“I have never seen her so…at ease, though our acquaintance is not of long duration.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Nor I, and I have known her all my life. Mr. Bingley always admired her, but he never genuinely understood her—not as your cousin does.”
Darcy felt an unexpected warmth at the observation.
Elizabeth turned back to him. “You seem troubled still, Mr. Darcy, even after having spoken.”
“I am,” he admitted. “Because I do not yet see a clean resolution. Bingley resists assistance, yet his behavior grows more erratic. I begin to think it may be best for Richard and me to remove ourselves from Netherfield—at least for a time.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly. “You would leave?”
“Not Hertfordshire,” Darcy said quickly. “Only the house.”
She considered this, then nodded slowly. “There is Purvis Lodge.”
Darcy blinked. “Purvis Lodge?”
“My uncle, Mr. Phillips, has the account and is searching for a tenant,” she explained. “It is not large—smaller than Longbourn—but quite suitable for a modest household. Well-suited. Private.”
He looked at her with renewed interest. “You believe it would be acceptable?”
“I do,” she said. “And it is close enough that you would not be cut off from…anything you wished to attend to. My mother would complain of the attics and their draftiness, but you would not be required to spend much time there.”
Darcy chuckled and took her hand.
“I shall speak to Mr. Phillips this afternoon,” he said, the decision settling into place. “If he is agreeable.”
Elizabeth’s smile was swift and genuine. “I think he will be. He enjoys being useful.”
Darcy felt an odd sense of gratitude—toward her, toward the quiet competence with which she offered solutions rather than sympathy.
Across the room, Miss Bennet and Richard had fallen into a companionable silence, close but not touching, their heads inclined toward one another as they looked out over the lawn.
Darcy watched them for a moment, thoughtful. “Do you think,” he asked Elizabeth quietly, “that your sister understands her own feelings?”
Elizabeth considered. “Jane understands her principles very well. Her feelings… she is still learning to trust.” Her gaze lingered on him. “And you, Mr. Darcy? Are you learning as well?”
He matched her gaze, unflinching. “Every day.”
The room felt suddenly smaller, more intimate, as though the world beyond Longbourn had receded. A sound from the hall broke the moment—Mrs. Bennet’s voice, cheerful and approaching. Darcy rose at once, instinctively, and Elizabeth stood with him.
“We should take our leave,” he said quietly. “Before we are pressed into staying for supper.” He winked at his jest. They had arrived just after breakfast and stayed longer than strictly proper.
Elizabeth laughed softly. “A wise retreat.”
As they gathered their gloves and hats, Darcy allowed himself one last glance toward Miss Bennet and Richard. The former looked content. Richard looked—uncharacteristically—thoughtful. Perhaps, Darcy reflected as they stepped out into the sunlight, not all of this upheaval would end in disappointment. Maybe some good might yet come of it. As his horse turned oncemore toward the road, Darcy felt for the first time in days that the path ahead, though uncertain, was no longer obscured.
Elizabeth did not bother knocking when she entered her father’s library in search of a new book. Mr. Bennet was out on the estate, looking over the fields of winter wheat. The room was quiet in the way only a well-lived-in library could be—books lining the walls in orderly chaos, the faint smell of leather and ink lingering in the air, sunlight filtering through the tall windows and falling across the desk where her father spent so many hours.
She crossed the room without thought, already reaching for the shelf that held her favorite volumes.Habit turned her eyes toward the corner where the crate usually stood and sucked in a breath. It was gone, as were the other crates put there to hide its presence.
For a moment, she simply stood, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain the walls must hear it. The absence felt like a physical wound, a hollow where certainty had once been. Her pulse quickened, and heat flooded her cheeks—not fear this time, but fury.
In a frenzy, she went to her father’s desk and rifled through the papers strewn across the top. She knew she ought not—this was not her domain—but restraint deserted her. Letters, ledgers, loose sheets covered in her father’s familiar hand slid beneath her fingers as she searched with mounting desperation.
There, she found a partially written letter to one of her father’s friends from university. There were questions about antiquitiessprinkled throughout, placed there nonchalantly so as not to raise suspicion.
Her breath caught.
