without her.

This room had been a kindness. A haven.

But it had never been hers. And she was no longer sure where home would feel like safety again.

* * *

Netherfield Park – Road to Meryton - Jane

The air was crisp but gentle, the late-morning sun casting long shadows on the path ahead. Church had passed in peaceful quiet, and Jane, though a little tired from the effort, was glad for the fresh air. The walk back from the village was not far, and she’d assured them all she was perfectly able.

Still, Mr Bingley had offered his arm the moment they stepped outside-and when she hesitated for only half a breath, he added softly, “If only for my peace of mind, Miss Bennet.”

So she had taken it.

Now they walked in a quiet rhythm, her gloved hand resting lightly against his sleeve, the cool breeze tugging faintly at the hem of her pelisse. Caroline was just ahead with Mr Darcy, and Mrs Hurst had returned by carriage, claiming the walk would only aggravate her nerves.

“You are quite certain you feel well?” Mr Bingley asked, looking down at her with concern.

“I promise I do,” Jane said. “A little tired, perhaps, but nothing serious.”

“Then I am glad. And your sister?”

“She improves daily. I believe she will be ready to return home soon.”

“I am very pleased to hear it,” he said. “Though of course I shall be sorry to lose your company-and I do hope Miss Elizabeth continues to improve.”

Jane looked away, a soft flush rising in her cheeks. “You are too kind.”

He smiled. “Not kind at all, I am afraid. Only honest.”

They walked a little farther in companionable silence. A small flock of birds scattered from the hedge as they passed, and the path curved slightly uphill, just enough to make Jane shift her weight more firmly against his arm.

“I did write to Mama this morning,” she said after a pause. “To ask if she might send the carriage for us tomorrow, if it can be spared.”