Jane, entering just then, took in the scene with a soft smile. “If you both are to work on the dress,” she said, “I should be glad to help as well.”
“Oh, please do,” Kitty said eagerly. “You do the best embroidery.”
Jane blushed modestly. “I think yours are coming along very well. At your age, I was not half so neat with my stitches. I am sure that with practice, you shall soon surpass me—and your seams are already the finest of us all.”
Kitty looked up in surprise. “Do you truly think so?”
“I do,” Jane replied with a warm nod. “We shall make it beautiful between us.”
Elizabeth said nothing, but her gaze lingered on the quiet circle at the table—Jane and Kitty bent over a swatch of fabric, Mary adjusting a stitch with practiced care. It was not the scene she had once dreamed of, but something gentler had emerged in its place. Perhaps that was the gift of remembering: not to undo the past, but to notice what might have been missed the first time through. A glance shared. A kindness not demanded. A beginning, not perfect, but true.
Across the room, Mr. Bingley was still seated, idly folding and unfolding the corner of a newspaper. As Elizabeth rose to pour herself another cup of tea, he looked up and smiled.
"You are not to worry, Miss Elizabeth," he said, his tone light but sincere. "Darcy is the most dependable man I know. If he said he would come, then he will come. It may not be as soon as we hoped, but I daresay the delay will have a cause—and not, I think, a dramatic one. Letters do go astray, you know. The post is not half so reliable as we pretend."
She smiled in return, grateful for the kindness beneath his levity. "Indeed, I suppose the world does not halt for every promise made."
"No, but Darcy is not the sort to leave such a promise unattended," Bingley said, standing now and brushing a bit of lint from his cuff. "If he could send word, I am sure he would have."
Elizabeth nodded, but as she looked again to the window—the road still quiet, the sky still untroubled—something in her heart resisted the comfort. The hours were beginning to stretch. There were no mishaps left to invent, no new reason to offer.
It might have been nothing more than the ache of wanting. Or it might have been something else entirely.
She turned away, the matter unresolved. Behind her, the letter remained where it had fallen—unnoticed, unmissed, but not without consequence.
Chapter 49
The morning sun filtered through Longbourn’s lace-curtained parlour, lighting the writing desk where Elizabeth sat with unmoving hands. A single sheet of paper lay before her—blank, untouched, though she had been there nearly half an hour. She had thought, briefly, of writing to him. He had once written to her when all hope seemed lost. Could she do the same now?
But what would she say? And if he did not wish to hear from her—if silence had been his choice all along?
She had set down her pen without writing a word.
Three weeks had passed since Mr. Darcy was meant to arrive. Twenty-one days, and still no letter, no word—nothing but the thin comfort of Mr. Bingley’s easy reassurances and the oppressive company of his sisters, who had taken up residence at Netherfield and seemed determined to make themselves a fixture at Longbourn.
Miss Bingley, in particular, had become a daily presence. Though her stated purpose was to “assist dear Jane,” her real aim appeared to be control—of the conversation, the schedule, and most especially, the silence surrounding Mr. Darcy. Not once in the past fortnight had she spoken his name, but somehow it hovered over every drawing room moment, every question left unasked.
At first, Elizabeth had endured her with civility. Then with effort. But now, on the twenty-first morning without word, even civility felt like a trial.
It had not always been so. In the first week, Elizabeth had tried, in the beginning, to hold fast to hope. Bingley had reminded them that letters could be delayed, that travel was often unpredictable. One lost letter might mean nothing—two, perhaps a coincidence. But now, the silence stretched too long to ignore.
It was unlike him. And it felt unbearable.
She had clung to what she knew of Fitzwilliam’s character—his honour, his word, his heart. But silence, sustained long enough, can dull even the sharpest convictions. She had begun, almost against her will, to doubt everything—her memory, her purpose, even her decision to travel north.
Today, her aunt and uncle were expected. She had once counted down the days to their visit with real anticipation. But now, she hardly knew what she hoped for.
Would he come before they departed? Would he come at all?
The not knowing was the hardest part. She had once told Colonel Fitzwilliam that, in the life she remembered, she had not seen Mr. Darcy again until Pemberley. That hadbeen true then. But now everything had shifted. If he did not come to Longbourn—if these long, silent days ended with no word—should she go to him?
To Pemberley?
The thought unsettled her. Not because it was improper, though others might judge it so, but because she no longer knew whether it would be brave—or simply foolish.
Shortly before midday, the familiar sound of a carriage reached the parlour. Elizabeth, who had not risen in days to check, looked up with no particular interest—until Jane quietly murmured, “Charles.”
The drawing room stirred. Mary closed her book. Mrs. Bennet bustled in, nearly breathless with excitement, and before long, Mr. Bingley entered with his usual bright energy, cheeks still tinged from the ride.
