Page 29 of The Power of Refusal

D arcy approached St George’s Church on foot, the crisp morning air invigorating his senses. The sun’s golden rays bathed the elegant Georgian architecture in a warm glow. Its towering steeple reached towards the heavens, a beacon amidst the bustling city.

As he drew nearer, Darcy’s eyes traced the tall, arched windows that allowed natural light to flood the interior. It was a handsome building. One that had seen many important events in his life.

St George’s Church had been the scene of significant alterations in Darcy’s life, each memory etched into the very fabric of his being. As he stood in the quiet sanctuary, the weight of the past and the long, empty future mingled in his heart. Memories flooded Darcy’s mind.

Georgiana’s wedding. The church adorned with fragrant flowers and filled with the joyous voices of well-wishers. His sister’s face radiating happiness and love as she exchanged vows with her husband. The memory warmed his heart, a bittersweet reminder of the love and companionship he had once hoped to share with Elizabeth.

His thoughts turned to his own quiet ceremony with Hattie. The service had been peaceful and solemn. Candlelight cast a gentle warmth over their joined hands, his strong and large, hers frail and pallid. He recalled the whispered prayers and the weight of their shared commitment with both gratification and grief. Whilst he had bound his life together with Hattie in the eyes of God, his heart had remained detached. He cared for her as a sister, a dear friend. Her loss stung, but it was an entirely different pain than that which Elizabeth’s marriage had wrought.

As Darcy stepped through the entrance, the coolness of the church made a stark contrast to the warmth of the sun outside. The soft murmur of hushed conversations and the gentle rustling of skirts against the stone floor echoed.

After spending the previous evening in company with Elizabeth, he was certain she wished to keep a distance between them. Her blushes at his indiscreet regard, her lack of usual wit, all gave him the impression of some discomfort in his presence. Did she perhaps regret her refusal those years back? Might she be unhappy in her marriage? Did it matter? His preoccupation with the topic caused him to think he might best avoid the requested visit to Lockwood if Mrs Couper was planning to stay some weeks there. Once she returned to her husband and parish, he might consider it, if only to strengthen his ties with Bingley.

The Bingley carriage arrived. Bingley handed down his wife, his adoring expression as intent as ever. Darcy’s muscles tightened with anticipation. Bingley assisted Elizabeth to the

pavement, a teasing smile given, and returned. Sheltered by an ionic column, Darcy indulged his need to stare relentlessly at another man’s wife. The years had not dimmed Elizabeth’s appeal.

The party entered the church, heading to the sacristy to meet with the reverend. Mr Theodore Thatcher, cousin to Bingley, would stand as the required third godparent. Mrs Couper was to be godmother.

Baby Peter was dressed in a long, lacy gown, which did not appear to be to his taste. He squirmed and fussed in his mother’s arms until Bingley took the child to relieve her. As theparson began the service; Peter was shifted into Elizabeth’s arms. As she embraced the young baby with an expression of love, Darcy’s breath caught in his throat, his heart stuttering at the sight before him. Time seemed to slow as he watched Elizabeth sway gently, her natural grace and tenderness clear in every movement. The sunlight streaming through the windows cast a warm glow over her, bathing her in an almost ethereal light.

As if sensing his presence, Elizabeth turned, her eyes meeting his across the expanse of the church. A jolt of electricity coursed through his body. The intensity of her gaze pierced his very soul. In that moment, the world around him faded away, leaving only the two of them connected by a bond that defied explanation.

Darcy’s eyes drifted to the baby nestled in her arms, a wave of emotions crashing over him. The innocent beauty of the child, combined with the radiant love in Elizabeth’s eyes, stirred something deep within him. A longing, a yearning for a future lost forever.

He watched as Elizabeth’s lips curved into a gentle smile, her eyes sparkling with warmth and affection. She took a step towards him; the baby settled peacefully in her arms. Darcy’s heart swelled with a feeling he had not experienced in years. A mixture of hope, admiration, and a love so profound threatened to consume him.

As Elizabeth drew closer, Darcy moved towards her, drawn by an invisible force. He halted himself, stopped by both the sacred space and the piercing pain of his recollection she belonged to another. The sight of her, so natural and nurturing with little Peter, reawakened a desire within him to create a family of his own, to share his life with the woman who had captured his heart so completely. As they stood face to face, mere inches apart, Darcy’s voice was barely a whisper, his words filled with reverence and adoration. “Elizabeth,” he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips, too quiet for her to hear. He inhaled deeply, a grimace passing across his face, then resumed a stoic mask.

Darcy listened with half an ear to the service. He recalled he was required to speak at some point, but for now, he wanted nothing more than to drink in the charming picture that was Elizabeth. She wore a lighter coloured gown, more flattering and less severe than what he had seen her wear of late. Perhaps it had been her wedding dress? He banished that thought at once. How he longed for the privilege of dressing her in elegant silks and snatching that infernal cap from her beautiful hair. Watching Elizabeth capably managing the active infant moved him unaccountably. Perhaps it was his long dream of Elizabeth as the mother of his own children. He knew his expression might betray him and again straightened into a mask.

DOST thou, in the name of this Child, renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of the same, and the sinful desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow, nor be led by them?

Darcy was taken aback. Were those words directed at him? He could not deny he had been on the verge of contemplating some sinful desires of the flesh. He must concentrate on the ceremony. He recited his responses as required, looking only at Peter or the parson, to minimise any covetous desires that might cross his mind.

The parson took the baby from Elizabeth’s arms, saying, “Name this child.”

Elizabeth’s voice was firm, his and Mr Thatcher’s less so. Elizabeth trained her eyes on the baby, an expression of trepidation on her face as the parson awkwardly dipped the child

toward the baptismal font. The parson splashed an ewer of water over Peter’s face as he prayed the words of baptism.

Peter made his objection known forcefully. The parson shifted the baby back to his godmother with alacrity, as he competed with the baby to be heard. By the time the parson completed the prayers, Peter was whimpering calmly into the damp shoulder of Mrs Couper. Darcy could hear her quiet humming to the child. Against his self-interest, he wished her to have children with Mr Couper. She was born to be a most excellent, loving mother.

At the conclusion, Elizabeth handed Peter to Jane. Along with Darcy and Mr Thatcher, she walked to the church registry after the parson. Darcy followed Elizabeth, walking as close to her as was feasible whilst admiring her country gait and the shapely figure discernible in her gown.

The parson fussed with the registry books, taking out an old and a new book, explaining that “Rose’s law” had recently required a more detailed record of baptisms. He took the information from Mrs Couper, then handed her the quill to sign her name. She stepped back. Mr Thatcher signed next, then handed him the pen. Darcy leant over the book, inscribing his name with the rather dull pen beneath Peter’s information. He glanced over the record and names. He gasped as he rose. His heartbeat sped up. Above Mr Thatcher’s scrawl, in a neat feminine hand, was written “Elizabeth Bennet.”

∞∞∞

Jane climbed into the carriage whilst Elizabeth held Peter, Charles being occupied with paying the parson. Elizabeth had just handed the little wiggling bundle of lace to Jane when she heard her name.

“Miss Bennet!” It was Mr Darcy. He rushed towards the carriage. When she turned and acknowledged him, his face broke into a most magnificent smile. Elizabeth took in a breath, her knees weakening.

“Miss Bennet,” he said again as he came directly before her. His tone was questioning.

“Yes, Mr Darcy?” she said.

His brilliant smile enlarged, his entire face showing unmitigated delight. Elizabeth’s stomach flipped. Darcy’s remarkably pleasing countenance was most striking, with his features illuminated by his rare smile. His eyes sparkled with intelligence and kindness, drawing her in with their warmth

“No, yes, I—” he stuttered. His forehead creased, then cleared. “Do you return to Longbourn?” he asked, his brows raised.

“I do not. I have been away from Longbourn these several years. I will return to Lockwood. Jane and Charles are kind enough to put up with me.”

“Lockwood,” he repeated, his face alight again as though she had told him the most wonderful news.

“Yes,” she said, looking at him curiously. Whatever was he about?

He stood, gazing at her for some moments, until the oddity of the situation grew uncomfortable. Elizabeth shifted to enter the carriage.

Darcy reached for her hand to assist her. He beamed at her as she stepped forward. Once she sat, he continued to hold her hand with perhaps more pressure than was warranted. Elizabeth raised her brows and was about to remove her hand when Mr Darcy drew it to his lips and kissed it tenderly.

“Oh,” Elizabeth said with a gasp. A tingle of warmth ran from her hand up her arm. Her heart was pounding. Mr Darcy had been so withdrawn, so distant in company the few times they had met, but today he was quite forward.

Charles approached the carriage and Darcy released Elizabeth’s hand.

“Thank you, Darcy. You honour us and our little mite by sponsoring him. I do hope we will see you again soon,” Bingley said as he shook Darcy’s hand.

“I look forward to it, Bingley. I will stop at Lockwood when I travel to Pemberley. Do tell me when it would be convenient for me to arrive.”

“Any time at all, any time, is convenient. We would be happy to have you,” Charles replied, his brows lifted in surprise.

Darcy doffed his hat and bowed formally. “I wish you safe travels,” he said. His eyes were only on Elizabeth. “I hope to see you very soon ,” he said. His tender expression was all for her, she was certain of it.

The footman secured the door and climbed to the back of the coach. As Elizabeth settled into the plush velvet cushions of the carriage, her mind raced with the unexpected encounter. The warmth of Mr Darcy’s hand lingered on her skin, the sensation of his lips brushing against her knuckles sending a shiver down her spine. She could still feel the intensity of his gaze, his eyes boring into hers with an emotion she dared not name. The distance she had sensed between them had suddenly melted away.

The carriage jolted forward, the rhythmic clatter of the horses’ hooves against the cobblestone streets filling the air. Elizabeth’s heart pounded in her chest, the sensation rendering her silent as she replayed the moment over and over in her mind. Mr Darcy’s behaviour had been so uncharacteristic, so far removed from the aloof and distant gentleman she had recently come to know again. She glanced out the window, watching the bustling streets of London pass by in a blur. The sun’s rays filtered through the glass, casting a warm glow on her face. Standing before the church, Mr Darcy remained stationary, watching them drive away until she could no longer see him.

Jane smiled at Elizabeth as she soothed Peter to sleep. “What amuses you so?” Elizabeth asked.

“Not a thing, Lizzy.” Jane said. Elizabeth gave her a pointed look.

“Your cheeks are flushed,” Jane observed.

Elizabeth raised her hand and touched the warmth of her face. “Yes, they are. I hope I am not falling ill,” she said.

Jane chuckled. “Lovesick, perhaps?”

“What are you about, Jane?” Elizabeth asked. Charles smiled, his eyes meeting Jane’s. “That was an interesting farewell. Do you not think so, Charles?” Jane asked.

Charles’s cheerful tone was a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions swirling within Elizabeth. “Well, it was a pleasant surprise, was it not? Darcy seems quite taken with little Peter. And with you, my dear sister,” he added with a mischievous look.

Elizabeth knew a blush was creeping down her neck, her cheeks growing warm at her brother-in-law’s insinuation. She forced a smile, her voice steady as she replied, “Mr Darcy was very kind to sponsor Peter. I am sure he was expressing his gratitude for being included in such a momentous occasion.”

Charles chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Of course, of course. But I must say, Darcy now seems quite eager to visit Lockwood. Determined to see you again, Lizzy?”

Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat at the thought, her mind racing with possibilities. Could it be that Mr Darcy still had feelings for her? Had the years apart not driven her from his heart?

She shook her head, pushing the thoughts aside. It would not do to dwell on such fanciful notions. Mr Darcy was a gentleman of great consequence, and she was but a country spinster with little to recommend her. No longer a pert twenty-year-old, she was closer to thirty and firmly on the shelf. “Maiden aunt” was her role and her title, hardly a desirable prospect for a man of Mr Darcy’s consequence. He had been married to a lady of nobility! Still, the memory of his touch lingered, a tantalising reminder of what would never be.

As the carriage wound its way through the streets of London, Elizabeth foundered in a sea of conflicting emotions. Hope and doubt, longing and fear, all warred within her, threatening to overwhelm her carefully constructed composure. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus on the present moment, on the joy of returning to Lockwood and the comfort of her sister’s company.

But even as she tried to push thoughts of Mr Darcy from her mind, Elizabeth knew the memory of their encounter would stay with her. How had he changed from the distant, formal visitor to this warm, open admirer? Or was she afloat in a froth of wishful thinking?

Jane spoke to Bingley, shattering Elizabeth’s sense that the meeting was remarkable only to her. “Do you suppose I ought to arrange with Mrs Cobb to prepare a guest suite at once?” Her expression was teasing, her eyes looking at Elizabeth with mirth.

“I do. I expect we will have a guest at Lockwood quite soon. The other evening I was uncertain, despite your opinion, Jane. But today seals it for me. I do not believe I have ever seen Darcy thus. He is quite in your power, Lizzy,” Charles said.

Elizabeth’s hand trembled. She hummed a noncommittal reply. She could not trust her voice to answer. Her throat was oddly tight, and she knew her cheeks were burning. Mr Darcy had nearly ignored her—aside from looking at her rather often, as usual. Not until the very moment of their departure had he so much as addressed her by name. She had been certain he had long forgotten his ardent love and admiration until she saw that smile. And that kiss on her hand. Whatever had happened, she felt hope as she had scarcely ever allowed herself to hope before.

∞∞∞

Darcy stood at the window of the study in his seldom-visited property in Colchester. His gaze fixed on the distant horizon. He struggled to quell the rising tide of resentment that threatened to overwhelm him. The sun was setting, casting a warm golden glow over the rolling hills and verdant fields. The beauty of the landscape did little to soothe his troubled mind.

He was well aware of his privileged position, of the vast array of tenants and servants who relied on his dutiful attention to their welfare. He had always borne the burden with pride. But on this day, with the prospect of seeing Elizabeth Bennet, free and unmarried, so tantalisingly close, his responsibilities weighed heavier than ever. He had suffered, alone and unhappy, for so many years thinking she was lost to him. Now, when at last there was hope for happiness, he was entangled in endless responsibilities.

Darcy’s fingers ran along the edge of the window frame, the smooth wood cool beneath his palm. He drew in a deep breath. He had addressed the immediate need to replace the negligent Colchester steward. A new tenant had been secured to occupy the residence. The unexpected demand to travel to this minor holding had irritated him. Nonetheless, he ensured every aspect of this estate was running smoothly.

Images of Elizabeth filled his mind. Her sparkling eyes and quick wit, the way her presence had always seemed to light up any room she entered, filled his thoughts. The memory of their last encounter, of the tenderness in her gaze and the warmth of her hand, sent a shiver down his spine. His longing was so profound it left him breathless.

Darcy closed his eyes, his brow furrowed as he tried to push aside the selfish desires warring within him. He had a duty to his people, to the lands entrusted to his care. He could not abandon his responsibilities, no matter how much his heart yearned for the woman he loved.

The thought of seeing her again, of hearing her voice and basking in her presence, was a siren call he could not resist. He had waited so long, had endured so much, and now the possibility of a future with Elizabeth was within his grasp.

Darcy’s jaw clenched. His resolve hardened as he decided. He had done enough. He would go to her and lay his heart at her feet and pray she would accept him, flaws and all. Somehow it could be done without neglect of his duties. There must be a way to balance his responsibilities with his deepest desires.

With a final, lingering look at the setting sun, Darcy turned away from the window. It would have to be enough. He strode purposefully towards the door. There was much to be done, arrangements to be made, and letters to be written.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth was fond of the quiet, rolling hills around Lockwood. The landscape was different to her old haunts at Longbourn, but nonetheless inviting, and the grounds allowed Elizabeth to indulge in her long walks whilst rarely being far from the house. When she first arrived, a maid had been sent to accompany her, but after a few returned to the house perspiring and exhausted, Charles recruited a footman.

Elizabeth inhaled deeply, the crisp morning air filling her lungs as she set out on her daily walk. The sun’s gentle rays caressed her face, warming her skin. A golden glow gleamed over the lush, green landscape. Lockwood stretched out before her, a patchwork of vibrant colours and textures that seemed to dance in the gentle breeze.

As she walked, the soft rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds filled her ears.

She tried to calm her racing thoughts. With each step, the tension in her body eased. The rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath her feet and the occasional snapping of twigs punctuated the quiet.

As she rounded a bend in the path, Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted, as always, to Mr Darcy, who had so unexpectedly re-entered her life. The memory of his tender gaze and the warmth of his touch still lingered. She wondered if his feelings for her had truly never changed. Did a man not forget sooner than woman? Surely his love had an earlier death.

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed as she grappled with the conflicting emotions within her. The hope that blossomed in her chest was tempered by the fear of disappointment. The knowledge that she had once so thoroughly misjudged his character caused self-doubt. Could it be that he still cared for her, despite the pain she had caused him and the passage of so many years? It had been over a month since he had told Charles he would visit “very soon.” Had his intense gaze and tender gesture been in her imagination?

She paused at the crest of a hill, her chest heaving with exertion as she took in the breathtaking view. The sun- dappled fields and the meandering stream seemed to stretch out infinitely before her. Elizabeth closed her eyes, allowing the gentle breeze to caress her face and tug at her bonnet.

In the solitude of the moment, she allowed herself to imagine a future where Mr Darcy’s arrival at Lockwood would bring with it the promise of a second chance. She pictured his eyes lighting up at the sight of her, the warmth of his smile as he took her hand in his. The thought sent a flutter of anticipation through her. She savoured a moment of giddy excitement she had not permitted herself in years.

But even as she indulged in her daydreams, Elizabeth knew she must temper her expectations. There was no guarantee Mr Darcy’s feelings for her had remained unchanged. She had to be prepared for the possibility his visit to Lockwood would be nothing more than a polite gesture, a courtesy extended to his friend’s family.

With a sigh, Elizabeth opened her eyes. She turned to make her way back towards the house. Robert, a footman whose longer legs and steady pace made him a more suitable companion for Elizabeth’s vigorous walks, shadowed her at a polite distance. His presence kept Elizabeth from surrendering to the tears that threatened to overtake her.

Elizabeth’s hopes had begun to waver. Charles had mentioned a letter proposing Darcy’s arrival the previous week, provided nothing caused him to delay in town. But then a brief note had followed, putting his visit off for a fortnight.

The news had hit Elizabeth like a physical blow, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her disappointment. Had she imagined his interest? The rational part of her mind tried to reassure her that business might delay a gentleman, even if he wished otherwise. Another, more insidious voice, whispered that a man of his standing, a widower of a lady of noble birth, would have no interest in a confirmed spinster whose only fortune was the shillings she earned from her drawings.

As they neared the house, Elizabeth’s mind turned to the preparation for Mr Darcy’s possible arrival. The guest room would need to be aired out, fresh linens placed on the bed, and the kitchen alerted to the need for additional provisions. She would speak with Jane about the menu, ensuring their guest would be well-fed and comfortable during his stay. As long as his preferences had not changed, she would request dishes she recalled him favouring. Jane was caught up in the care of Peter, leaving such mundane matters in Elizabeth’s hands.

Even as she immersed herself in the practicalities of his visit, Elizabeth sensed something momentous was on the horizon. Would it be the promise of a second chance or the bitter sting of final disappointment?

Elizabeth stood in the doorway of the guest suite, her fingers drumming against the frame. She surveyed the room, inhaling the faint scent of lavender.

Sarah was freshening the flowers, coming up the stairs moments later, slightly out of breath. Elizabeth stepped into the room, running her hand over the polished dresser. “It has been six weeks,” she murmured.

“Shall I refresh the linens once more?” Sarah inquired.

“No, I—” Elizabeth paused, her eyes falling on the stack of books by the bed. “I am sure they are fine. Please just ensure the flowers are fresh, thank you.”

Sarah nodded, arranging the flowers. A carefully selected stack of books from Elizabeth’s own small collection sat ready on the bedside table. The room was a picture of elegance and comfort, a haven that would surely impress even the most discerning of guests. Elizabeth checked the room daily, to ensure it was in perfect order for the arrival of Mr Darcy. Yet he did not arrive. She closed the door with a quiet click.

In her little parlour done up in blue and saffron, Jane poured the tea, her movements deliberate. “We must consider your departure for Alton, Lizzy. Mary will need your support soon.”

“I know.” Elizabeth sighed, accepting a cup. “It will be a different experience, since Mr Couper’s mother has passed away.”

A knock at the door interrupted her. Sarah entered, curtseying. “Begging your pardon, Miss Elizabeth, Mrs Bingley. A letter has arrived from Mrs Couper.”

Elizabeth took the letter, breaking the seal with trembling fingers. Her eyes scanned the contents swiftly.

“Mary writes that her midwife anticipates the child’s arrival within the month,” Elizabeth reported, looking up at Jane.

Jane nodded solemnly. “Then we must act according to our plan. Shall you depart for Alton in a fortnight?”

“I shall. And what of Mama?” Elizabeth asked, her brow furrowed.

“I shall inform her that you go to assist Mary with household matters,” Jane replied. “We agreed ’twas best not to alarm her. Mary will keep her away for as long as may be.”

Elizabeth set down her teacup with a soft clink. “Indeed. We all recall her hectoring after your confinement. Poor Mary need not endure such... enthusiastic attention.”

“It is settled then,” Jane said, reaching for her sister’s hand. “Though I know you had hoped Mr Darcy might arrive before your departure.”

Elizabeth squeezed Jane’s hand, forcing a smile. “Duty must come before personal wishes. I shall write to Mary this evening, confirming my plan.”

As Elizabeth moved to her writing desk, she cast one last glance out the window. The road remained empty, carrying neither dust nor hope of Mr Darcy’s approach.

At dinner, Elizabeth was grateful when Charles raised the subject that had been consuming her thoughts. She listened intently as he spoke, her fork poised halfway to her mouth.

“Darcy wrote again,” he said, his eyes fixed on the platter the footman held before him. “It is a note from an inn. He has travelled to a small estate he holds near Colchester to attend to some business. He expects to be to Lockwood within the week.” He served Jane a rather larger portion of fish than she wished, and she held up her hand to tell him to stop.

“I will have you eat, Jane. You are far too worn out looking after Peter. Why, you barely rested today whilst he napped.” Charles’s tone was warm and affectionate, but there was steel behind it. His care of Jane was formidable.

The couple engaged in some back and forth over his “coddling” and her “neglect of herself,” whilst Elizabeth pondered. Her heart leapt at the news Darcy had written, and her mind wandered. Her eyes fixed on nothing; her mind filled with imagining Mr Darcy at the table with them. The thought of his presence filled her with a crackling energy that set her nerves on fire. But the delay in his arrival had done nothing to bolster her confidence.

In her mind’s eye, Elizabeth saw Mr Darcy as he had been that last morning, his eyes filled with a tenderness that had stolen her breath. But doubt crept in, insidious and unrelenting. Perhaps she had been mistaken, perhaps some lady of the ton had caught his eye and drawn forth that devastating smile. The delay in his arrival had done nothing for her confidence. His marriage had undermined her hopes quite thoroughly. If he could marry another, he must have been quite over his tendre for her.

And yet. His look that last morning had been one of a man besotted.

The sound of laughter brought Elizabeth back to the present. Her cheeks flushed as she realised Charles and Jane were both struggling to contain their mirth. Their eyes darted between her and one another. Their faces were alight with a knowing amusement that only served to deepen her embarrassment.

She smiled and shook her head, joining in their laughter with a rueful expression. The dinner continued, the conversation flowing around her in a pleasant hum.

At the small writing table in her bedchamber at Lockwood, the warm glow of the candle cast a soft light over the array of papers and drawing implements spread out before her. The room was quiet, save for the gentle scratching of her pencil against the smooth surface of the paper and the distant sounds of the household settling in for the night.

A new set of fashion illustrations for her uncle’s warehouse had consumed her waking hours and provided a welcome distraction from the longing that had taken root in her heart. As she sketched, her mind wandered to Mr Darcy, yet again.

Elizabeth’s pencil moved deftly across the page, the lines and curves taking shape beneath her fingers as she lost herself in the memory of their last encounter. As she worked, Elizabeth again pondered whether Mr Darcy would indeed arrive at Lockwood. She pictured them walking through the gardens together; the path disappearing beneath their feet as they talked and laughed. She longed for an easy camaraderie, a blossoming friendship. She could not yet bear to hope for something deeper, more profound.

Lost in her reverie, Elizabeth’s hand moved almost of its own accord, the pencil sketching a familiar figure onto the page. The broad shoulders, the strong jawline, the penetrating eyes that seemed to see straight into her soul. It was Mr Darcy, captured in exquisite detail, his expression one of tender affection and barely restrained longing.

Elizabeth stared down at the sketch, her heart racing as she took in the likeness she had created. His presence was so real, so tangible, that she could almost reach out and touch him. She traced the lines of his face with a trembling finger, the paper smooth, a poor substitute for the warmth of his skin.

A sudden knock at the door startled Elizabeth from her musings, the pencil clattering to the desk as she jumped in surprise. She hastily covered the sketch with a blank sheet of paper, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment at the thought of being caught in such a private moment.

“Come in,” she called, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart.

Jane had a question about the menu for the next day, which brought Elizabeth back to earth. She smiled, her composure restored as she rose from the desk. Elizabeth knew she would have to tuck her latest sketch away, to keep it hidden from prying eyes and curious questions. But for now, she allowed herself a moment to savour the image. She allowed herself a moment to hope that someday, somehow, Mr Darcy would find his way back to her.