Longbourn
Elizabeth
Thebonfireburnedlonginto the night, its flames reaching hungrily into the inky sky. By the time the final fireworks had faded and the last of the effigy’s ashes drifted into the orchard soil, the celebration had shifted from spectacle to merriment. Torches and lanterns were hung from tree branches and poles, casting flickering light across the lawn and orchard. Tables had been set out with punch, cider, and what baked goods the kitchen could spare. Fiddlers arrived from Meryton, and soon the dancing began.
Elizabeth stood with her cloak wrapped loosely around her shoulders, laughter warming her even in the late autumn chill. She watched as Kitty, cheeks flushed, tried to drag an officer onto the makeshift dancing green, whileLydia had already found a willing partner and was skipping and twirling with abandon. Their eyes sparkled with delight—and something else, too. The punch bowl was suspiciously low, and the girls’ laughter was loud, unrestrained.
No one seemed inclined to interfere. Mrs. Bennet, awash in the glow of social triumph, was fanning herself beside Lady Lucas and regaling her with some tale about hat ribbons. Mr. Bennet had retreated to the edge of the orchard with Sir William and Bingley, nursing a mug of cider and exchanging good-humored complaints about the noise.
Jane, as ever, was luminous. She and Bingley stood apart from the crowd beneath a tree lit by hanging lanterns, heads bent close in conversation. They looked as if they had stepped out of a painting—soft smiles, glowing skin, gentle voices, all golden under the lamplight.
And then there was Mr. Darcy. He had returned to her side after speaking with her father and had remained there through the fireworks and the rising festivities. Somehow, they had not been drawn into the dancing, though several neighbors had attempted to persuade them. Their refusal, unspoken but mutual, seemed to suitthem both.
Now, they strolled slowly around the edge of the orchard, where the music softened and the lamplight faded to silver shadows.
“You are remarkably quiet, Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, his voice low and warm. “And yet I sense your thoughts are not idle.”
Elizabeth smiled up at him. “I was just considering how strange it is that a celebration meant to commemorate an act of treason should bring so much joy.”
“Perhaps it is not the treason we celebrate,” he replied, hands clasped behind his back. “But the survival that followed. The perseverance.”
She considered this. “Do you often think in such terms?”
He gave a slight nod. “More than I used to. My father encouraged reflection. He believed a man should examine his thoughts as often as he examined his accounts.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “A thorough education, then. Did he also teach you how to dance?”
Darcy gave her a sideways glance, with the ghost of a smile on his lips. “He did not. I had a dance master, like other gentlemen. Though I fear the lessons did not take.” His teasing voice made her chuckle.
They walked on in silence for a time, the distant strains of the fiddle carrying through the night air. Then Darcy spoke again, more slowly.
“When I was eight, I tried to run away.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted. “Truly?”
“Yes. I had decided I was to become a soldier. I stole a wooden spoon for a sword, packed a satchel with apples, and made it as far as the stables.”
“What stopped you?”
“A blizzard. And my mother.” He paused. “She found me in the hayloft, wrapped me in her shawl, and sat with me until I fell asleep. She never scolded me but only said that bravery was not the same as stubbornness, and that both required a measure of wisdom.”
“That sounds very much like something you would say.”
He looked at her then, and Elizabeth felt the warmth of that gaze settle beneath her skin.
“I have not told anyone that story in years.”
“I am honored you shared it with me.”
“I wanted to.”
Something in his voice—quiet, genuine—stirred her chest in a way that caught her off guard. The noise of the celebration faded around them. She could hear the wind in the branches, the gentle creak of an old oak. And shecould feel something shifting between them, something unspoken but undeniable.
When the dancing finally waned and the guests began to depart, Elizabeth returned inside, her head spinning not from cider, but from closeness—from the softness in Darcy’s eyes, from the way her hand had brushed his when he helped her over a tangle of roots, from the way he had lingered in farewell, as though he, too, had been reluctant to end their time together.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Sarah was nowhere in sight as Elizabeth made her way up the stairs. The hall was dim, the sconces nearly spent. She entered her room and closed the door behind her with a sigh. She froze as she turned. Her dressing table was in disarray.
