Chapter 18 #2
“My stepmother and my sister visit yearly, around Easter, and I join them when I can.” He hesitated. “You bear a resemblance to her, Miss Elizabeth. Not in manner—Heaven forbid—but in features. The same carriage of the head. The same coloring of hair and eyes.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “I am not sure whether to thank you or protest.”
“I intend it as a compliment,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Though I imagine Lady Catherine would consider the comparison entirely in her favor.”
“And her family?” Elizabeth prompted.
“She has a stepdaughter, Anne,” Darcy replied, his tone shifting. “A quiet young woman. Very fragile in spirit. She finds it impossible to leave home. Even stepping beyond the front door causes her great distress.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened at once. “That must be very hard for her.”
“It is,” Darcy agreed. “My aunt means well, in her fashion, but she believes determination alone can cure all things. Anne does not share that belief. She is most at ease when the world is kept small.”
Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. “Safety is not always found where others expect it to be.”
Darcy glanced at her, struck again by how readily she understood what he had not even said aloud. As they continued their walk, he was keenly aware that this extra day—this unexpected reprieve—felt less like indulgence and more like necessity. He only hoped he was wise enough not to waste it.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth told herself, more than once, that the day meant nothing.
Mr. Darcy had been attentive—thoughtfully, steadily attentive—in a way that made the hours pass with alarming ease.
He anticipated her wishes, fell into step beside her without effort, and listened as though her observations were worth the keeping.
She laughed more than she intended. She found herself watching his expressions when he was not looking at her.
And each time she caught herself doing so, she scolded her own foolishness.
It was entirely possible, she reminded herself sternly, that he was merely being polite. Or bored. Or that he considered her only a pleasant companion, a friend to fill the hours while circumstances kept her at Netherfield. To assume more would be vanity of the worst sort.
Do not let your heart become engaged, Lizzy, she warned herself. Not so easily. Not so soon.
If nothing else, she was grateful that Caroline Bingley seemed to have vanished for most of the day, whether by design or divine mercy. The quiet absence made everything lighter.
That illusion did not last.
After dinner, when the gentlemen withdrew to their port and the ladies remained behind, Caroline appeared as though summoned by the scent of contentment. She seated herself at the pianoforte with an air of bored indulgence and turned sharp eyes upon Elizabeth.
“Perhaps you would play for us, Miss Elizabeth,” she said with saccharine sweetness. “It is your last evening here, after all.”
Elizabeth complied without comment, seating herself and playing a familiar piece with calm precision. When she finished, Caroline gave a small, measured clap.
“Well done, considering” she said. “One would hardly expect such execution from someone so clearly untaught. One of the pities of being in the country, I daresay.”
Elizabeth’s fingers paused on the keys.
“I imagine,” Caroline continued lightly, “that when one grows up in a household as lively as Longbourn, one must seize whatever scraps of refinement present themselves. There can be little time for masters when there are so many sisters to manage, and so many relations in trade clamoring for attention.”
The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate.
Elizabeth turned on the bench, her expression composed, though her eyes had cooled considerably. She opened her mouth—
Elizabeth had just drawn breath to reply when another voice—soft, uncertain, but unmistakably firm—interrupted.
“That will be enough, Caroline.”
All heads turned.
Mrs. Hurst sat rigidly upright, her hands clenched together in her lap. Her cheeks were pale, but her eyes did not waver. “You will hold your tongue,” she continued, her voice trembling despite herself, “or there will be consequences.”
Caroline laughed sharply. “Do not be absurd, Louisa.”
Mrs. Hurst swallowed. “If Charles decides to cut you off, you must not imagine that you may take refuge in my household. I will not invite that upon my marriage.”
The room went utterly still.
Caroline stared at her sister in astonishment, then turned indignant. Mrs. Hurst’s gaze flicked helplessly toward Elizabeth—pleading, uncertain—and Elizabeth met it with a warm smile and a small nod of encouragement.
Mrs. Hurst straightened as though braced by it. “Perhaps,” she said, more steadily now, “you should go to your room before Charles hears all that you are saying.”
Rising in a fury, Miss Bingley muttered something unintelligible, and swept from the room.
The moment the door closed, Mrs. Hurst sagged back into her chair, breathless. Jane was at her side at once, murmuring gentle reassurances and taking her hand. Elizabeth leaned over and said quietly, “Well done.”
Mrs. Hurst gave a shaky smile, half proud and half terrified.
When the gentlemen returned, Bingley glanced about the room. “Where is Caroline?”
There was a brief, meaningful exchange of looks among the ladies before Mrs. Hurst lifted her chin. “I told her to retire to her room.”
Mr. Hurst’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but after a moment he moved to sit beside his wife, placing a hand over hers with unmistakable approval.
Jane settled near the fire with Bingley, their conversation low and warm. Darcy took the seat beside Elizabeth, and for a moment neither of them spoke—only smiled, as though the quiet itself were something to be savored.
The remainder of the evening unfolded with an ease that felt almost unreal. Conversation drifted easily among them, intimate and unforced, laughter soft and frequent. Elizabeth was keenly aware of Darcy’s presence at her side, of the way he angled toward her when she spoke, of how natural it felt.
None of them wished for the night to end.
But the hall clock chimed, once, then again, and at last struck midnight. With reluctance and lingering smiles, they rose and bid one another good night.
As Elizabeth climbed the stairs, her heart was lighter than it had any right to be—and despite every sensible warning she had given herself, she suspected she would dream only of him.
∞∞∞
Darcy rose earlier than was his habit, the pale light barely touching the windows when he dressed for church.
He had slept little, though not for want of peace.
His thoughts had simply refused to be ordered, circling again and again around Elizabeth Bennet with a persistence that was both disconcerting and—if he were honest—entirely welcome.
What sleep he had managed brought with it a dream so vivid it lingered even as he tied his cravat.
Elizabeth stood in the drawing room at Pemberley, unflinching beneath Lord Matlock’s scrutiny.
She spoke calmly, firmly, with a composure that brooked no nonsense and no tyranny.
Georgiana sat nearby, no longer shrinking, her eyes bright with confidence.
And Lady Anne—his steady, gentle stepmother—watched with quiet hope.
The image struck deeper than mere fancy.
For years, Darcy had carried an unspoken unease: that if anything were to happen to him, those he loved would be left to the mercies of relations who did not always temper authority with kindness.
He trusted Lady Anne implicitly, but she was young and gentle.
Georgiana would always need someone to stand between her and the world’s harsher demands.
The Fitzwilliams would claim the right to do so—but rights were not always exercised with wisdom.
Elizabeth, he thought, would never yield simply because she was expected to. She would listen, weigh, and then decide. She would protect fiercely and without apology.
The realization settled upon him with quiet certainty.
By the time he descended the stairs, his course was clear. He would not leave Hertfordshire without securing permission to call upon her properly. To court her. The thought sent an unfamiliar quickening through his chest—not dread, but resolve.
They arrived at church together, the Bennets and the Netherfield party forming a loose cluster near the entrance.
Darcy fell into step beside Elizabeth with ease that would have astonished him only days before.
Jane looked well enough to attend, though wrapped warmly, and Bingley hovered with undisguised concern.
Darcy waited until Elizabeth’s attention was his alone.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “may I request the honor of calling upon you at Longbourn? I should like to do so with your permission—and your father’s.”
She looked up at him, surprise flashing first, then something warmer, steadier. Her smile was not coy nor calculating, but sincere.
“I should like that very much,” she replied.
The moment might have deepened further had Mrs. Bennet not descended upon them in a flutter of shawls and anxious exclamations, fretting over Jane’s exposure to the morning air and declaring it quite improper for anyone to be standing about when illness had so recently threatened the family.
Darcy stepped back instinctively, but Elizabeth’s glance met his again—amused, fond, and entirely unembarrassed.
That look remained with him throughout the service.
Miss Bingley’s whispered remarks and pointed sighs scarcely reached his awareness.
He found himself deaf to them, his attention fixed instead on the knowledge that the following morning he would ride to Longbourn—not as a guest of Netherfield, nor as a passing acquaintance, but as a man with intent.
For the first time in many years, the future did not feel like a duty to be endured.
It felt like something to be anticipated.