Afternoon – Longbourn
T he Bennet household was not at all what Georgiana had expected.
She had pictured something quieter, perhaps more refined in the way her aunts might approve, symmetrical hedges, stiff upholstery, a drawing room where conversation tread carefully around decorum.
Instead, Longbourn was a place in motion, where laughter spilled through doorways, boots clattered in the hallway, and no one seemed especially inclined to sit still for long.
It was, in short, a house full of sisters.
Georgiana, raised in rooms where one was expected to sit prettily and speak only when sure of being correct, found it both alarming and, quite suddenly, utterly delightful.
Mrs. Bennet greeted their party with theatrical cheer, nearly smothering Mr. Bingley in effusive delight.
“Oh, Mr. Bingley, how very good of you to visit! And so kind to bring your distinguished friends!”
She fluttered toward Colonel Fitzwilliam next, her eyes alight with avid curiosity.
“And you, sir! A colonel, and the son of an earl, I hear! What an honour, to receive such company.”
Richard bowed with warm politeness, clearly unbothered by the scrutiny.
“The honour is ours, madam. And the company, I must say, far more charming than I was led to expect.”
Mrs. Bennet laughed with delighted alarm.
“Oh, Colonel! You are very good. I hope you will find much to amuse you in Hertfordshire.”
Her gaze passed briefly—pointedly—over William with only the faintest nod of acknowledgment.
It was a magnificent snub, all the more effective for being wrapped in a smile that stopped just short of civility.
Georgiana, watching with wide eyes, looked toward her brother.
He bore it, of course, with perfect composure.
Only a slight tightening at the corner of his mouth betrayed the tension beneath.
“Mr. Bennet!” Mrs. Bennet called over her shoulder.
“The gentlemen have arrived! Come and welcome them properly.”
From the hallway came the sound of measured footsteps, followed by the familiar figure of Mr. Bennet, book in hand, expression wry.
“Gentlemen,” he said with a half-smile.
“You find us in our usual state of domestic harmony, no more than two arguments and a single recitation of scripture so far today. A peaceful morning.”
He offered a brief nod to William and a quirk of the brow to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Then, catching his wife’s expectant eye, he added, “And now, having fulfilled my duties as host, I shall retreat once more to the sanctuary of silence.”
And with that, he disappeared back into his study.
But it was the daughters who interested Georgiana most.
Miss Elizabeth, who stood beside her elder sister with a posture of calm ease and bright eyes full of curiosity—was, of course, familiar by name and by letter.
But no letter could quite capture the aliveness of her, her quiet assurance, the way she seemed to notice everything.
Georgiana watched as her brother greeted her, and though his words were few, his gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than propriety dictated.
Miss Elizabeth did not blush.
She smiled. And Georgiana, who had never seen her brother undone by anything short of war, took note.
Beside her, Jane Bennet was gentleness personified.
When Mr. Bingley offered Miss Bennet the invitations to the upcoming ball at Netherfield, her whole face lit with something soft and startled, as though she still could not quite believe she had been chosen.
He asked for her first dance, and her supper dance.
She accepted with a smile so warm that Georgiana had to look away.
Her brother stepped forward then, clearing his throat.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said softly, “may I hope for the first dance?”
Miss Elizabeth’s brows lifted slightly—only slightly—and then she curtsied with a grace that made Georgiana ache with admiration.
“I would be honoured, Mr. Darcy.”
Her tone was light, but her eyes lingered, curious, still assessing.
Not disbelieving, not disdainful—but not assured either.
Georgiana could see it.
She wondered if her brother did.
A small, awkward silence followed, then:
“Excellent,” came the voice of Mr. Collins, who had hovered nearby like a footman awaiting orders .
He had turned slightly toward Miss Elizabeth when he spoke, and his expression flickered with confusion when she stepped aside with unmistakable finality—already spoken for.
His brow furrowed for a moment, as though trying to recalibrate some internal schedule.
“Then I shall apply for Cousin Mary’s first dance. It is only proper that clergymen lead by example in matters of form.”
He said this with the air of a man making the best of a baffling situation.
Miss Mary looked up from her book with a blink of surprise, then said, “I should be pleased, sir,” in a tone that might have passed for enthusiasm if one were feeling generous.
The room filled quickly with conversation, Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia whispering furiously over their shoulders, Colonel Fitzwilliam politely requesting a dance from each of the sisters in turn.
When he offered one to Miss Elizabeth, she accepted with a wry smile, adding, “But I warn you, Colonel, I am a notorious conversationalist.”
“I shall consider myself forewarned, and deeply fortunate,” he replied with a bow that made both younger Bennet girls sigh behind gloved hands.
Miss Elizabeth, seemingly unbothered by her sisters’ antics, turned to Georgiana with a spark of invitation in her voice.
“Miss Darcy—might I tempt you away for a walk? There is a path by the stream just beginning to show the first snowdrops. It is quiet there. Peaceful.”
Georgiana felt the flutter of nerves in her chest, but also something steadier beneath.
“I would like that very much,” she said, perhaps a touch too eagerly.
But Miss Elizabeth’s warm smile only deepened.
Behind them, Miss Bennet and Mr. Bingley exchanged a glance and murmured something agreeable about the weather, already drifting toward the open door in perfect step.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, overhearing mention of the outdoors, declared his intention to “supervise the mischief,” and was swiftly claimed by the two younger Bennet sisters, who clung to either side of him as they pelted him with questions about cavalry charges, musket drills, and whether he had ever dueled a French officer at dawn.
“Oh, certainly not at dawn,” Richard was saying, his voice rich with amusement.
“One prefers a respectable hour for these things. Say, after a hearty breakfast.”
The girls burst into delighted giggles.
“And swords?” Miss Lydia pressed.
“Have you ever fought with a sword?”
“Fought? No, no,” Richard said, raising a hand in mock horror.
“That sounds terribly dangerous. I have danced with a sword, though. Very dashing. Lots of dramatic flourishes. Quite distracting to the enemy.”
Miss Lydia practically squealed.
Georgiana, walking just ahead with Miss Elizabeth, smiled despite herself.
She knew these stories well enough, tales trimmed of their blood and chaos, repainted with charm for polite company.
Richard told them often, not to boast, but because he understood how to entertain his audience.
The younger Bennet sister hung on his every word like storybook heroines.
Only Mr. Collins and Miss Mary remained behind, absorbed in what sounded suspiciously like a debate over the moral implications of mild precipitation.
As they stepped into the cool morning air, Georgiana glanced back—almost unconsciously.
Her brother stood just behind, silent but present.
When he caught her eye, he offered only the smallest of nods.
She understood.
He was giving her the moment.
The choice. The space to speak freely, without him standing in the middle of it.
So she took it.
The little party dispersed gently as they walked, Miss Bennet and Mr. Bingley strolling ahead in soft, smiling; the colonel further behind, performing edited tales of military gallantry to an enraptured audience.
Georgiana and Miss Elizabeth walked side by side, with only the stream’s gentle murmur and the distant trill of birdsong to interrupt them.
And for the first time in what felt like a very long while, Georgiana laughed softly to herself .
“I like your family,” she said, without thinking.
Miss Elizabeth looked at her again, eyes surprised but warm.
“Even with all our… enthusiasm ?”
“Yes,” Georgiana said.
“Especially with it.”
Miss Elizabeth led them through the back garden, down a small slope to a narrow path lined with bare trees and low brush.
A stream curved to the right, glittering faintly in the mid-morning light.
It was cold, but not unpleasantly so.
Georgiana breathed it in as though it were something entirely new.
“I hope it is not too quiet for you here,” Miss Elizabeth said after a moment.
“Hertfordshire is not known for its drama.”
Georgiana smiled.
“After the time I spent at school, I find I prefer the quiet.”
Miss Elizabeth laughed softly.
“Then you have chosen your companions well.”
There was a brief pause.
Georgiana glanced toward her brother, he walked a few paces behind, hands clasped behind his back, gaze never straying far from her.
“I have read my brother’s letters,” Georgiana said suddenly, and Miss Elizabeth looked at her with raised brows.
“Letters?”
“The ones he sent me from Netherfield,” Georgiana explained.
“Fitzwilliam did not mean for me to read one in particular. But I did.”
Miss Elizabeth blinked.
“Ah. That letter .”
Georgiana gave her a cautious smile.
“You are quite like he described.”
Miss Elizabeth arched an eyebrow.
“I wonder whether I should be flattered or alarmed.”
“Both, perhaps,” Georgiana said, laughing softly.
“But mostly flattered. He described your cleverness. Your warmth, and the gentle way you make people feel seen.”
They walked a little farther in silence, the sound of the stream threading gently through the hush.
Miss Elizabeth glanced sideways, her voice softer now.
“I have had… difficulty, I admit, in understanding your brother.”
Georgiana looked at her with a softness that felt older than her years.
“Most people do.”
Miss Elizabeth’s lips curved faintly, but her gaze was far away.
“When we first met, I thought him proud. Cold, even. He barely spoke and, when he did…” She trailed off, shaking her head.
“It was never quite what one hoped to hear.”
Georgiana gave a small, knowing smile, but said nothing.
“I have come to see another side of him,” Miss Elizabeth continued, more slowly now.
“A man who listens more than he lets on. Who feels things deeply, I think, but rarely shows it.” She looked down at the path, brows drawn in thought.
“He confuses me. He always has. And I am not often confused by people.”
Georgiana was silent for a moment, then said, with conviction: “He is a very easy man to love. Once you do know him.”
Elizabeth stopped walking for half a beat.
When she spoke again, her voice was gentler.
“Is that why you wished to meet me? Because of what he wrote?”
Georgiana hesitated, then nodded.
“He never writes like that—so openly. I could see how much he admired you, even if he did not realize it himself.”
She glanced at Miss Elizabeth, a small smile on her lips.
“It was the first time I felt like he had chosen something for himself—not for duty, or family, or expectation. But for him.”
Miss Elizabeth tilted her head, intrigued.
“I have always worried,” Georgiana continued gently, “that he would choose someone safe. Someone distant. Someone who looked perfect in a drawing room but had nothing alive inside her. But then… he wrote about you.”
She paused, her voice soft with certainty.
“And you were so alive on the page. I wanted it to be true.”
Miss Elizabeth turned her eyes toward the stream, letting those words settle between them.
Her composure held, but Georgiana could see it, some flicker behind the eyes, a thought Miss Elizabeth was not ready to name but could not quite ignore.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that I am only beginning to understand him.”
They walked on in companionable silence.
Georgiana did not say more.
She said nothing of the letter folded in her pocket.
Nor of the decision she might yet make .
She only walked beside her, listening to the rustle of leaves and the gentle rhythm of footsteps on cold ground.
And behind her, she heard her brother’s footsteps, steady and sure, following not too close, but always near enough.
And for the first time in a long while, she felt, not burdened by duty, or pressured by expectation, but connected.
To her brother.
To this place.
To this woman beside her.
Behind them, unseen but ever present, Darcy followed.
He kept his distance—just far enough to grant them privacy, but never so far that he could not see.
The air was sharp, the kind of morning chill that never quite left your coat no matter how brisk your walk.
Darcy stood slightly apart from the others, his hands clasped behind his back, the hem of his coat stirring in the wind.
He was attempting, and failing, not to look at Miss Elizabeth.
She and Georgiana walked a few paces ahead, the path winding gently beside the stream.
Miss Elizabeth had taken Georgiana’s arm with the easy familiarity of someone used to sisters, and Darcy watched the two of them with curious fascination.
Georgiana had begun to speak more animatedly, her voice lighter, her laugh unguarded.
Miss Elizabeth listened with a still attentiveness that felt, somehow, deeply personal.
It was something he would not have known to wish for until now: to see them like this.
Together. At ease. His most beloved sister, and his most..
. well. Something.
And impossibly, they were beginning to meet.
He did not deserve it, of course—not this moment, not this possibility.
But still, he watched.
Behind him, footsteps crunched across the frosted path.
“The younger Miss Bennets,” came Richard’s voice, dry with amusement, “have declared it far too cold for further heroics. Bingley offered to escort them back with Miss Bennet, and I—well, I found myself suddenly yearning for the silent company of my brooding cousin.”
He fell into step beside Darcy with the practiced nonchalance of a man who had nowhere else more interesting to be .
“Well,” the colonel said, clasping his hands behind his back to mirror Darcy’s stance, “there they are—your sister and your… well, let’s call her the star of that epic brooding saga you call courtship. A charming start to your future household, just add a proposal and a properly disapproving aunt.”
Darcy’s jaw tensed.
“Let us not borrow trouble.”
“Come now,” Richard said lightly, “borrowing trouble is a family tradition. Especially when Lady Catherine is involved.”
Darcy’s silence was answer enough.
Richard followed his gaze toward the two women seated now on a low bench near the stream.
“At least, Georgiana appears to be charming Miss Elizabeth,” he observed.
“Or perhaps Miss Elizabeth is charming her. Difficult to say.”
Darcy exhaled through his nose.
“I suppose this is the part,” Richard mused, “where you imagine long walks at Pemberley, tea in the rose garden, laughter echoing in the gallery. That sort of thing.” He paused, then added slyly, “Children running down the hallways, perhaps? A few dark curls, little Miss Elizabeths causing chaos in the music room?”
Darcy turned his head slightly and cast him a look—a warning, perhaps, but too slow to hide the faint, startled flicker in his eyes.
Richard grinned. “Ah. So that is your daydream.”
“I did not say anything,” Darcy said stiffly.
“No,” Richard agreed, entirely too pleased with himself.
“But your face did.”
Darcy gave him a sideways look—half warning, half weary disbelief—but said nothing.
“Do not glare,” Richard said cheerfully.
“It is very touching. Really. And unexpected. You have never been quite so theatrical with your daydreams.”
“I am not daydreaming.”
“Of course not,” Richard said, feigning solemnity.
“You are simply standing perfectly still, breathing like a man in prayer, while the woman you absolutely do not love bonds with your sister and resolutely avoids looking in your direction.”
Darcy remained silent.
Richard tipped his head toward the bench.
“She is good with Georgiana. You knew she would be. ”
Darcy glanced back at them then.
Elizabeth had turned slightly toward his sister, her expression attentive and warm.
A curl had come loose from beneath her bonnet and caught the morning light.
She said something—he could not hear what— and Georgiana laughed, freely, joyfully.
It was a sound he had not heard in months.
And then Georgiana reached into her coat pocket.
Darcy went still.
Richard caught the motion too.
“Wait—what is that?”
Darcy did not answer.
“Is that—?” Richard’s brow arched.
“Is that the letter ?”
Darcy gave the smallest nod.
Richard’s voice dropped, baffled.
“You told her to show it to her?”
“She offered,” Darcy murmured.
“If the moment felt right.”
“Oh, and clearly this—” he gestured toward the two women in gentle conversation “—this is a right moment?”
Darcy did not answer.
He was too busy watching Miss Elizabeth’s expression as Georgiana handed her the envelope.
She took it with a puzzled glance—curious, amused.
Then, just before breaking the seal, her eyes flicked upward.
To him.
A silent question passed between them, unspoken but unmistakable: May I?
Darcy gave the faintest nod.
She looked down again, and only then did she unfold the letter, her fingers delicate on the seal.
Richard whistled low under his breath.
“You must tell me, what exactly did you write in there?”
Darcy said nothing.
His jaw had set into a line of granite.
Richard leaned in. “Come now, you cannot just stand here and not tell me. Is it poetry? Confessions? A long treatise on the luminous quality of her eyes?”
Still, Darcy did not speak.
Across the stream, Miss Elizabeth began to read.
At first, her brow furrowed.
She said something to Georgiana with a bemused smile, half incredulous, half entertained.
Georgiana smiled back, nodding .
But then something shifted.
Miss Elizabeth went silent.
Her lips parted slightly, her eyes scanning the page more slowly now.
Her body stilled, save for the wind stirring the edge of her bonnet.
One hand lifted to her mouth, then dropped again.
She looked over the top of the page—straight at Darcy.
He froze.
And in the stillness that followed, the world narrowed to the space between her eyes and the page.
She was silent. Too silent.
She hates me.
The thought struck like a blow—sharp, immediate.
Foolish, of course, but there it was.
She hates me, or worse, she pities me.
She thinks I am ridiculous.
Arrogant.
Another heartbeat passed.
Her eyes moved again—still reading, still quiet—and every second of her silence carved a deeper notch into his chest.
Of all the humiliations he had feared, this one had not occurred to him: that she might read the truest thing he had ever written and feel nothing.
Or worse—that she might feel something only to reject it.
Reject him.
How could she not?
He had insulted her, ignored her, judged her.
He had stared, and stumbled, and offered nothing a woman like her ought to want.
And now—now—she held a letter in her hands that named his feelings in ink he could not take back.
Fool. Utter, unguarded fool.
He should never have written it.
He should never have let Georgiana—
She looked up—just briefly—then away again, her cheeks already tinged with color.
Darcy’s breath caught.
Not hope. Not yet. But something dangerously close.
She was blushing.
She returned to the letter, blinking once, twice, as though rereading it to be certain.
Her brow furrowed slightly, not in disapproval but in thought, as though she had stumbled upon something private and was unsure what to do with it.
And then, slowly, she looked up again.
Not at Georgiana.
At him.
This time, her eyes met his for a single, suspended heartbeat.
And then—
She dropped her gaze, color blooming across her face in a flush so vivid he could feel the heat of it from where he stood.
Her whole posture altered, less composed now, more tentative, as though something within her had been shifted off balance.
Behind him, Richard let out a low, delighted hum.
“Well now. That is interesting.”
Darcy could not move.
He was not certain he remembered how.
He doubted he could even form a sentence.
“I have to know,” Richard pressed.
“What on earth did you write that would turn Miss Elizabeth Bennet the color of a ripe tomato?”
Darcy remained still, but his ears betrayed him, tipping pink at the edges, a color that slowly, inexorably deepened.
Richard leaned in, grinning.
“You did write something ridiculous, did you not?”
Darcy could not look away from her.
She was still holding the letter—no longer reading, just…
holding. Her fingers curled around the edge of the page, as if grounding herself.
She looked at Georgiana then, eyes wide.
Her lips moved.
Darcy could not hear what she said.
“What do you think she is reading now?” Then, Richard tilted his head.
“Did she just say the word… children ?”
Darcy’s stomach dropped.
His spine went rigid.
Richard turned to him, eyebrows raised so high they nearly vanished into his hairline.
“Oh, you really did go full sentimental. Did you include a nursery, Fitz? Names? A dark curled heir toddling through the west wing?”
Darcy closed his eyes for one brief, harrowing moment.
Not the nursery paragraph.
Please let her not have reached the nursery paragraph yet.
Did she get to the part about Pemberley in spring?
The garden parties? Georgiana and her playing the pianoforte in the music room while he read in the window alcove?
Did she read the line about her laughter being the only sound he wished to echo through those halls?
He could feel the heat rising in his ears now, climbing like the tide.
There was no containing it.
She would know now. All of it.
The dreams he had never dared say aloud.
The domestic details, the imagined futures, the way he had begun, even against his will, to want—
Richard nudged him.
“Fitz.”
Darcy blinked.
His voice, when it came, was rough.
“What?”
“She is smiling now,” Richard said gently.
“But not at Georgiana.”
Darcy’s heart jolted.
He looked.
Elizabeth was still holding the letter, her gaze fixed not on the words, but on him.
Her smile was soft. Slow.
Like something dawning.
He felt suddenly, profoundly unworthy of it.
Her lips parted, and though she said nothing, her expression told him more than words could have managed.
Not joy. Not embarrassment.
But… something searching.
Something seeing.
Richard gave a long, low whistle.
“Well. Either you have won her over entirely, or she is about to blackmail you.”
Darcy did not answer.
He was still watching Elizabeth, memorizing the way her lashes caught the morning light, the way she turned her face toward the wind like it steadied her.
And then Elizabeth said something to Georgiana again, her face coloring further.
She bit her lower lip.
And—he was almost sure of it—she glanced once more in his direction, just before carefully folding the letter.
“She is keeping it,” Richard said in hushed awe.
“She is not handing it back. Fitz. She is keeping the letter.”
Darcy’s mouth was dry.
“She has not returned it yet.”
“That is what I said. She is keeping it.”
A pause.
Then Richard leaned in, grinning like a schoolboy discovering someone’s diary .
“You mentioned children.”
“I did not mention them.”
Richard blinked innocently.
“But you thought about them?”
Darcy did not answer.
“You envisioned them, did you not?” Richard persisted.
“Dark curls, bright eyes, running up the steps—”
Darcy’s silence was more damning than any protest.
Richard cackled.
“By God, you did. Little Miss Elizabeths running wild through the corridors while your heir recites Latin over toast—utterly terrifying.”
Darcy exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.
“Richard.”
Richard held up both hands in surrender.
“All right, all right. I will stop. But I am starting a betting pool for the wedding date.”
Darcy cast him a withering look.
Richard grinned. “And the names.”
Darcy muttered something unintelligible and turned away.
But still, as he looked once more toward the bench, where Elizabeth now sat in peaceful conversation with Georgiana—letter folded, eyes soft—he felt something impossible settle into his chest.
It was not hope.
But it was no longer fear.
Darcy watched them sitting for a while longer, the wind lifting stray curls and the letter now folded neatly in Elizabeth’s hands.
Then, with a shared glance and a quiet word between them, the two women rose from the bench.
Their steps were unhurried as they made their way back along the path.
Elizabeth held the letter loosely at her side, her free arm still lightly linked with Georgiana’s.
They spoke in tones too low to carry, their heads inclined toward one another in the easy rhythm of shared confidence.
As they drew nearer, Elizabeth leaned slightly closer to Georgiana and murmured something that made the younger woman laugh, surprised and pleasantly delighted.
A moment later, Georgiana nodded once, and a flicker of understanding passed between them.
Darcy watched all of it as one might watch a scene in a dream, vivid and impossible, full of meaning he could only half grasp.
When they reached the edge of the clearing, Georgiana’s steps slowed.
Elizabeth, still at her side, whispered one final phrase into her ear.
Georgiana smiled, straightened, and turned toward the men with purposeful calm.
“Richard,” she called, her voice light but carrying, “will you walk with me? I wish to discuss your heroics and their remarkable flexibility depending upon your audience.”
Richard turned with a smile, more subdued now, touched with fondness.
“Ah,” he said, stepping forward.
“Am I to be gently scolded or properly corrected?”
“Both,” she replied with a warm laugh.
“Though I promise to be kind.”
He offered his arm with a gallant bow.
“In that case, I surrender myself entirely. Lead on, General.”
As she took his arm, he patted her hand with a brief, brotherly gesture—affectionate, reassuring.
“You have grown bold, Georgie,” he said gently, a note of pride beneath the humour.
“I have had good examples,” she replied, glancing ahead to Elizabeth.
They began walking up the path, his pace instinctively slower, protective without coddling.
As they passed her brother, Georgiana glanced back—just once—and tipped her head in quiet understanding.
Darcy remained still, until he realized Elizabeth had not followed.
She stood just beside him now, closer than she had ever stood before, close enough that her voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath, caught somewhere between daring and mortification.
“Now I understand,” she whispered, “why your sister believed we were engaged.”
Darcy turned his head, startled, his breath catching at the easy certainty in her tone.
But she did not look at him.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the path ahead, her lashes lowered, her hands folded with studious care.
A blush colored her cheeks, light at first, then deepening as the silence stretched.
But her lips curved—just barely—and he could hear the faintest thread of laughter in her voice, though it was laughter tightly reined.
A beat passed.
Then she added, just under her breath:
“I think I shall keep it.”
And with that, she stepped forward, catching up to Georgiana and Richard with calm grace, as though she had not just rearranged his soul.
Darcy followed, stunned and silent, the morning air inexplicably sweeter than before.