Page 39

“I believe Mr Collins intends to listen most attentively,” Jane said gently, tying her bonnet ribbon.

“Indeed,” came the answer from the hall. “A sermon, Miss Bennet, is not merely to be heard, but to be felt. Lady Catherine is of the opinion that true instruction requires both an active mind and a posture of submission.”

Elizabeth resisted the urge to press her forehead against the windowpane.

Mr Collins entered the room with slow importance.

“It is a most excellent thing,” he said to no one in particular, “that your father keeps such a serviceable carriage. There are clergymen of lesser parishes who must walk half a mile to preach under leaky roofs. That Longbourn may attend divine service with dry feet is no small blessing.”

Elizabeth said nothing.

“You must be quite recovered, Cousin,” he added, turning to her. “It is gratifying to see you fit for church once again.”

She nodded. “Fit enough.”

“If you are still in any discomfort, I am quite certain Mr Ford would be glad to hear of it. He is a man of strong constitutions and firm sympathy.”

“I shall consider it,” Elizabeth said, and turned away.

The carriage was called. The Bennets began to assemble-bonnets adjusted, hems lifted, umbrellas passed from hand to hand. Lydia and Kitty bickered over the seat nearest the door; Mary clutched her prayer book like a shield. Mr Bennet was nowhere to be seen.

As they stepped outside, Elizabeth braced herself.

The carriage was enclosed. Safe. Sensible. And still, she felt her breath catch the moment she reached the step. Jane touched her arm lightly.

“I will sit beside you,” she said.

Elizabeth nodded.

The carriage could not hold them all at once-not without great discomfort and louder complaints-so two trips were agreed upon.

Mr Bennet, with a mild cough and an unreadable glance at Mr Collins, had suggested that the first trip should carry Mrs Bennet, their esteemed guest, and whichever daughters were most eager to arrive promptly.

This generous offer was received with enthusiasm-Mrs Bennet declared it “a sensible arrangement,” Mr Collins looked faintly flattered, and Kitty and Lydia nearly tripped over each other in their haste to be included.

Mary, Jane, and Elizabeth were to follow with Mr Bennet once the carriage returned.

“I do hope the seats are not too damp,” Mrs Bennet fretted, pulling on her gloves. “Hill, be sure they bring the good lap rug. And Mr Collins, do mind your hat in the wind!”

“I have no fear of a little weather,” he replied grandly. “Though one must be mindful of dignity when entering the house of the Lord.”

They swept out in a flurry of bonnets and umbrellas, the front door banging shut behind them. A moment later, the crunch of wheels and the muffled rhythm of hooves faded down the drive.

Silence settled again in the morning room.

Elizabeth stood by the window, gloved hands folded lightly before her. Her ankle throbbed-not sharply, but with the persistent ache of something not yet mended.

She had not been inside a closed carriage since the accident.

Even the thought of it made her throat tighten. The press of walls, the shifting of wheels beneath her, the memory of wet leather and tumbling sky-

She pressed her fingers together and forced her gaze outward.

She had made the journey home in the open air, with nothing around her but rain and wind and Mr Darcy’s quiet voice.

This would be different.

But there was nothing to be done. And nothing to say.

That thought, once unremarkable, now lived at the back of her mind like a dropped pin on a map-something quiet but impossible to ignore. She had not spoken of it to anyone. There was nothing to say.

Jane stepped beside her. “Are you certain you are well enough to go?”

“Well enough,” Elizabeth said. “Or well enough to pretend.”

Jane gave her a small, warm smile. “That is often the same thing.”

Elizabeth said nothing.

Behind them, Mr Bennet coughed lightly and muttered something about the weather being preferable to the company.

The front door had long since closed behind the first group. The house had fallen quiet again, save for the rain.

Elizabeth remained by the window, her hands folded tighter than they needed to be.

The mist outside blurred the hedgerows, the gravel path, the waiting gate.

Somewhere beyond it was the road to Meryton-and the church where Mr Collins would sit upright and expect approval, and Mr Darcy might or might not be.

The ache in her ankle had returned-not sharply, but enough to remind her. That, at least, she could use.

But it was not the pain that unsettled her.

It was the idea of the carriage-the enclosed dark, the lurch of motion, the moment when everything had tilted, and the sky had disappeared, and the world had gone sideways beneath her.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment. The memory came without asking.

Mud. Wind. Panic.

A gloved hand reaching in through broken glass.

The smell of rain and earth and fear.

She swallowed.

It would not happen again. She knew that. The road was fine. The carriage sound. Jane would sit beside her, her father opposite. It would be a short ride.

But still-her chest tightened as though the walls were already closing in.

She could stay.

She could say she was unwell. Jane would believe her. Even Mr Collins might be flattered by her sensitivity.

But what would that prove? That she could not bear to sit in a carriage? That a single storm had undone her?

She drew in a long breath and turned from the window.

* * *

Meryton – Outside the Church – Darcy

The rain had eased to a damp hush by the time the Bennet carriage turned into the churchyard.

Darcy waited beneath the low roof of the church porch, half-sheltered from the rain, his gloves clasped behind his back, his gaze trained-carelessly, he told himself-on the road.

Bingley stepped forward slightly as the carriage came to a halt, a hopeful expression passing over his face.

The first to descend was Mrs Bennet, her voice audible even through the carriage door, offering instructions that no one appeared to request. Mr Collins followed with solemn dignity, pausing to bow to a passing churchwarden.

Then came Kitty and Lydia, the latter clutching a reticule and laughing at some private remark. They hurried in behind their mother, trailing ribbons and damp hems.

“She’s not there,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Darcy said nothing. His own eyes had scanned the carriage just as quickly.

But Elizabeth was not among them either.

He felt it more than thought it-a faint, unwanted drop in the chest, like the breath one draws too soon and must hold too long.

Perhaps she had not yet arrived. Perhaps she was travelling separately. Or-

He turned his gaze toward the misty lane beyond the gate.

Or perhaps she had chosen not to come at all.

Mr Collins had already detached himself from the party and wandered off toward the side entrance, having caught sight of the churchwarden and clearly unable to resist the opportunity for professional consultation.

Kitty and Lydia darted ahead, half-laughing, the sound of their steps echoing on the stone .

Mr Bingley remained by the porch.

“And the rest of your family, ma’am?” he asked Mrs Bennet with polite warmth. “Will they be following shortly?”

“Oh yes, yes-they are just behind us,” Mrs Bennet said cheerfully, adjusting her shawl.

“The carriage has gone back for Mr Bennet and the other girls. I daresay they will be along any moment now. I insisted on the first, of course-dear Mr Collins could hardly be left to arrive without proper welcome, and the younger girls would have the front seats. You know how it is.”

Bingley gave a small nod, then added, “I hope no one is unwell?”

“Oh no, nothing of the sort,” said Mrs Bennet. “Only a matter of space-and Mr Collins must be shown proper attention, of course. But they will be here directly.”

“Of course,” Bingley said, glancing again toward the road.

Darcy said nothing. But his eyes followed Bingley’s.

The sound of wheels on wet gravel returned, and Darcy looked up.

The second carriage was turning in through the gate-its windows misted, the horses flecked with mud. As it came to a halt, the footman moved to step forward-

-but Darcy was already walking.

He had not meant to move. Not yet. Not like that.

But by the time the carriage door opened, he was there-umbrella in hand, breath quiet, gaze fixed on the figure within.

Elizabeth.

She sat with her hands neatly folded, her bonnet ribbon slightly askew, her face pale but composed. When she saw him, her expression flickered-surprise, perhaps-but she did not look away.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low, pitched for her alone. “Allow me.”

He extended his hand. She hesitated-not from pride, but from memory, he thought-and then placed her fingers in his .

She stepped down carefully, wincing just slightly as her foot touched the ground. Darcy adjusted the umbrella, tilting it to shield her from the worst of the wind.

Jane and Mary followed behind, greeted at once by Mr Bingley and Mr Bennet. But Darcy remained beside Elizabeth.

“Thank you,” she said at last, softly.

He inclined his head. “I am glad to see you here.”

That was all. He did not offer his arm. He did not linger.

But he walked beside her into the church, the umbrella between them, and did not once look away.

The church smelled of wet wool and polished wood. Candles flickered gently in their sconces, casting long shadows on the flagstone floor. Parishioners murmured their greetings, shook off cloaks, and filed into pews with habitual order.

The Bennets were directed to their customary place along the south aisle. Mr Bingley, all warmth and affability, fell in beside them without hesitation.

Darcy paused. There was space. Barely.

And then Elizabeth stepped aside, just enough to let him pass-just enough to invite.

He took the place beside her.

Their shoulders did not touch. But they might as well have.

Elizabeth opened her prayer book with careful fingers. When the first hymn began, she sang-softly, steadily, her voice a clear thread in the murmur around them.

He did not join in.

He sat, very still, the words unspoken on his lips, and let the thought come.

He could do this.

He could sit beside her every Sunday of his life. He could hear her sing beside him. He could watch her turn the page of the book they shared. He could belong to this moment.

The idea took hold with a clarity that startled him.

He glanced sideways-just once.

Elizabeth looked up.

And smiled.

Not coyly, not brightly. Just enough to say: Yes. I see you.

And in that instant, he knew he was lost.

Not in pain. Not in confusion. But in her.