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Longbourn – Dining Room – Darcy

A s the last of the port was drained and the gentlemen began rising from their chairs, Mr Bennet stood and turned to Darcy with deliberate ease.

“Mr Darcy,” he said-not loudly, but with enough clarity for the others to hear-“would you join me a moment before we rejoin the ladies?”

There was a brief pause.

Darcy inclined his head at once. “Of course.”

Across the table, Bingley looked up sharply, his expression shifting from genial contentment to something more alert. His eyes moved from Mr Bennet to Darcy, and though he said nothing, a flicker of understanding passed between the two friends.

Mr Hurst, by contrast, remained fixed in his chair, preoccupied with the dregs of his port and entirely unmoved by the undercurrents around him.

Sir William Lucas and Mr Jones exchanged curious glances, but no one intruded as Mr Bennet gestured toward a quieter corner of the room near the tall windows.

The two men spoke in low voices. The conversation could not be overheard, but its purpose was unmistakable: the master of Longbourn was seeking clarity.

It was done without drama or spectacle, but with quiet gravity. And in doing so, Mr Bennet made it known-without embarrassment or exposure-that his daughter would not be left unprotected against rumour or disappointment.

When at last they crossed the room to join the rest, Mr Bennet’s face was as unreadable as ever. Darcy, by contrast, looked steady. Composed. Decided.

The murmurs resumed behind them as they passed through the doorway toward the drawing room-but the impression left behind lingered.

* * *

Longbourn – Drawing Room – Elizabeth

The fire had burned low by the time the sound of footsteps approached once more.

Elizabeth, seated with her sisters, Charlotte, and the Higgins girls near the hearth, had scarcely attended to the conversation around her. She had tried-made polite remarks, nodded where expected-but her gaze kept drifting toward the doorway.

Mr Darcy had not joined the other gentlemen at once.

She had noticed that much. And it had unsettled her more than she liked to admit.

Mrs Long’s nieces were whispering again, their ribbons bright, their voices low and breathless with speculation.

Jane sat beside Miss Bingley across the room, the conversation civil but tight-lipped.

Mrs Bennet had taken up a commanding post near the tea table and was overseeing Hill’s arrangement of the cups with visible satisfaction.

But Elizabeth saw none of it clearly. Her eyes were on the door.

And then-there he was.

Mr Darcy stepped into the room behind Mr Bennet, his expression unreadable. He paused just inside, his gaze sweeping the gathering before settling on her.

Elizabeth’s heart gave a small, reckless flutter.

He crossed the room with composure, unhurried but direct. Elizabeth stood before she quite realised it, her hands folding lightly before her.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his bow formal, his voice low.

“Mr Darcy.” Her curtsy was just as proper, but there was a brightness behind her eyes that had not been there before.

A pause.

“I hope,” he said quietly, “that you are not too weary this evening.”

“Not at all. I…” She hesitated, then lifted her chin. “In fact, I had hoped to speak with you.”

Something shifted in his gaze-caution giving way to quiet resolve.

“And I with you,” he said. Then, with a glance at the gathering around them, he added, just above a whisper, “May I call in the morning?”

Elizabeth felt her breath catch.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Please do.”

A flicker of warmth passed between them-unspoken, but understood.

Then the moment passed. He stepped back, the lines of his expression settling into composure once more, and moved to take a cup of coffee from Hill’s tray. Charlotte glanced at Elizabeth, her expression unreadable but kind.

Elizabeth sank back into her seat, her pulse quickening.

She had been waiting to speak with him.

And now, she did not need time. She needed only the morning.

“Cards, Mama?” called Lydia from the far end of the room, already tugging at a stack of chairs. “We must have four tables at least!”

Mr Bennet gave a dry smile and moved to assist in setting out the packs. Chairs scraped gently, voices rose and rearranged. Mr Darcy lingered near the hearth a moment longer before accepting a place at a whist table opposite Sir William Lucas.

Elizabeth took her seat beside Charlotte, but her thoughts were elsewhere-already reaching toward the morning.

The card tables had broken into scattered pairs and trios, the hands now half-played or abandoned altogether. Conversations had dwindled to comfortable murmurs; even Lydia, yawning behind her hand, was too tired to be mischievous.

Mr Hurst had dozed off in his chair not long after claiming he never played with odd numbers.

Mrs Long had already taken her leave with many thanks and a suspiciously triumphant look, her nieces trailing behind her in a flutter of ribbons and giggles.

Sir William bowed his way out next, declaring it “a most elegant and harmonious evening,” while Mr Phillips lingered at the sherry decanter until his wife tapped his elbow and firmly drew him away.

Charlotte had spoken little throughout the evening, but when she rose to leave, she sought Elizabeth’s hand in quiet parting. “We will talk soon,” she said softly, her expression unreadable.

Elizabeth nodded, pressing her friend’s fingers. “Yes. We will.”

Jane offered warm farewells at the door with the grace of a hostess born, while Mrs Bennet floated beside her, basking in satisfaction, already planning aloud for “a Christmas supper, perhaps.”

Mr Darcy remained near the window until the very end, the faintest furrow in his brow as though weighing the perfect moment to speak. But too many eyes remained upon them, too many smiles not quite hidden behind fans and teacups.

At last, he stepped toward Elizabeth.

“I shall call tomorrow,” he said simply, his voice low.

Elizabeth met his gaze, her answer quiet but certain. “Please do.”

He bowed and turned away just as Mr Bingley’s laughter rang out from the hallway - he had forgotten his gloves, which Jane retrieved with a blush and a smile.

In moments, the Netherfield party had departed, the sound of hooves and wheels echoing into the mist.

Elizabeth stood alone in the silence that followed, hands clasped before her.

And she was smiling.

Mrs Bennet sank into her chair with a sigh of deep satisfaction. “Well! I declare, I have never known a more successful evening. The roast was perfectly done - even Mr Darcy had a second helping! And Bingley beside Jane the whole time, did you see?”

Kitty and Lydia giggled, still flushed from the card tables. Mary straightened a pile of abandoned sheet music with exaggerated precision, clearly disapproving of the levity. Jane said nothing, only bent to adjust a cushion.

Mr Bennet, arms folded and gaze amused, murmured, “Between the soup and the spectacle, I cannot say which course was better served - though I regret Mr Collins was not here to compare it to the dinners at Rosings Park”

Elizabeth hid her smile behind her hand.

Lydia, flopping ungracefully into a chair, added, “At least we were spared one of his sermons about Lady Catherine’s four courses and superior puddings.”

“And her chimney-pieces,” Kitty added with a snort.

At that, even Mary gave a quiet huff of laughter.

But then Lydia leaned toward Elizabeth and said, too loudly, “Though I still do not see what Mr Darcy’s doing here at all.

If half what Mr Wickham said is true. I do not see why everyone’s pretending to like him just because he’s rich.

Mr Wickham says he’s proud and spiteful and ruined him for no reason at all-”

Elizabeth sat up straighter, lips parting to reply-

But Mrs Bennet cut her off.

“Lydia Bennet! That is quite enough nonsense,” she snapped. “Mr Darcy is a most respectable gentleman, and he has been very generous to this family - far more than anyone need expect! I will not have you repeating that man’s gossip at my supper table.”

Lydia blinked, taken aback. “But-Mama-”

“But me no buts. You may flutter about after officers if you must, but keep your voice down and your opinions to yourself. Heavens, what must Mr Darcy have thought, if he heard you babbling such things?”

A prickling silence followed.

Elizabeth stared at her mother in disbelief. So, too, did Jane - her eyes wide, her lips parted as though to speak, then thinking better of it. It was rare enough to hear their mother defend propriety, rarer still to hear her take Lydia to task.

Elizabeth had opened her mouth to speak, only to find herself pre-empted - and, unexpectedly, supported. The strangeness of it left her momentarily at a loss. Mrs Bennet was already fussing with her shawl, muttering about tea and the merits of well-mannered company.

Mr Bennet raised his glass again, murmuring, “Well said, my dear.”

Mrs Bennet sniffed. “I will not have it said we treated him rudely, not after all he’s done for our Lizzy. Such attentions! ”

Elizabeth, caught between gratitude and embarrassment, met Jane’s eyes across the room. Her sister’s smile was gentle, knowing - and just amused enough to ease the knot in Elizabeth’s chest.

“Come,” Jane said softly, touching Elizabeth’s arm, “let us go upstairs.”

The candles had burned low by the time Jane pushed the door open, her shawl slipping from her shoulders.

Elizabeth was already seated at the small dressing table, brushing out her hair with slow, absent strokes. Her eyes met Jane’s in the mirror, and for a moment, neither spoke.

Then Jane smiled - soft, curious. “You stayed behind a moment.”

Elizabeth set down her brush. “He said he would call tomorrow.”

Jane crossed the room and perched at the edge of the bed. “And are you glad of it?”

There was no teasing in her tone, only quiet affection.

Elizabeth gave a small, breathless laugh and turned toward her. “Yes. I think I am.”

Jane reached for her hand, giving it a light squeeze. “He was very attentive this evening.”

“And very steady,” Elizabeth murmured. “Not just to me - to Papa, to the others… even to Mama.”

Jane tilted her head. “He seemed very much himself.”

Elizabeth hesitated, then added softly, “And I - I think I was mistaken, before. About what I needed. About how much time I thought I required.”

There was a long pause.

Jane did not press. She only said, with a quiet certainty that settled between them like a blanket, “Then I hope tomorrow brings clarity.”

Elizabeth smiled, her heart turning over in her chest.

“I think it already has.”

* * *

Road to Netherfield – Carriage - Darcy

The mist had thickened by the time the Netherfield carriage turned onto the drive.

Inside, the air was damp with displaced warmth and faint perfume. Mrs Hurst was already half-asleep, her head tilted against the squabs, while Miss Bingley sat upright and tight-lipped beside her, her fan clutched too tightly in her gloved hand.

“I do not see,” she said at last, with a sharp little sniff, “why we must persist in such visits. Longbourn is hardly improved by candlelight, and the conversation is rarely what one might call refined.”

Darcy said nothing.

Miss Bingley pressed on, her voice low and clipped. “It is one thing for Charles to flatter Miss Bennet-she is, at least, modest. But really, I cannot imagine how Mr Darcy tolerates the noise-and the impertinence.”

Still, Darcy remained silent, staring out at the misted trees. A wheel jolted over a rut, sending a shiver through the coach.

“I suppose,” she added, her tone arch, “it is only gallant to attend when one has allowed such rumours to flourish.”

Darcy turned his head then, slowly. His expression was calm-too calm.

“Miss Bingley,” he said evenly, “I trust you are not suggesting that Miss Elizabeth is responsible for the neighbourhood’s gossip.”

Miss Bingley opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“No,” she said at last, her voice much smaller. “Of course not.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence.

Back at Netherfield, Bingley poured two glasses of port in the library and handed one to Darcy with a quiet smile.

“Well,” he said, settling into the chair opposite. “I do not know what Miss Bennet will say, but I think tonight was a start.”

Darcy studied the fire for a moment. “It was.”

Bingley took a thoughtful sip. “And you?”

Darcy did not look away from the fire. “I intend to speak with Miss Elizabeth tomorrow.”

Bingley’s smile deepened - warm, unguarded. He raised his glass.

“To the hope of being brothers-in-law in the new year.”

Darcy’s answering smile was small, but genuine. He touched his glass to Bingley’s.

“To hope,” he said.