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Netherfield Park – Drawing Room - Elizabeth

T he room was hushed, all golden edges and shadows, the last light of the afternoon caught in the windowpanes. Elizabeth sat near the fire, a shawl tucked around her shoulders, her ankle propped on a cushion. Jane sat beside her, their chairs angled toward one another, speaking in low, easy voices.

The gentle murmur of their conversation faded as footsteps approached. The drawing room door opened, and Mr Bingley stepped inside.

He stopped short at the sight of them.

“Miss Elizabeth!” he said, eyes bright. “Miss Bennet! I-this is a most welcome surprise.”

Jane rose slightly, smiling. “We thought it best for Lizzy to try sitting downstairs for a little while. She was growing restless.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “I hope I do not cause too much disruption by appearing unexpectedly.”

“Disruption?” he echoed, already making his way to the hearth. “Not at all. This is the best sight I have had in days.”

He pulled a chair a little closer and sat without hesitation, his gaze full of cheerful sincerity. “And you find it tolerable down here, Miss Elizabeth? No draughts? No discomfort?”

“It is quite comfortable,” Elizabeth said. “Martha and Jane made certain of that.”

“And the tea?” he asked, glancing toward the tray on the side table.

Elizabeth smiled. “Perfectly hot and entirely adequate.”

He laughed, leaning back slightly, though his attention never left them. “I should be quite content to remain here until dinner, then.”

“That would be most welcome,” Jane said gently, glancing at her sister. “Lizzy has missed conversation.”

“And I have missed being worth conversing with,” Elizabeth replied. “Though I confess I expected to make my reappearance with a little more grace.”

“You are here,” Mr Bingley said simply. “That is grace enough.”

Elizabeth coloured slightly but said nothing.

For a few moments, the fire crackled and the air held a rare quiet-a pause between recovery and return, the hush before the evening resumed.

The door opened again, this time with a little more ceremony. Miss Bingley swept in first, perfectly turned out in evening silks and a necklace that caught the firelight. Mrs Hurst followed more languidly, adjusting her bracelets as she entered, and Mr Hurst trailed behind, already yawning.

Miss Bingley stopped short at the sight before her-Elizabeth seated comfortably by the fire, Jane beside her, and Mr Bingley relaxed in a nearby chair, looking altogether too pleased with the arrangement.

“Oh,” Miss Bingley said, all pleasant surprise. “Miss Eliza! I did not realise you had come down. What a… brave effort.”

Elizabeth inclined her head with composed politeness. “It was time.”

Jane rose at once, her voice warm. “She has been resting here very comfortably for the last quarter hour. Martha was most attentive.”

Mrs Hurst made a small sound of agreement as she crossed to the chaise lounge. “I do hope the stairs were not too trying. They can be terribly uneven.”

“They were managed very capably,” Elizabeth replied.

“I am sure,” Miss Bingley murmured, but her gaze flicked back to Mr Bingley, who had not moved from his seat. She smiled a touch too sweetly. “Charles, you are positively glowing. It must be the firelight.”

“Perhaps,” he said, not taking his eyes from Elizabeth. “Or perhaps I am simply glad to have good company.”

Elizabeth looked briefly down at her hands, but her smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Mr Hurst, having settled into his usual chair with a grunt, reached for the brandy decanter and muttered, “Well, if this means we’re skipping cards, I hope dinner’s early.”

“I believe dinner is still half an hour away,” said Mrs Hurst.

“Good,” Mr Hurst replied. “That gives me just time to fall asleep.”

Miss Bingley took a seat with carefully practised grace and folded her hands over her knee. “How fortunate that you’re able to join us just in time for all the evening’s pleasures, Miss Eliza. We were beginning to despair of ever having a full party again.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I hope not to disappoint.”

* * *

Netherfield Park – Drawing Room - Darcy

The door opened once more, this time with no announcement, and Darcy stepped inside.

His eyes moved first to the hearth-habit, perhaps, or instinct-and stopped.

Elizabeth.

Not in the sickroom. Not cloistered upstairs or hidden away.

She was here.

Seated near the fire, a shawl folded neatly over her lap, her posture relaxed but unmistakably composed.

Jane was beside her, calm and steady. Bingley sat nearby, bright with some recent comment.

Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst were arrayed on the opposite side of the room, posture perfect, eyes watching.

For a moment, Darcy did not move.

Then he inclined his head, just enough to acknowledge them all at once, and stepped forward with practised ease. But his gaze returned to Elizabeth-just briefly-as if to be sure she was truly there, and not some conjured memory of what he’d hoped to see.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly, as he approached.

Elizabeth met his eyes. “Mr Darcy.”

It was simple, polite. But the faint colour that rose in her cheeks, and the subtle straightening of his shoulders, suggested something more had passed between them than mere courtesy.

“I am glad to see you improved,” he said after a beat.

“I am grateful to be here,” she replied. “Though the effort was rather more considerable than I anticipated.”

“I am sure it was,” he said. Then added, almost too softly to be caught: “But it is very good to see you again.”

Miss Bingley shifted in her seat, her expression unreadable. “I imagine it will do you a world of good to rejoin us, Miss Eliza. One tires of bed rest, no matter how luxurious.”

Elizabeth only smiled. “Indeed. Though I find one learns a great deal from stillness.”

Darcy, at that, looked away quickly-as if the line struck nearer than it should have.

The room settled again, the low murmur of conversation resuming in uneven waves. But something had shifted.

The party was whole again.

And the centre, quietly, had moved.

* * *

Netherfield Park – Drawing Room - Elizabeth

After dinner, the glow of candlelight followed the party from the dining room into the drawing room, the air comfortably warm with firelight and the lingering scent of roast pheasant and orange syllabub.

Conversation resumed in clusters, the clink of glasses replaced by the gentle rustle of silks and the low tones of familiar voices.

Elizabeth had already been settled by the hearth once more, the return upstairs deemed unnecessary for the brief span between courses and cards. A footman had refreshed the fire, and Jane now sat beside her with embroidery in hand.

Mr Bingley was among the first to join them, bright-eyed from the wine and conversation, though clearly most interested in the drawing room’s quieter company.

Miss Bingley’s gaze had returned more than once to Mr Darcy, who stood near the hearth, leafing through a book with careful detachment.

“Oh, Charles,” Miss Bingley said, tone light but carrying, “did you not say something last week about a dance? Or have you abandoned the idea entirely?”

Mr Bingley looked up at once. “A ball? No, certainly not abandoned-only postponed. Miss Elizabeth’s illness made it impossible to consider.”

“Well, now that she is with us again…” Miss Bingley let her words trail like a ribbon.

“There’s still the question of dancing,” said Jane gently. “Lizzy will not be able to stand unaided for some time yet.”

“Then we must wait,” said Bingley, without hesitation. “It is no true celebration if we cannot have all the company together.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly, her voice dry. “I believe I would be a poor partner at present-though I daresay my sitting could still be elegant.”

“Then we shall make lemonade the chief activity,” Bingley said brightly. “And dancing… can wait until Miss Elizabeth is well enough to enjoy it, of course.”

Miss Bingley gave a soft hum of assent, though her eyes narrowed faintly. “I suppose one must wait for the entire party to be… ambulatory.”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “One must, indeed.”

A flicker of amusement passed through Mr Darcy’s eyes, though he did not look up from his book.

“I should like balls better,” Miss Bingley continued, “if they were less inclined to encourage overheated rooms and the clumsy elbow of every eager cousin in the county. Conversation is much more rewarding.”

“Much more rational, no doubt,” said Bingley with a grin. “But it would not be so much like a ball.”

“And yet,” Elizabeth said, her tone mischievous, “I cannot help thinking the two ideas might coexist. Dancing and discussion-surely we are not so limited as to choose only one or the other. ”

“Spoken like one who excels at both,” said Bingley warmly.

Mr Darcy glanced up at that. “I wonder, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, addressing Elizabeth directly, “if you think that conversation may be a more exacting test of character than dancing.”

“I think,” she replied, “that it depends entirely on the company.”

Their eyes met, the moment held-and then Miss Bingley, with perfect timing and little patience, rose from her seat.

“I believe a turn about the room is in order,” she announced. “Miss Bennet, Miss Eliza-will you not join me?”

Elizabeth hesitated, amused and weary in equal measure. “Alas, I must decline. My ankle remains under strict supervision.”

Miss Bingley blinked. “Oh-of course. How inconsiderate of me.”

“I will walk with you,” said Jane kindly, setting her embroidery aside.

The two ladies crossed the room in measured steps, and Mr Darcy, after a moment, closed his book.

“If you wish to conspire in whispers, I would not intrude,” he said with mildness, watching their movements.

“Surely we conspire only to tease you,” Elizabeth murmured from her place by the fire. “Though perhaps the joke is already tired.”

“I hope not,” he replied. “It is a comfort to be laughed at by someone who knows their subject.”

Elizabeth’s eyes crinkled. “Then I shall apply myself.”

Miss Bingley returned from her first turn with Jane, flashing a glance toward the pianoforte. “Shall we have music? Louisa, do wake your husband. It is far too quiet.”

Mrs Hurst, with practised ease, nudged Mr Hurst’s foot with her slipper and said nothing.

Mr Darcy, meanwhile, returned to his post by the fire-but he was no longer reading. And Elizabeth, with her head turned slightly toward the flames, was not quite smiling.