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Longbourn – Drawing Room - Elizabeth

I t fell in the slow, persistent way that made everything feel slightly damp - the walls, the air, the conversation. The fire had been kept high all morning, but the hearth could not quite chase away the greyness that clung to the windows.

Elizabeth sat with her embroidery in her lap, though she had not taken a stitch in ten minutes.

Across the room, Lydia was draped over the arm of a chair, chattering to Kitty in a voice just loud enough to be heard by everyone present.

Jane was reading, or trying to, and Mary was seated at the pianoforte, picking out slow, uneven scales with reverent focus. No one had asked her to play.

When the knock came at the door, Mrs Bennet looked up with a start.

“Hill!” she called. “If that is Lady Lucas, do show her in at once.”

It was not only Lady Lucas. Charlotte and Maria followed their mother into the drawing room, all three shaking off rain-spotted cloaks and stamping the chill from their shoes.

“My dears!” cried Mrs Bennet. “What a dreadful day for visiting - do come in and warm yourselves!”

Polite greetings followed, and soon tea was poured and the ladies arranged. Mrs Bennet launched into talk of the postponed ball, her voice as bright as the weather was dull, and Lady Lucas joined in with her usual good-natured calm.

A moment later, the door creaked open once more. Mr Collins entered, bearing the air of a man who had not been invited but felt it would be ungracious not to appear.

“Lady Lucas,” he said with a shallow bow. “Miss Lucas. Miss Maria. What a pleasure to find you here. I trust you did not find the roads too disagreeable?”

“They were quite passable, thank you,” said Lady Lucas.

“Excellent, excellent,” said Mr Collins, as if he had had any influence over the weather. He glanced toward Elizabeth, then toward Charlotte, then back again - his smile shifting uncertainly between the two.

“I was just engaged in reviewing the sermon I intend to deliver next Sunday. Lady Catherine often remarks that a clergyman must be ever prepared to edify his audience.”

“Indeed,” said Charlotte politely.

“And your remarks, I daresay, are always well prepared,” said Mrs Bennet quickly, with an arch glance toward Elizabeth that Elizabeth pretended not to see.

Mr Collins beamed and took a seat where he could hear the conversation without appearing to contribute to it.

Lydia, meanwhile, had wriggled her way beside Maria and was speaking with hushed excitement.

“You would not believe what Mr Wickham told me,” she whispered with a grin. “It’s quite the tale-about Mr Darcy, of all people…”

Maria leaned in eagerly. “What did he say?”

Lydia’s eyes sparkled with the delight of being first with the news. “That he and Mr Darcy were raised together , practically brothers. Mr Darcy’s father promised Mr Wickham a living - a parish - and after the old man died, Mr Darcy refused to honour it.”

“No!” Maria gasped. “Why ever not?”

“Oh, because he’s proud and cold and horrid, of course. Mr Wickham said he’s always been that way - never liked him. Said he was jealous or something, or just cruel. But he would not speak ill of him at first - I had to pry it out of him.”

Kitty, listening from the other chair, gave a dramatic little shiver. “And now they’re both in Meryton! What if they see each other at the ball?”

Charlotte, silent until now, sipped her tea with a thoughtful expression. “It is a pity, is not it,” she said, “when such long acquaintance ends in bitterness.”

Elizabeth had frozen halfway through threading her needle. She said nothing, but her glance shifted toward Lydia.

Maria was still wide-eyed. “But Mr Wickham is so charming. I cannot believe anyone would treat him unfairly.”

“No one who’s met him would!” Lydia agreed.

From his chair, Mr Collins gave the faintest humph - as if something in the conversation disturbed him, though he clearly did not feel it his place to interrupt.

Charlotte turned slightly toward Elizabeth. “You met Mr Wickham, did not you?”

“I did,” Elizabeth said evenly. “He was quite… forthcoming.”

Mrs Bennet, catching a name she had not expected, glanced over. “Wickham? Oh, the new officer! Yes, a very fine-looking young man. Though I must say, he is not Mr Darcy. ”

“No indeed,” said Charlotte, her tone unreadable.

Elizabeth gave her a brief glance - one of shared understanding. Mr Collins sat back in his chair, frowning slightly, but said nothing more. Whatever thoughts he had, he kept to himself.

The conversation shifted back to the weather and the state of the roads, but a quiet current lingered beneath it.

Charlotte said little more, but she had listened to every word.

Once the Lucases had departed and the drawing room had quieted again, Elizabeth found herself unable to hold her tongue. She took Lydia aside under the pretence of helping her find a ribbon and gently-but firmly-rebuked her for spreading so personal a tale.

Lydia, predictably, laughed it off. “It’s not a secret,” she said airily. “Mr Wickham told me himself, and everyone’s already talking about it. Besides, it’s true.”

Elizabeth said nothing more. There was no sense arguing with someone who found entertainment in outrage. But the conversation lingered with her long after.

* * *

Netherfield – Darcy’s Room – Darcy

The rain pattered steadily against the windowpane, the rhythm soft but insistent. Darcy stood by the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the flames though his thoughts were nowhere near the fire.

The drawing room had been unusually quiet without Bingley, and the house itself seemed subdued. He had meant to write - there were letters awaiting his attention - but he had taken up his pen only to set it down again .

Elizabeth Bennet had accepted his invitation to dance. And smiled at him while doing so.

It should not have meant so much. And yet it had. The moment had replayed in his mind more times than he cared to admit, as had her voice beside him at church, the soft turn of her head, the faint flicker of amusement in her eyes.

She was as affected by him as he was by her.

He could not say how he knew. It was not in her words - which were often too carefully chosen - nor even in her glance, which could still cut as much as it softened. But there had been something in her presence that morning, something in the stillness beside him as the hymn began.

She had looked up at him. Not coldly. Not out of obligation. But with interest - and something near warmth.

It was enough.

If she could feel that much, he could begin to hope.

He turned from the fire and crossed to his desk.

The letter from his steward sat where he had left it, half-read, but his attention drifted past it.

Georgiana. He might invite her to join him before Christmas - but the decision was not straightforward.

With Wickham in the area, could he justify asking her to travel?

Could he leave her in Town without him? Would bringing her to Hertfordshire only raise questions - or worse, draw Wickham closer?

He thought briefly of asking Miss Bingley to extend an invitation to Miss Bennet and her sister to join them in Town after the ball - a respectable arrangement, if Bingley approved.

But even the suggestion felt premature. He had no reason to believe Elizabeth would accept, and no sense of how such an invitation might be interpreted by others.

And would Elizabeth even accept?

If the ball went well - if Elizabeth did not pull away - he would decide then. A few weeks in the country would do her good.

And if Elizabeth welcomed her…

He reached for a fresh sheet of paper but did not dip his pen.

He was not ready to write to Georgiana.

Not yet.

He pushed back the chair and left the room, descending the stairs in silence. The house was quiet, but he found Bingley where he expected-by the fire in the library, a book open but unread in his lap.

Bingley looked up, smiling. “Darcy! Done with your brooding?”

“Hardly,” Darcy said. He crossed to the hearth and stood with one arm braced against the mantel. “I wished to ask you about your plans.”

Bingley raised an eyebrow. “For the remainder of my visit?”

“For this week.”

“Ah.” Bingley shut the book, expression turning thoughtful.

“I must return to Town for a few days. Business regarding the lease. I had hoped to remain longer, but I cannot put it off. I will be in Town from Thursday - just for a few days - but I will return early next week, with time to spare before the ball.”

Darcy nodded slowly. “And after the ball? What are your plans for Christmas?”

“That depends,” Bingley said, then smiled with only the faintest trace of self-mockery. “On whether I am still welcome in Hertfordshire - and whether I have reason to return from Town at all.”

Darcy’s tone remained mild. “Is that reason Miss Bennet?”

Bingley gave a quiet laugh. “Who else would it be?”

“Darcy was quiet for a moment, then said, “If you believe she returns your regard, you should not let uncertainty drive you away. But neither should you presume. Be honest-with yourself, and with her.”

Bingley studied him. “And you? Are you certain of yours?”

Darcy was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, “I am certain of my own feelings. As for hers… I believe she has begun to look at me di fferently. But that is all I can say with confidence.”

Bingley nodded slowly. “You are very cautious on her behalf.”

“I am cautious because it matters,” Darcy said. “To both of us.”

Darcy turned to face him fully. “If you are certain, then act with honesty - but not haste. These things deserve clarity.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment longer. Outside, the rain continued.

Then Bingley smiled again. “You’re becoming almost sentimental, Darcy. I shall mark the date.”

Darcy gave a faint huff of amusement. “Mark it, then. But take care with your heart.”

“And you with yours,” Bingley said, his eyes sharp with good humour.

* * *

Netherfield - Caroline’s Room - Caroline

Upstairs, Caroline sat before her mirror, her hair half-pinned, a small frown gathering between her brows. Louisa lounged on the settee, thumbing through a fashion journal without reading a word.

“He was with her again at church,” Caroline said, not looking away from her reflection.

“It was only a hymn,” said Louisa.

“And now a dance. And heaven knows what else before the ball is done.”

She adjusted the fall of her hair with careful precision. “He disappears. He walks. He talks - and always with her .”

Louisa looked up. “And Charles is no better. He follows Miss Bennet about like a schoolboy. ”

Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “They mean to entrap them both, Louisa. If we do not intervene, they shall soon be family.”

“What can we do?”

“Talk to Mr Darcy. While Charles is away. He listens to reason , at least.”

She smoothed a final pin into place. “If we wait until after the ball, it may be too late.”

Louisa hesitated, then added, “It’s not only the eldest, either.

The youngest are quite without restraint - and their mother encourages it.

” Louisa wrinkled her nose in distaste “She lets them run wild all over Meryton without the slightest concern. It’s no wonder they carry tales and flirt with every officer in sight. ”

Caroline gave a short, displeased laugh. “Indeed. I have never seen such impropriety go unchecked in a household that styles itself respectable. That woman will boast of two daughters married before Easter and never consider what sort of matches they are.”

“One can hardly blame Mr Darcy for looking uneasy.”

“No,” Caroline said coolly. “But we can remind him what’s at stake - before poor taste and pretty eyes lead him to disaster.”

Louisa was quiet for a moment, then said, “Shall we go to Town with Charles?”

Caroline looked at her reflection. “Yes. We will follow at week’s end. If we are in Town, we can keep him distracted - remind him what society expects.”

“And if he insists on returning?”

“Then we return too,” Caroline said crisply. “But I do not intend to stand by while our family becomes entangled with the Bennets.”

“And Mr Darcy?”

Caroline paused, her expression smoothing into something unreadable. “If I cannot separate him from Miss Eliza here, then perhaps London will do it for me. ”

Louisa gave a thoughtful nod. “And if they leave Netherfield?”

“Then we leave it as well. Once Charles is gone, Mr Darcy will be the only one left at Netherfield. He will not remain in someone else’s house without its master-and certainly not at an inn. If we go, he will follow.”

Caroline turned slightly toward her sister. “We will speak to Mr Darcy once Charles has gone,” she said. “If he has any sense, he will come with us.”