Darcy, still holding her hand from their last set, inclined his head towards the bench. “You seem…presently preoccupied.”
Elizabeth sat, smoothing her skirts. “I suppose I am. And since we are unlikely to have a quieter moment, I should tell you what has transpired since you last visited Longbourn.” She kept her voice low, the intimacy of the alcove inviting confidences. “The disturbances have continued—grown bolder, in fact.”
His expression sharpened. “Go on.”
She told him everything. Of the shattered blue-and-white vase and the playing card laid beside it like a taunt. Lydia’s ribbons knotted into a rope with her mother’s lace cap tied at the end, soaked in wine and of the kitchen door left open to the storm and the four apple cores arranged in an X, with a note readingGet out. And finally—her voice tightening—the man Kitty swore she saw in her room, with hollow cheeks, wild hair, and a candle in his hand.
As she spoke, Darcy’s jaw tightened, the candlelight casting the shadow of his profile sharp against the wall. “You should have sent word sooner,” he said, his voice quiet but edged. “An intruder who leaves deliberate signs is not merely a trespasser—he is making a study of you.”
Elizabeth’s pulse fluttered. “I know. My father is taking it more seriously now, but… You see why I wanted you to hear it all. It feels like…messages, notmischief.”
Darcy leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees, closing the space between them. “And I suppose you are not afraid.”
“I am,” she admitted, holding his gaze. “More than I care to say aloud. But I would not give him—whoever he is—the satisfaction of seeing it.”
A silence settled, charged with more than her words. She was acutely aware of the nearness of him, the faint scent of leather and starch, the steady weight of his regard.
From beyond the alcove, a different movement caught her eye. Out on the balcony, visible through the tall French doors, Mr. Bingley had just led Jane into the cool night air. Jane’s pale gown shimmered under the spill of moonlight, and his posture—slightly bent towards her, earnest—left little doubt of his intent.
Elizabeth could not help leaning slightly to watch. Jane’s gloved hands were clasped in Mr. Bingley’s; his lips moved quickly at first, then slower, as though each word had weight. Even from here, Elizabeth could read his expression: openhearted, brimming with hope. He reached into his coat and drew out a small ring, simple but lovely, and held it out to her.
Jane’s eyes widened. For a moment, she said nothing—then she smiled, radiant and sure, and nodded. The gentleman's answering grin was boyish in its delight ashe slid the ring onto her finger. He drew her into his arms briefly, decorously, but the gesture was suffused with warmth and the unspoken promise of a lifetime.
Elizabeth felt her throat tighten at the sight. “He has done it,” she murmured.
Darcy followed her gaze, and a slow, genuine smile touched his lips. “It seems my friend has discovered his courage.”
The pair lingered only a moment longer before rejoining the room, Jane’s cheeks delicately flushed, the latter's air more buoyant than ever. Elizabeth turned back to Darcy, the alcove suddenly feeling even more private in the wake of what they had just witnessed.
Darcy’s voice dropped. “Your sister is fortunate.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “In her suitor, or in her timing?”
“In both.” He looked at her steadily. “Some moments are worth seizing when they present themselves.”
Her heart beat faster, and she could not tell whether it was the memory of Jane’s proposal or the way Darcy’s words seemed to hold another meaning entirely.
The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant haze of music and chatter, though Elizabeth’s mind kept returning to the moment she had just witnessed on the balcony. Jane, engaged. It was the happiest of endings for her dearest sister—yet she wondered if Jane’s quiet joy could truly withstand the force of Miss Mr. Bingley’s disdain or Mrs. Hurst’s well-bred frost.
Her question was partly answered later in the evening when, between dances, her father arrived at the head of their little family knot. His voice carried easily over the hum of conversation as he addressed those nearest.
“My friends,” he said with the air of a man who was simultaneously proud and faintly amused, “I am pleased to share some happy news. Mr. Charles Bingley has asked for Jane’s hand in marriage, and she has consented. You will forgive a father’s partiality when I say he could not have made a better choice.”
A swell of exclamations and congratulations followed, Mrs. Bennet nearly swooning with triumph. Jane, blushing but composed, curtsied to her well-wishers while Mr. Bingley beamed as though the entire world had just gone right. The room seemed to brighten with the announcement—except in one corner, where Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst stood with identical expressions of thinly veiled displeasure.
Whenthe musicians struck up for the final set, Darcy crossed the room to Elizabeth with unhurried precision, offering his hand. “May I claim this one?”
She smiled, sliding her fingers into his. “I believe you already have, sir.”
They took their places on the floor, and as the opening measures began, Elizabeth caught his low murmur. “Have you seen the faces of Mrs. Hurst and her sister? One would think they were forced to stand in a draft.”
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “Jane would not notice it—she always sees the best in people. But she will not allow herself to be abused. And I suspect that once she is mistress of Netherfield, any lingering frost will melt in the warmth of her good sense.”
Darcy’s mouth curved, his eyes holding hers as they moved through the figures. “Bingley will not allow his wife to be mistreated in her own home, either. His good nature is not weakness. On the contrary—it makes his protection all the more steadfast.”
Elizabeth felt a rush of warmth at his certainty. “That is well. For she deserves a marriage without shadows.”
“And what of you?” His voice was quiet, intimate despite the company surrounding them. “What do you deserve?”
