Before long, the figures of two gentlemen on horseback came into view. Elizabeth recognized them at once—Mr. Bingley, already smiling at the sight of Jane, and Mr. Darcy, ever composed, though his eyes darkened slightly upon noticing her.
Bingley dismounted swiftly, his gaze warm. “Miss Bennet! This is a most fortunate encounter.” He looked between them. “You are returning home so soon? Have you had your walk cut short?”
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before Jane answered truthfully. “Elizabeth had forgotten something of importance. We thought it best to turn back.”
“Then allow us to escort you,” Bingley offered eagerly. “It would be remiss of me to let you travel alone.”
Darcy hesitated but, seeing Bingley’s determination, he could do little but follow suit. As Jane and Bingley fell easily into conversation, Elizabeth found herself walking beside Mr. Darcy, an uncomfortable silence stretching between them.
Summoning her courage, she said, “I hope you have been well, sir.”
Darcy’s gaze flickered toward her. “I have, thank you. And you, Miss Bennet?”
“I am well.” She hesitated before adding, “I must thank you for your concern the other morning.”
His expression remained unreadable. “I would have been remiss not to inquire.”
Elizabeth felt the weight of his scrutiny. Did he still suspect her? She could not risk rekindling his doubts, yet she could not remain silent.
“I must tell you something,” she began carefully. “I would not do so if I did not believe it of importance.”
Darcy’s posture stiffened slightly, but he nodded. “Go on.”
Elizabeth glanced toward Jane and Bingley. They were just far enough ahead to be out of earshot. Swallowing her apprehension, she spoke as plainly as she dared.
“I saw Mr. Wickham in Meryton today.”
Darcy’s reaction was immediate. His stride faltered for the briefest moment before he recovered, but his eyes darkened. “Mr. Wickham?” His voice was controlled, but she could sense the tension beneath it. “You are certain?”
“Yes,” she replied, keeping her voice steady. “He has joined the militia.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts. Elizabeth kept her gaze forward, unwilling to meet his searching eyes. She could not afford his suspicion, not again.
At last, Darcy exhaled slowly. “I thank you for telling me this.”
She risked a glance at him and found his expression unreadable. Was he questioning how she knew to warn him? Was he recalling the tears he had seen, the way she had denied ever meeting Wickham? Or did he sense—despite all her efforts—that there was more to her knowledge than she dared admit?
Elizabeth steeled herself. “I thought it best you were made aware.”
Darcy nodded, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “Yes. Quite so.”
They continued on in silence, but Elizabeth knew that, in Mr. Darcy’s mind, the mystery of Elizabeth Bennet had only deepened.
Darcy’s thoughts were a tangled maze, each step forward bringing more questions than answers. From the very moment he had first seen her, he had wounded her pride, and yet, in her eyes, there had been something beyond mere offense—something that had haunted him ever since. Then, at Lucas Lodge, she had playedOde to the Happy Heart—a piece so intimate to his family that only his mother and Georgiana had ever performed it. It was out of fashion, known only to those with a true passion for music, and yet Elizabeth had known it. And she had looked at him as though she expected him to recognize the significance.
And then the dance. A singular experience unlike any other he had known, moving in perfect harmony with her, as if they had danced together a hundred times before. He had been bewitched by it, by her. Her arrival at Netherfield had only further unsettled him. She seemed to divine his thoughts, catching his gaze at moments when he had scarcely realized he had been staring. And then she hadguessedGeorgiana’s preference for Clementi over Beethoven—an insight so precise it had sent his suspicions into overdrive. The only person who could have given her such knowledge was Wickham, a man known for his deceit.
Yet, when he had confronted her, when he had accused her outright, her tears had been unguarded, her pain too real to be feigned. She would have to be the greatest actress alive to maintain such an illusion. And now—now she was bringing up Wickham again. Why? Why this persistence? His logic dictated wariness, but something deeper, something unspoken, longed to trust her.
Beside him, Elizabeth remained silent, sensing the storm in his mind. She knew better than to press him when he was in such turmoil. To push now would only drive him further from the truth. So she waited, walking in step with him, giving him time to make sense of what she knew would unsettle him further.
It was only when Longbourn came into sight that she finally spoke, her voice low and firm. "I swear to you, Mr. Darcy, Wickham is nothing to me. And I will see he does not harm my town. You need not worry or involve yourself."
Before Darcy could respond, a shrill voice rang out from the house. "Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy!" Mrs. Bennet had spotted them and now leaned out the window like a fishmonger’s wife, waving her handkerchief wildly. "You must come in for tea!"
Darcy stiffened at the summons, and with a bow, he declined. "I regret that urgent business calls me back to Netherfield, madam."
Bingley, all warmth and eagerness, accepted at once. "Thank you, madam! It would be our pleasure."
