Page 47

“I know. That’s part of what makes it difficult.” Bingley gave a light, self-conscious laugh. “It’s hard to be hopeful without becoming presumptuous.”

Darcy gave a single nod. “I understand.”

And he did - more than he could ever explain.

Bingley let the matter rest, nudging his horse into a slightly quicker pace as the path narrowed.

Darcy welcomed the quiet. He needed it.

He needed the steadiness of movement beneath him, the cold air against his face - something solid to anchor him while his mind turned over what had passed that morning.

Elizabeth.

Everything had changed in the space of a few minutes in that orchard. Or perhaps, he admitted to himself, it had been changing for far longer - inch by reluctant inch, from the first teasing arch of her brow at the Meryton Assembly to the soft, stunned way she had looked at him that morning.

I want to say yes. But I need time.

Her words echoed with all their fragile, unbearable honesty.

Darcy shifted his grip on the reins, jaw tight.

He would give her time. He would give her anything she asked. But he would not sit idle while the ground shifted under them.

Wickham was in the neighbourhood. That could not be ignored.

And then there was Lady Catherine - her assumptions, her arrogance - stirring trouble through Mr Collins like a blade through soft earth.

And gossip - the careless, heedless kind - already taking root.

Elizabeth had heard the whispers. About him. About them.

Darcy’s mouth set grimly. Gossip, once seeded, grew faster than any truth.

If he could not silence it, he would at least be ready to answer it - not with anger, not with silence, but with something far more difficult.

With honesty.

Elizabeth deserved better than pride, better than family pressures, better than fears left unnamed.

She deserved the truth. All of it.

And when she was ready, he would give it to her.

He would give her everything.

They crested the final rise. Netherfield’s rooftops came into view, grey and quiet against the misty fields.

Bingley nudged his horse into a canter. Darcy followed, gathering the reins firmly in one hand, his mind already shifting from private resolve to the tasks ahead.

There was work to be done - and very little time to lose .

The gravel crunched beneath their horses’ hooves as they approached the Netherfield stables. The mist had thinned, but the damp chill lingered, clinging to stone and wood alike.

Bingley swung down lightly and gave his mount an affectionate pat. Darcy dismounted more stiffly, handing the reins to a waiting groom with a distracted nod.

Darcy followed Bingley toward the house, exchanging a few light remarks about the weather and the ride - just enough for any watching eyes. Then he climbed the main staircase and turned toward his chambers.

Fletcher was already there, waiting in the dressing room with a fresh coat laid out and a towel warmed by the fire.

Darcy removed his gloves with slow, deliberate motions.

“Well?” he said quietly.

Fletcher bowed slightly. “There’s talk, sir. Among the servants.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Of Miss Bennet?”

Fletcher hesitated. “Of you and Miss Elizabeth, sir. And… not just of an understanding.”

Darcy stilled.

Fletcher continued carefully. “Meg mentioned seeing you leave Miss Elizabeth’s room late at night - when she was ill. It has been repeated below stairs.”

A long pause.

Darcy exhaled once, sharply.

Not just an engagement rumour - but something far worse. A whisper of impropriety, of scandal.

He drew off his riding coat and folded it with precise, contained movements.

“What else?”

“Some say an engagement will be announced,” Fletcher said quietly. “Others… speculate. ”

Darcy’s mouth tightened.

“See that the household understands,” he said. “No further talk. No indulgence. No visitors carrying tales beyond this house.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Meg?”

“I will see to her, sir. Kindly, but firmly.”

Darcy nodded once.

He crossed to the basin to wash the damp from his hands, his reflection pale and grim in the glass.

It was already too late to undo what had been seen.

But he could still control what came next.

For Elizabeth’s sake, he would leave no further cause for doubt.

Darcy towelled his hands dry and crossed to the window, his boots soft against the polished floor.

Below, the gardens stretched misty and grey, the hedgerows blurred at the edges. Somewhere beyond them was Longbourn - and Elizabeth.

He rested one hand against the cool glass, his mind already moving faster than his body.

Wickham was danger enough. But now - now every careless word below stairs, every foolish whisper, could reach the wrong ears and turn pity to scorn.

He could not allow that.

For her sake - and for his own - he had to act.

No sudden visits. No careless meetings. No further chance for the neighbourhood to weave its stories tighter around them.

When next he spoke to her - properly, openly - it would be with every truth laid bare, and every consequence considered.

No arrogance. No pride.

Only what was real.

* * *

Longbourn – Drawing Room - Mrs Bennet

Where were her answers? How much longer must she be kept in suspense by Lizzy and Mr Bennet?

Mrs Bennet paced the drawing room, her handkerchief twisting anxiously between her fingers. Elizabeth sat near the window, a piece of needlework lying limply in her lap, while Mr Bennet buried himself in a book with maddening calm.

Neither would tell her anything.

Not about Mr Darcy’s carriage.

Not about the walk in the garden.

Not about what had passed between them.

The entire neighbourhood would be alive with gossip already, and yet here she was - left to guess and fret like a common tradesman’s wife.

She stopped directly before Elizabeth.

“Well?” she demanded. “Are you engaged? Are you compromised? Are you to marry him or not?”

Elizabeth looked up with infuriating serenity. “I am not engaged, Mama.”

“And not compromised either, I suppose?” Mrs Bennet pressed.

“No, Mama.”

Mrs Bennet turned toward her husband, her voice rising. “And you - you sit there and do nothing while our family’s very reputation hangs by a thread?”

Mr Bennet did not even lower his book. “Threads, my dear, are easily mended.”

Before Mrs Bennet could make any retort, a knock at the front door interrupted them. Hill’s quick footsteps crossed the hall, and a moment later, Lady Lucas and Miss Lucas and were announced.

Mrs Bennet straightened at once, smoothing her gown and forcing a smile onto her face.

Mrs Bennet rose from her chair with a forced smile just as Lady Lucas and Charlotte Lucas.

Lady Lucas swept into the room with all the easy affability she affected on formal occasions, smiling broadly as she curtsied. “My dear Mrs Bennet, what a morning! We could not let the day pass without calling to see you.”

Charlotte, composed and quiet as ever, followed just behind her mother, her gaze flickering briefly - almost anxiously - toward Elizabeth.

Mrs Bennet curtsied in return, her smile tightening as she gestured them to sit. “Such a pleasure, Lady Lucas. Do have some tea.”

While the two matrons exchanged the usual civilities - Mrs Bennet with brittle brightness, Lady Lucas with a smoothness sharpened by quiet satisfaction - Charlotte stepped a little closer to Elizabeth’s chair.

“Eliza,” she said in a low voice, “might we walk a little? I should like to speak with you.”

Elizabeth glanced instinctively at her mother, but Mrs Bennet, caught in a shallow river of small talk about the weather and Sir William’s last visit to Town, could hardly object without creating a scene.

With a small nod, Elizabeth rose, setting aside her neglected needlework. Charlotte linked her arm lightly through hers, and together they slipped out into the hall.

The heavy door swung shut behind them with a soft click, and the muffled hum of conversation fell away

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