Jane gave a small smile, steady and untroubled. “We had thought of August fifteenth. It will be after your journey with the Gardiners, and soon enough to begin our life together before the autumn settles in.”
Elizabeth said nothing for a moment. Her thoughts were whirling. August fifteenth. She had thought—she had hoped—that September 29 might come again. That date had meant something once. It had stood as a symbol of a future fully earned, a unity not only of hearts but of lives. It had been the day they wed—both she and Jane—together.
She turned slightly, gathering herself. “If you are certain you do not wish to wait, then perhaps…” Her voice caught. “Perhaps September 29 would suit. It is a lovely time of year, and the weather is often settled.”
Mr. Bingley laughed, not unkindly. “September! Miss Elizabeth, if Jane and I are made to wait that long, I fear your mother will plan us into ruin—or madness. I cannot be held responsible for what I may promise after a sixth consultation on lace.”
Jane touched Elizabeth’s arm gently. “We did not choose the date to distress you,” she said. “Only—it seemed the soonest that might suit, without rushing or impropriety. And we hoped you would be returned by then.”
Elizabeth nodded, though the motion felt stiff. “Of course,” she said. “It is entirely reasonable. And I am glad for it—truly glad.”
And she was, in part. Jane deserved happiness unshadowed by delay. But even as she spoke the words, a small ache took root in her chest. That future she had once known—the shared wedding, the twin joy of beginning anew together—was gone. And though the love remained, the moment would not come again.
Jane, ever perceptive, did not press. She only gave her hand a quiet squeeze, and Mr. Bingley, sensing the matter was settled, began to speak cheerfully of guest lists and music, and whether he might persuade his steward’s cousin to send a string quartet from London.
Elizabeth listened with a smile, but her thoughts wandered. Would Fitzwilliam, if he were here, feel the absence as she did—the quiet ache of something once shared, now lost? To Jane, August was simply sooner; to Elizabeth, it was a crack in the path she once believed they would walk together. Jane trusted that all would unfold as it must, that love would find its way in any season. But Elizabeth knew better. She had seen how easily a future might slip from one’s grasp. Would Fitzwilliam understand why August felt like too soon? Would he understand what she could not bring herself to say?
Elizabeth turned her face toward the garden once more, but the moment had passed. The others had already begun to move ahead, and when she followed them back into the house, the rhythm of the day resumed as though it had never faltered.
As they returned from their walk, the sunlight beginning to mellow against the eaves of the house, a maid met them just beyond the front steps with a small curtsy and a hint of fluster in her voice.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” she said to Mr. Bingley, “but a groomsman from Netherfield is arrived—he brought two expresses and a bundle of contracts from your steward. Said they was to be signed directly, and he’s waiting with tea in the kitchen.”
Mr. Bingley paused, blinking. “Two important items, did you say?”
The maid hesitated. “Two expresses, sir, and the contracts.”
But Bingley, already distracted, nodded cheerfully. “Ah yes, yes—I remember now! My steward mentioned something of the sort. Dull affairs, of course, but urgent. I suppose I must see to them before your mother drags me into another lace consultation.”
Jane gave a quiet laugh, and the party made their way indoors.
In the drawing room, the papers were brought in—a neat sheaf of folded documents, tied with blue ribbon and accompanied by two letters. In the act of receiving them, Bingley’s hands fumbled slightly, and several sheets fell in a fluttering cascade to the carpet.
Mary bent at once to assist, as did Elizabeth, and between them they gathered the pages with efficient care. One envelope, however—light, thin, and addressed in a bold masculine hand—slid unnoticed behind the leg of the escritoire. No one saw it fall. No one thought to look for what they did not know had been sent.
Mr. Bingley, quite content with the remaining items in hand, resumed his seat and began to read.
“Ah,” he said after a moment, “this is from my steward. Something about grazing rights—yes, yes. I’ll sign it.” He reached for the inkwell with the comfortable air of a man who signs many things without reading them too closely.
He made his way through the first few pages with mild interest, then opened the the express letter, which bore his sister’s seal.
A groan escaped Bingley as he opened the second letter. “Caroline writes to say she and the Hursts shall arrive by week’s end—to celebrate our impending nuptials, she says.”
He smiled faintly. “Which I take to mean she heard Darcy was to be in Hertfordshire and wishes to be near the excitement.”
Elizabeth said nothing, though her gaze drifted to the window.
She could not have said why, precisely, but the air seemed subtly altered now—less bright, somehow. As though something had shifted just out of reach.
Mr. Bingley signed the final page with a flourish and stood. “Well, that is settled. The man may return to Netherfield with the lot, and I am once again a free man.”
Chapter 48
The morning air was bright and mild, the sky a serene and thoughtless blue—as though the world conspired to ignore Elizabeth’s unease. From her window, the countryside lay in its usual charm: hedgerows thick with summer green, the road to Netherfield quiet, and still no sign of Fitzwilliam Darcy.
He had not come. Nor had he sent word.
She stood at the window longer than she meant to, her tea cooling in hand. It was early still—too early to worry, certainly—but the silence unsettled her. He was not a man to forget his word, nor one to vanish without cause. Surely, if delayed, he would have found some means to inform them. Wouldn’t he?
