They were interrupted by Mrs. Bennet herself, radiant and bustling, eager to usher everyone toward the dining room. The matron declared there was no need for formality, and so no one dressed for supper. Elizabeth took her place beside Darcy as they moved with the others, and once seated, she found her attention divided—though not entirely willingly—between him and Jane.
Jane sat opposite Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Elizabeth scarcely recognized her sister. Her sister was animated—trulyanimated. She leaned forward as she spoke, her hands moving with gentle emphasis, her eyes bright with interest rather than polite attentiveness. Colonel Fitzwilliam listened with evident pleasure, responding in kind, his expression lively and engaged. There was laughter between them, easy and unforced.
Elizabeth felt a faint stir of wonder. Yet even as she watched her sister, she remained quietly aware of Darcy beside her—the steadiness of his presence, and the ease with which her thoughts returned to him.
She leaned toward Darcy once more. “Have you ever seen her like this? For I have not.”
He followed her gaze, his expression thoughtful. “No. I have not. Miss Bennet is invariably gracious, but she gives everyonethe same courtesy, the same smile. This—” He paused as Jane laughed outright at something Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “—this is enthusiasm.” Darcy’s gaze lingered only a moment before returning, almost instinctively, to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth smiled, both pleased and faintly unsettled. “She is usually so careful. I had not realized how much.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Nor had I.”
From the head of the table, Mrs. Bennet watched Jane with barely contained triumph, her eyes flicking repeatedly between her eldest daughter and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s distinguished bearing. Elizabeth could almost hear the calculations unfolding behind her mother’s expression.
“Mama is delighted,” Elizabeth said quietly. “The son of an earl trumps the son of a tradesman, no matter how wealthy.”
Darcy’s brow creased. “And Bingley?”
“Is currently absent,” Elizabeth replied. “Which, I suspect, improves everyone’s satisfaction.”
Darcy nodded. “He has gone to London. Business.” The word carried weight between them.
“I hope he finds what he seeks,” Elizabeth said after a moment. “For his sake—and for Jane’s.”
“So do I,” Darcy replied.
The meal itself passed more agreeably than Elizabeth had anticipated. Conversation flowed easily; even Miss Bingley contributed without sharpness, remarking upon the excellence of the dishes and the pleasant order of Longbourn. When the final course was cleared, Mr. Hurst leaned back in his chair with obvious satisfaction.
“Mrs. Bennet,” he declared genially, “you have quite outdone yourself. A finer meal I have not enjoyed in Hertfordshire.”
Mrs. Bennet beamed, preening just slightly. “You are very kind, sir. I am always pleased to provide for my guests.”
Elizabeth watched the scene with a mixture of amusement and cautious optimism. For one evening, at least, harmony reigned—and if the future threatened complication, it had the decency not to intrude just yet.
A week altered the texture of life at Longbourn more thoroughly than Elizabeth Bennet would have thought possible.
Mr. Bingley’s sudden departure for London had left a void—and into that space stepped Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam with an ease that suggested he had never intended to hover at the margins. He called daily, most often in Darcy’s company, sometimes lingering after his cousin departed, sometimes arriving earlier under the excuse of walking the lanes before breakfast. He escorted Jane to suppers and card parties, stood up with her whenever the opportunity to dance came along, and contrived, without ever appearing contrived, to place himself at her side whenever opportunity allowed.
And Jane, to Elizabeth’s careful eye, seemed pleased. Not dazzled, not carried away, but animated in a way that had grown steadily more apparent with each passing day. She smiled more readily, laughing freely and without the reflexive restraint that so often tempered her expressions. She spoke and was heard.
Elizabeth watched it unfold with mingled satisfaction and caution. She trusted Jane’s judgment more than her own, yet she could not help noticing the contrast between past and present.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s attentions were not loud. He did not proclaim admiration in a manner calculated to be overheard. Instead, he asked questions—real ones—and waited for the answers.
When Jane spoke of books, of the management of a household, of her thoughts on the militia’s presence, or the restless speculation surrounding Roman treasure, he listened with the clear impression that her words mattered for their substance, not merely for the sweetness of her voice.
Mr. Darcy observed all of this with an expression that hovered somewhere between approval and concern, though he never interfered. Elizabeth suspected he was measuring something—his cousin, perhaps, or Jane herself—but if so, he kept his conclusions to himself.
It was on the seventh evening of Bingley’s absence that Jane finally spoke of it.
They sat together in Elizabeth’s chamber, the candles newly lit, the window cracked just enough to admit the cool breath of early autumn. Jane had come under the pretense of borrowing a shawl, but Elizabeth had known better. Jane only ever borrowed what she did not truly need.
“Lizzy,” Jane said at last, smoothing a fold of fabric between her fingers, “may I speak freely?”
Elizabeth set aside her book at once. “You always may.”
Jane smiled, though it carried a hint of uncertainty.
