“But it is,” Mrs. Bennet continued eagerly, undeterred by her husband’s lack of enthusiasm. “For Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.”
Mr. Bennet remained silent, though Elizabeth thought she caught the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eye.
“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” his wife pressed impatiently.
“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. The words—this moment—she knew it. She had heard it before. This was the beginning. The beginning of everything.
Netherfield.
Fitzwilliam was coming.
The room swayed around her as memories—faint but undeniable—came rushing forth. She remembered this conversation, this very day. But in that other life, she had not known what was to come. Then, it had been a future unwritten. Now… now she knew the path that lay ahead.
Would he remember?
Her heart pounded. If this was truly happening—if she was truly here—then was it possible? Would Fitzwilliam look upon her at the Meryton assembly and remember the life they had shared? The love that had bound them? Or would he be as he had been then—reserved, proud, indifferent?
If he did not remember, should she tell him? Should she try to change things?
The thought both thrilled and terrified her.
Could they find happiness sooner? Could she spare Jane the heartache of Mr. Bingley’s departure, prevent Lydia from eloping with Wickham? If she altered even the smallest thing, would it unravel everything?
Or—dear God—what if she had already changed something?
Her hands clenched in her lap. Her mother was still speaking, detailing every known fact about Mr. Bingley, but Elizabeth barely heard her. So many questions, so many worries—her mind swirled with possibilities, with doubts.
One thing was certain.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was coming to Meryton.
And whatever this strange fate had in store for her, she would soon discover if she was truly alone in remembering.
Chapter 2
Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with—
“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth stiffened, her fingers faltering over the ribbon she had been tying. She knew these words; she had lived this moment before. Even as her mother spoke in her usual resentful tones, even as the conversation continued just as it had the first time, Elizabeth felt herself drifting between the past and present. She had decided two weeks ago, when she had awakened in this strange repetition of her life, that she must relive it, but that did not make it any less unnerving.
She had looked at her family with new eyes since that day. Where once she had laughed at her father’s dry humor, even found it endearing, now it grated on her nerves. He sat so smugly, delighting in teasing his wife, amused by her vexation, but what good did he do? Mrs. Bennet, for all her flaws, at least tried to act in what she believed was the best interest of her daughters, even if she went about it in the most aggravating way possible. But he? He did nothing. He let things happen, enjoying the play of their lives as though he were but an audience member rather than a participant.
And her mother—how foolish, how absurd, how… mercenary she must sound to others! Elizabeth could hear it so plainly now, every declaration of distress, every lament over their future, yet never did she speak of saving, of planning, of securing their futures with careful economy. She panicked but did not act, and Mr. Bennet, rather than helping, only made things worse.
Her sisters—dear Jane, sweet Jane, whose heart she knew would break before it would heal. She had to find a way to spare her that pain. And Lydia… wild, heedless Lydia, whose selfishness and reckless flirtations would bring disgrace upon them all. Could she stop that? Could she change things while still ensuring she ended up where she was meant to be—with Fitzwilliam? With her Darcy?
“Oh,” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I am the youngest, I’m the tallest.”
Elizabeth bit her lip, watching her youngest sister preen. Kitty, she knew, would do better once separated from Lydia’s influence, but how could she see that done? And Lydia—was there a way to change her course without driving her to worse rebellion?
The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon Mr. Bingley would return Mr. Bennet’s visit and determining when they should ask him to dinner. Elizabeth sat among them, an unwilling actress in a play she had already performed. The words, the actions, all the same as before, yet she was no longer the same Elizabeth. She was not merely reliving her past—she had a chance to reshape it.
She watched as her mother’s mood changed rapidly, from vexation to delight. Mrs. Bennet was always swift to turn a disappointment into triumph when circumstances allowed it, and tonight was no exception. Her exaggerated sighs turned into giddy laughter as she clasped her hands together. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, how good it was of you! But I knew I should persuade you at last.”
Elizabeth found she could no longer tolerate sitting idle as she had before. She leaned forward slightly and studied her mother. “Did you, Mamma?” she asked, tilting her head. “You seemed quite convinced not a moment ago that he had not gone.”
