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“Ah,” he said, and glanced at her. “But if it cannot, Miss Bennet, I hope you know my carriage is at your disposal. Without hesitation. ”

Jane hesitated. “You have already done so much.”

He stopped just short of frowning. “But not enough to see you both safely home? That would trouble me, I confess.”

His sincerity was so quiet, so unadorned, that she could not help smiling. “Then thank you. Truly.”

Caroline turned just then, her voice bright and just a little too loud. “Do you not find it brisk, Jane? I expect I will catch a chill and be forced to spend the evening beneath shawls.”

“I rather enjoy the air,” Jane replied, still smiling.

“Of course you do,” Caroline said with a note of good-natured exasperation. “You are forever strong and serene. I should melt into a heap if I had spent a week in a sickroom-but you always make it seem effortless.”

“Miss Bennet has more strength than most of us,” said Mr Bingley warmly.

Jane said nothing, only looked up at the thinning clouds and the sun just beginning to press through.

* * *

Netherfield Park – Grounds – Darcy

The moment the ladies retired to their rooms and Bingley disappeared into his study, Darcy slipped outside. No announcement. No companion. No explanation.

The air was cold and clean, and that, at least, did not ask anything of him.

He walked without direction at first-past the stable yard, along the edge of the low meadow where the land dipped gently toward the hedgerow.

The grass was still damp underfoot, the sky the colour of cold pewter.

Somewhere behind him, he imagined Caroline remarking upon the strain of walking in damp weather and insisting on shawls indoors.

He let the thought fade.

The service had been ordinary, the company as expected. Jane Bennet’s quiet loveliness had kept Bingley in a state of barely restrained brightness, and Darcy had watched them with a mix of relief and discomfort. It seemed so simple, for some.

Caroline had attached herself to his arm the entire walk back. Her conversation had been prenticed and polished, each word chosen to reinforce their supposed intimacy. He had not encouraged it. But nor had he shaken her off. It would have caused talk.

Now, finally alone, he let the stillness settle.

He did not think of Elizabeth.

Except he did.

The memory of her voice-her calm strength, her dry wit-felt at odds with the still, fire-warmed room she’d been cloistered in for days.

He had asked after her that morning. Quietly.

Briefly. He had seen to the rose salve again.

And then he had turned away, as he always did, when something began to press too closely.

But the truth was this: he wanted to see her again.

Not as she was in the rain, injured and shivering. Not even as she’d been in sleep, caught in the nightmare that made her cry out.

He wanted to speak with her. To look her in the eye and see… what, exactly?

He did not know. Only that the house felt different in her absence. And the stillness of the fields now felt preferable to the drawing room without her in it.

* * *

Netherfield Park – Drawing Room – Elizabeth

The house was quiet, hushed with the usual shuffle and murmurs that marked the hour before dinner. Upstairs, the others had gone to change. Somewhere, doors were closing softly, water being poured, voices low behind polished wood.

Elizabeth remained seated in her armchair near the window, her shawl gathered around her shoulders. Less than five days had passed since the accident, but the stretch of time felt curiously elastic-too brief to be well, and yet long enough that the walls of the sickroom had begun to press.

She turned her gaze toward Jane. “I should like to go down, if I may.”

Jane’s brows rose, concerned. “Are you sure, Lizzy? You’re still pale.”

“I will not stay long,” Elizabeth replied. “Just a little while. I should like to see something beyond the bedposts.”

Martha was summoned-not Meg, whose tongue was too often loose in the wrong corners of the house.

Martha was brisk, capable, and quiet. With the help of two footmen, she oversaw the descent with practised hands.

Elizabeth said little as they moved, her ankle carefully cradled, the steps negotiated one by one.

When they reached the drawing room, it was warm with firelight, the tea things set and untouched. Martha arranged the pillows, folded a soft blanket across her lap, and adjusted the small footstool with the same precision she might offer a duchess. Then, with a quiet bob of a curtsy, she vanished.

Elizabeth remained, still and thoughtful.

She had not been in this room since the day after her arrival. It felt strange to be here again-not as a guest among many, but as one who had been absent long enough for her presence to feel… notable .

Her day dress was borrowed from Jane, simple and soft, but even that had felt like armour. She was not entirely herself yet. Not entirely certain she wanted to be seen.

The fire crackled steadily. Outside, the light was beginning to fade, and the corners of the room seemed gentler for it.

She folded her hands in her lap and watched the flames, listening to the distant hum of the household just beyond the doors.

She was here.

She could leave again, if needed.

But for now-she had come back to the world.