Page 50

Netherfield – Darcy’s Chambers, Darcy

T he letter to Lady Catherine had been dispatched days ago - brief, respectful, but leaving no room for doubt. Another had gone to Georgiana, full of quieter reassurances. Darcy had wasted no time: he would allow neither gossip nor family interference to dictate his course now.

Tonight was the dinner at Longbourn.

He fastened his cufflinks with slow, deliberate care, glancing once at his reflection. It was not a proposal he prepared for - not yet - but tonight mattered. Elizabeth deserved to see him as he was: unshaken by rumour, unashamed of his regard.

If he and Elizabeth could come to an understanding, the whispers would wither into nothing.

But if they faltered - if he failed her - it would not only be her reputation that suffered .

It would be his own heart, broken beyond repair.

He drew a slow breath and squared his shoulders.

Downstairs, the carriage was already being prepared. Tonight, all would travel together - Bingley, Darcy, Mr Hurst, and the ladies - for appearance’s sake as much as convenience.

Bingley was in unusually high spirits, pacing the hall with an energy that made Miss Bingley purse her lips and Mrs Hurst exchange weary glances with her husband.

Darcy paused at the door, casting one last look back at the quiet house.

Tonight mattered more than he had let anyone see.

Gathering his composure, he stepped into the misty evening. Mist curled around the wheels as the carriage drew up.

Bingley paced the gravel, radiating energy and barely contained excitement. Mr Hurst waited with his usual air of long-suffering patience, while Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst huddled at the top of the steps, shawls clutched tightly around their shoulders against the damp.

Darcy joined them with a measured stride, his expression composed, though his mind was anything but calm.

Bingley clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come, Darcy! It would be cruel to leave the ladies to shiver much longer.”

Darcy gave a small nod and turned to assist Miss Bingley into the carriage. She accepted his hand with the faintest air of reluctance.

“It is a wonder,” she said as she settled into her seat with a sniff, “that we are not all coughing ourselves into a decline, with this dreadful country air. I cannot think why Charles insisted on remaining at Netherfield through December. A winter in Town would have been vastly more agreeable.”

Mrs Hurst murmured agreement, pulling her cloak more tightly about her .

Bingley, oblivious or determinedly cheerful, laughed. “You will not be saying so after a proper country dinner and a lively ball!”

Miss Bingley only smiled thinly and pulled her gloves tighter.

Darcy took his place opposite the ladies, beside Bingley and Mr Hurst. The carriage jolted into motion, and the conversation inside soon thinned to a polite trickle.

Bingley attempted a few remarks about the weather and the crops, but soon fell into a thoughtful silence, gazing out the misted window toward Longbourn.

Darcy, too, stared outward, though his thoughts were turned inward.

Tonight mattered.

Not just for Bingley and Miss Bennet - though he could see plainly enough how much hung upon it for his friend - but for himself.

If he and Elizabeth could come to an understanding, the gossip would dissolve harmlessly, and Lady Catherine’s bluster would mean little.

But if not-

If he failed her-

Then the whispers would linger. They would stain her reputation. They would break his own heart beyond all hope of repair.

The carriage rocked over a rut in the lane, jostling them slightly.

Darcy set his jaw.

No. He would not fail her.

Not if it was within his power to prevent it.

* * *

Longbourn – Drawing Room – Elizabeth

The Longbourn household was in a flutter of restrained excitement when the Netherfield party arrived.

The misty evening had settled low over the fields, but the lights of the house glowed warmly against the gloom. Footsteps echoed on the front steps, and the sound of a carriage door thudding shut stirred a quick, nervous bustle from Hill and the younger Bennet girls.

Elizabeth’s heart gave a queer little skip as the hall door opened to admit the Netherfield party.

Mr Bingley entered first, all bright smiles and good humour, followed closely by Mr Darcy. He paused as his gaze met hers - a still, vivid moment - and then he crossed the room with quiet, deliberate steps.

Elizabeth, summoning her composure, stepped forward. “Mr Darcy,” she said with a slight curtsy, her voice pitched low enough to remain private, “you are very welcome.”

His bow was deeper than strictly necessary, and when he straightened, there was a warmth in his eyes that steadied some of the turmoil in her chest. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said simply.

For a breathless instant, neither moved. Then, with a careful deference that made her cheeks warm, he offered his arm.

Elizabeth hesitated only a heartbeat before placing her gloved fingers lightly upon it.

They remained thus - companionable, steady - while the rest of the party shed their outer garments and exchanged greetings.

Mr and Mrs Hurst were civil but faintly bored; Miss Bingley surveyed the room as though measuring its deficiencies.

Mr Bingley, meanwhile, had already found Jane’s side, his entire face alight with undisguised pleasure.

The butler, Murrey, appeared in the doorway and announced gravely:

“Dinner is served.”

At once, there was a general shifting and stirring. Mr Bennet offered his arm to Mrs Bennet with a wry half-smile, while Mr Bingley guided Jane forward.

Mr Darcy, with quiet confidence, escorted Elizabeth through to the dining room.

She was acutely aware of the warmth of his arm beneath her fingertips, the deliberate steadiness of his pace to match her own still-slight limp. He said nothing of it, offered no fuss - only slowed almost imperceptibly as they crossed the threshold into the dining room.

It was not unnoticed. Elizabeth caught the glance her mother shot them - a mixture of satisfaction and calculation - and felt her cheeks heat. Yet Darcy remained utterly composed, settling her into the seat beside his with a care that was nearly invisible unless one looked for it.

The others took their places with the usual bustle and murmur of a country dinner party. Smith and two maids moved about the table with practised efficiency, bringing in the first course.

Mr Darcy made a light remark about the improvement in the weather, and Elizabeth, grateful for the safe topic, responded in kind. Across from them, Mr Bingley was already deep in cheerful conversation with Jane, while Miss Bingley examined her surroundings with thinly veiled disdain.

It was, Elizabeth thought with a small, secret smile, the oddest, happiest, most precarious dinner she had ever sat through.

Elizabeth reached for her wineglass as the first course was served - a rich game soup, redolent of herbs. The warm scent curled through the air, mingling with the soft clink of silverware and the gentle murmur of conversation .

She unfolded her napkin with careful composure, aware of the many watching eyes - her mother’s foremost among them.

From down the table came the occasional suppressed giggle from the Higgins sisters, Alice and Rose, who were whispering behind their hands and casting sidelong glances toward the upper end of the table.

Mr Darcy leaned slightly toward her, his voice low and unobtrusive. “And how does your ankle fare this evening, Miss Elizabeth?”

She turned to him, surprised by the gentleness in his tone. “Much improved, thank you. I no longer require support - though I am reminded of it if I forget myself.”

He nodded, his mouth quirting in a subtle smile. “Then I am relieved I did not hasten your steps.”

“Not at all. You were very considerate,” she said. Then, lowering her voice, she added lightly, “Besides, I must grow accustomed again to the duties of a hostess. One cannot very well limp about the ballroom.”

His brows lifted slightly. “You intend to dance, then?”

“I intend to try,” she replied. “Though I may choose only the steadiest of partners.”

His gaze held hers. “Then I shall do my best to qualify.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught, and she looked down quickly to steady herself.

A moment later, he added with the faintest flicker of amusement, “I trust Mr Collins has no claim to the first set. Though I confess I am more curious whether he made peace with Pudding.”

Elizabeth laughed - genuinely, helplessly. “Peace is not the word I would choose. She stole his chair and refused to budge. He attempted to reason with her - quite formally, in fact.”

“A brave undertaking,” Mr Darcy said gravely. “Most would not attempt diplomacy with a cat.”

“She responded with dignity and silence. He found it most discouraging. ”

Their shared amusement created a warm stillness between them - private, fragile, but no longer uncertain.

From farther down the table, Alice Higgins leaned toward her younger sister, whispering behind a raised hand. Elizabeth could feel their glances and suppressed a sigh.

“They are Mrs Long’s nieces,” she murmured. “They live just beyond Meryton - and always take a keen interest in anything vaguely romantic.”

Mr Darcy did not look toward the sisters. “A dangerous habit in a small village.”

“Especially when armed with keen eyes and no secrets of their own,” Elizabeth replied.

He smiled faintly, then turned his head as Mrs Bennet launched into an elaborate explanation of how the roast venison had come from a tenant’s cousin’s farm. His polite attention did not falter, but when he looked back at Elizabeth, there was a trace of wearied affection in his expression.

She gave him a wry smile. “We are not a quiet household.”

“I do not require quiet,” he said. “Only honesty.”

That startled her - the sincerity of it, the unexpected weight behind such a simple reply. She looked down at her plate again, her pulse unaccountably quick.

And this time, her smile lingered.

The clink of glass and the murmur of lowered voices still drifted from the dining room when Mrs Bennet rose with a rustle of skirts.

“Well, ladies,” she declared, beaming around the table, “we shall leave the gentlemen to their port and their business. Come - the drawing room awaits us!”

There was a general rising and soft chorus of agreement. Elizabeth stood with the others, her hand tightening slightly against the back of her chair .

She did not look at Mr Darcy - could not bring herself to - but she felt the moment like a thread being pulled taut.

She was not ready to leave him.

And yet she must.

With steady bearing, she followed the other ladies from the room, her steps measured, her chin lifted. But her heart lingered - caught in the warmth of the glance they’d shared, the ease of conversation, the silent understanding that had passed between them.

And when the dining room doors closed behind her, it felt like something delicate had been quietly sealed away.

She moved with the others, aware of every echoing footstep, every rustle of fabric, every quiet murmur that did not come from him.

Only when they were seated again in the drawing room did she realise how tightly she was holding her fan.

Mr Darcy had been everything she ought to have noticed from the start - steady, thoughtful, quiet in his care. Not the man in Mr Wickham’s tale at all.

She swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the fire.

How could a man so attentive to her sisters, so gentle with Jane, so quietly protective of her - how could he be the same man who had callously wronged another, as Wickham had claimed?

He could not. She knew it now, with the kind of certainty that settled deep and unshakable in her chest.

And the time she had asked for - time to think, to sort her feelings - suddenly felt unnecessary.

She knew. She had known, perhaps, the moment she’d taken his arm at the door.

Now she only had to find the courage to act on it.

The drawing room was warm and gently lit, the fire casting a soft glow across polished furniture and familiar faces. The ladies had resumed their seats - some with tea, others murmuring over music or fashion - and polite conversation flowed softly around Elizabeth.

She sat among them, her cup cooling in her hand, her gaze drawn again and again to the doorway.

The gentlemen had not yet come.

She scarcely heard Miss Bingley’s languid observation about the London winter season, or Mrs Hurst’s remark about lace. Even Lydia’s whispers about officers and the upcoming ball could not distract her.

Her thoughts were fixed on only one thing: the man who had not yet walked through that door.

Had her father detained him? Had something gone wrong?

She had told Mr Darcy she needed time. Now she knew - quietly, unmistakably - that she did not.

No more doubts, no more weighing of impressions. He had shown her who he truly was - steady, thoughtful, honourable. In every glance and gesture, in every careful word, he had made plain his regard. And she longed to tell him that she had seen it. That she understood.

That she felt it, too.

But the doorway remained empty.

Elizabeth forced herself to turn her head, to meet Jane’s calm gaze and offer the ghost of a smile. But her mind was still in the hall - listening for footsteps, a voice, any sign that he was near.

Let him come, and let there be a moment - just one - before the evening slipped beyond reach.