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Longbourn – Sitting Room - Elizabeth

E lizabeth said nothing as Charlotte drew her quietly away from the drawing room.

Their steps slowed once they were beyond easy hearing - a narrow side passage near the morning parlour where the air was cooler and the light softer.

Charlotte’s hand remained lightly on her arm, steady, almost urgent.

“Lizzy,” she said, her voice low but clear, “I thought it better you should hear it from me first.”

Elizabeth turned, a prickle of unease running down her spine.

Charlotte met her gaze squarely. “I am engaged,” she said. “To Mr Collins.”

For a moment Elizabeth could only blink at her, the words striking with more force than she could have expected .

“Engaged - to Mr Collins?” she echoed, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.

Charlotte gave a small, composed nod.

Elizabeth tightened her fingers against the folds of her gown, struggling to gather her wits. She had not thought it possible. Not Charlotte. Not Mr Collins. And yet Charlotte stood before her, perfectly composed, as if she had merely announced a trip to Meryton.

“When-how-?” she began, then stopped herself.

Charlotte offered a faint smile. “This morning. He called at Lucas Lodge.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together.

“And you… you accepted him?”

Charlotte’s smile twisted a little - not bitter, but not happy, either.

“I did.”

Elizabeth swallowed the tangle of emotions rising in her chest - disbelief, sorrow, and a quiet, wrenching pity.

Charlotte must have seen something of it in her face, for she said, more gently, “Do not pity me, Eliza. I have chosen what suits me best. A secure home. A place of my own. It may not be what you would have chosen - but it is enough for me.”

Elizabeth drew a breath, forcing herself into calm. “I hope you will be happy,” she said, though the words felt stiff and foreign in her mouth.

“I mean to be,” Charlotte said simply. “Happiness in marriage is largely a matter of chance. I never expected romance. I have always expected to make the best of what I could find.”

Elizabeth looked at her - really looked - and saw not resignation, but a clear-eyed acceptance of the world as it was.

Charlotte hesitated, then added, more quietly, “And there has been - much talk, Eliza. About you. About Mr Darcy.”

Elizabeth felt the blood rise hotly to her cheeks .

“I do not believe half of what is said,” Charlotte said at once. “But others will. And you know as well as I do how swiftly such things travel.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, forcing her voice steady. “It is foolishness.”

Charlotte’s mouth quirted - half a smile, half a grimace. “Perhaps. But it was enough to make me certain of my own course. I could not afford to wait. I could not risk being seen to linger.”

Her tone was matter-of-fact, but Elizabeth caught the faint tremor beneath it - not of regret, but of knowledge. A woman with little fortune could not afford the luxury of hesitation.

“I hope you will understand,” Charlotte said gently.

Elizabeth swallowed the tightness in her throat. “I do.”

And she did - painfully, fully.

She found she could not despise Charlotte for her choice. Only grieve, a little, for the world that made it necessary.

Charlotte’s fingers brushed her arm lightly.

“You must not think I have abandoned you, Lizzy,” she said softly. “I would not. But we must both see the world as it is.”

Elizabeth managed a small, strained smile. “I know.”

A moment passed between them - not awkward, exactly, but heavy with the knowledge that their friendship would never again be quite the same.

Charlotte straightened, smoothing her shawl with unconscious care. “Come. Mama will be tiring your mother’s patience, and I suspect neither of us wishes to be summoned back by Hill.”

Elizabeth gave a dry little laugh - the smallest sound of amusement in a heart too heavy for more.

“Indeed,” she said.

Together they turned and retraced their steps, their arms linked lightly once more - a show of ease for the eyes that would meet them when they returned.

But Elizabeth knew, even before the drawing room door swung open again, that nothing between them would ever again be quite untouched by the knowledge of this morning.

* * *

Wednesday, 27th November 1811

Netherfield - Breakfast Room

The sky was low and grey the morning Mr Bingley prepared to depart for Town.

“It is only for a few days,” he said easily over breakfast, setting down his cup. “There is some business I must attend to - nothing of consequence. I shall be back well before the ball.”

Miss Bingley rose at once. “Of course, Charles! Louisa and I shall see you off.”

“There’s no need for such ceremony,” Bingley laughed, “but I shall not refuse it.”

Within the hour, the carriage was brought round to the front steps, gleaming despite the mist. Darcy joined the others on the gravel, standing a little apart as Bingley swung up into the carriage with his usual cheerful ease.

There was a flurry of farewells, Miss Bingley fluttering her handkerchief and Mrs Hurst calling out last reminders. Bingley smiled broadly through the open window, promised a swift return, and then the coachman cracked the whip.

The carriage rumbled away down the drive, wheels hissing faintly on the damp gravel, until it vanished into the mist .

Darcy stood at the top of the steps, watching until the carriage disappeared.

He had no intention of lingering.

The moment Bingley was safely on the road, he meant to call for his horse and ride into Meryton - to begin, quietly but deliberately, the business he could no longer delay.

Wickham’s presence in the neighbourhood was a danger. Every day the man remained unchecked, the risk to Elizabeth grew greater.

Darcy turned toward the house, his mind already racing ahead-

“Mr Darcy,” came Miss Bingley’s voice, smooth as silk, “might we trouble you for a moment?”

He turned, every instinct sharpening at once.

Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst stood a few paces behind, perfectly poised - their faces composed in identical expressions of polite concern.

Darcy inclined his head stiffly. “Of course.”

Miss Bingley tucked her hand into her sister’s arm and began a slow, measured stroll across the gravel.

“It is always so difficult to be certain of a young lady’s true feelings,” she said with a gentle sigh. “Especially when some are so particularly kind and obliging by nature.”

Darcy gave no reply, though his mouth tightened slightly.

Mrs Hurst added, “Indeed. Some ladies have such amiable manners that every gentleman imagines himself preferred.”

Darcy’s gaze remained fixed ahead, his steps slow and deliberate.

“And Charles - dear, generous Charles - is so easily pleased,” Miss Bingley said, smiling faintly. “One cannot wonder if he imagines more warmth than truly exists.”

Mrs Hurst gave a small, knowing nod. “It would be cruel, would it not, to encourage expectations that might end in disappointment?”

Darcy stopped at the foot of the steps .

He turned toward them, his expression cool.

“I believe Mr Bingley is quite capable of judging where his affections are engaged,” he said.

Miss Bingley faltered slightly, but curtsied with affected brightness. “Of course, Mr Darcy.”

Without another word, he turned and entered the house, leaving them to exchange tight, unsatisfied glances behind him.

By the time he reached his chambers, he had already sent word to have his horse saddled.

He exchanged his coat for a darker, plainer riding jacket and gloves. No parade, no unnecessary attention. This was no casual pleasure ride.

When he descended the steps again, the groom was waiting with his mount.

Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst stood just inside the hall, their expressions tight with barely concealed irritation.

Darcy barely acknowledged them - only a short, polite nod - before mounting with practised ease.

Without ceremony, he set off down the drive at a brisk pace, the grey mist swallowing him within moments.

Behind him, Miss Bingley turned sharply toward her sister.

“Well,” she said with a sniff, “it seems we are left to manage matters ourselves.”

Mrs Hurst, watching the retreating figure grow smaller against the mist, only lifted one elegant brow.

Neither said it aloud - but both knew that Darcy, once decided, was a man not easily moved.

And this morning, whatever cause he rode toward, it was not one they could influence.

The cold air sharpened as Darcy urged his horse into a steady canter along the misted lanes .

Each stride ate up the ground between Netherfield and Meryton, but his mind was already further ahead - calculating, assembling facts, anticipating obstacles.

He would begin at the inn. Quiet inquiries, nothing that would draw attention. A few questions for the landlord - casual, discreet.

He needed to know how long Wickham had been in the area. Whom he had spoken to. What tales he had already begun to spread.

Darcy’s jaw tightened.

He did not fear Wickham’s words for his own sake. But Elizabeth - spirited, trusting, full of life - she did not deserve to be poisoned by lies.

No, this would not be like before. He would not stand idle while another narrative was spun and believed. Not again.

The hedgerows blurred past, their bare branches clawing at the mist.

Darcy’s gloved hands were steady on the reins, though his pulse beat faster.

He would do what was needed - privately, carefully - without scandal, without spectacle.

Elizabeth deserved nothing less.

He pressed his heels gently to the horse’s sides, urging it faster.

The mist swallowed him.

The horse carried him swiftly along the misted lanes, but the rhythm of the ride did little to ease the restless turn of his thoughts.

He could still see Elizabeth in his mind’s eye - the pale shimmer of her shawl, the weary, unguarded honesty of her gaze when she said she needed time.

It had cost her something to admit that. He knew it.

Just as it cost him, now, to leave her alone in a world where every careless word, every half-truth, might be twisted against her.

She deserved better. She deserved a protector who would fight not just for her happiness, but for her peace.

He would not fail her again.

Darcy tightened his grip on the reins, the cold air stinging against his cheeks, and pressed his mount into a faster pace.

There was work to be done.

* * *

Longbourn – Drawing Room - Elizabeth

It was later that afternoon when a knock at the door brought Sir William Lucas to Longbourn.

He was all smiles and polished civility, bowing with even greater ceremony than usual as Mrs Bennet hurried into the drawing room, Elizabeth and Jane following behind.

“My dear madam,” he began, beaming, “I hope you will forgive this intrusion - but I come on a most joyful errand!”

Mrs Bennet’s brows lifted expectantly. Elizabeth felt a sudden knot tighten in her stomach.

Sir William cleared his throat. “I have the honour of informing you that my daughter Charlotte - Miss Lucas - is engaged to be married.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Mrs Bennet’s voice, sharp and high, broke it.

“Engaged? To whom?”

Sir William smiled even wider. “Why - to Mr Collins, of course! Our families shall be united, my dear madam! Such a gratifying connection!”

He beamed even brighter. “Mr Collins is to stay with us at Lucas Lodge for the remainder of his stay. Charlotte insisted upon offering him hospitality at once, and he could not but accept. ”

Jane’s hand fluttered to her mouth. Elizabeth could feel her heart thudding painfully against her ribs.

Mrs Bennet managed a few stiff words of congratulation - just enough for politeness - while her face mottled red and white by turns.

Sir William, oblivious to the gathering storm, beamed another bow and offered a few more words about “fortunate settlements” and “amiable characters” before excusing himself to carry the news elsewhere.

The door had barely closed behind him before Mrs Bennet erupted - with accusations, lamentations, and wild predictions enough to exhaust the patience of the whole household.

Elizabeth bore it with weary composure, Jane with gentle resignation, and Mr Bennet with silent amusement, only occasionally raising his head from his book to offer some maddeningly reasonable comment that set his wife off afresh.

The drawing room slowly settled into an uneasy quiet once Mrs Bennet, worn out by indignation, had at last retreated upstairs to nurse her grievances.

Elizabeth remained seated by the window, her needlework abandoned in her lap, staring out at the grey drizzle that still clung to the hedges.

Jane, ever gentle, rose from her chair and crossed the room to sit beside her.

For a moment, neither spoke.

At length, Jane said quietly, “It has been a great deal - all at once.”

Elizabeth let out a small, breathless laugh. “That is one way to describe it.”

She pressed her fingers against her temple, as if she might steady her swirling thoughts.

“I scarcely know what to think,” Elizabeth admitted, her voice low. “ About Charlotte. About Mr Darcy. About myself.”

Jane’s hand found hers, warm and reassuring. “You do not have to decide everything at once.”

Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s fingers. “I know. But I feel as though the ground keeps shifting beneath my feet.”

Jane smiled faintly. “Then stand still for a little while, dearest. Let it settle.”

Elizabeth turned her face slightly toward Jane, grateful for her quiet wisdom.

“I only…” she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, “I only wish I could be certain of my own heart before others begin to decide for me.”

Jane’s smile deepened - not amused, but tender. “Your heart is wiser than you think.”

Elizabeth blinked back the sudden sting of tears and managed a wry smile. “Let us hope so.”

Outside, the mist blurred the hedgerows into softness. Inside, the fire crackled low.

They sat together a little while longer - two sisters against a world that seemed, suddenly, far more complicated than it had been only a fortnight ago.