Mrs. Bennet blinked at her, looking momentarily confused before waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, pish, child! You know I have always had faith in your father’s duty to his family.”
Mr. Bennet, leaning back in his chair, smirked. “Ah, my dear, how reassuring it is to know that your confidence in me appears at the most convenient of times.”
Lydia giggled. “Well, if Mr. Bingley is half as handsome as they say, I daresay he shall not want for partners at the ball!” She turned to Jane with a teasing grin. “And perhaps he will favor you, dearest Jane. Everyone says he is a young man of good fortune and amiable disposition.”
Jane blushed and smiled gently but said nothing. Elizabeth studied her sister’s face, already anticipating the growing attachment that would form in the coming weeks. But would it lead to heartbreak once again? Could she, should she, interfere?
She had spent the past fortnight deliberating over how much she should change. If she was to relive her past, should she not at least attempt to rectify what she could? And yet, at what cost? What if altering one event led to something unforeseen? Would she still end up with Fitzwilliam if she tampered too much with the course of events?
“Jane is far too lovely to go unnoticed,” Elizabeth said, her voice gentle. “I believe Mr. Bingley shall find himself most fortunate indeed to make her acquaintance.”
Jane’s blush deepened, and she laughed softly. “Lizzy, you must not tease me so.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “It is no tease, dearest.” She glanced toward her father, who was watching her with an unreadable expression. He had noticed, she realized. Not just now, but over the past two weeks. He had noticed the subtle shifts in her demeanor, the way she studied their family with a more critical eye, the way she had held herself with a quiet certainty that did not match her supposed twenty years.
Mr. Bennet was a man of intelligence, despite his indolence, and though he often found amusement in the absurdities of life, he was not so oblivious as to miss changes in his own household. Elizabeth met his gaze and held it for a moment before looking away. She would have to be more careful.
As the evening drew to a close, Elizabeth made her way to her room, her mind buzzing with possibilities. She sat by her dressing table, staring at her reflection. This was her chance—her second chance. She had once walked these paths blindly, made her share of youthful errors, and—almost miraculously—found her way to happiness. But now… now she had knowledge of the future. Could she use it to protect those she loved?
She exhaled softly and closed her eyes. Every night, she prayed she would wake in Pemberley, beside her husband and son. And every morning, she opened her eyes to find herself still here, in the past. If this was not a dream, if this was truly happening, then she could not waste this opportunity.
She just had to be very, very careful.
Chapter 3
Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways, with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbor, Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favorable. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained.
Elizabeth listened to her family's excitement with an odd sense of detachment. She had lived this moment before, had seen her sisters' eager expressions, heard her mother's schemes, and yet, she felt no thrill of anticipation. Instead, she found herself exasperated by the endless speculation. When Lydia declared that he must be verycharming if he was fond of dancing, Elizabeth muttered without thinking, "He is indeed, though he prefers country dances to reels."
The room fell silent for a brief moment as all eyes turned to her. Elizabeth froze, realizing her mistake. "Well, that is to say, a man of fortune must certainly enjoy such entertainments, must he not?" She forced a laugh, waving her hand dismissively as if she had merely been jesting. Jane gave her a curious look, but Mrs. Bennet was too enraptured with her own excitement to take notice. The moment passed, and the conversation resumed its usual fervor.
In a few days, Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.
Elizabeth smiled to herself at the absurdity of it. She had spent years as mistress of Pemberley, engaging in conversations of true substance, hosting important guests, and managing a great estate. And yet, here she was again, trapped in the same idle speculations about a gentleman’s attire and his means of transportation. She might have laughed had she not felt so close to tears.
She had been on the other side of it once, watching as a new gentleman arrived in the neighborhood and became the focus of speculation. She recalled attending a small gathering in a nearby village with Darcy and his cousin, the Viscount, when he had still been single. The whispers, the eager glances, the surmises—it had been amusing then, but now she found it all exhausting. She longed for the quiet dignity of her life at Pemberley, for the comfort of her husband's steady presence, for the sweet weight of her son in her arms. But none of it was hers anymore.
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to accept the honor of their invitation. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might always be flying about from one place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing that, instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the assembly-room, it consisted of only fivealtogether: Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man.
Elizabeth listened, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She knew who that other young man would be. She knew the exact expression he would wear when he entered the assembly room, the studied indifference, the hauteur that concealed his discomfort. She had long since learned to read him well, to see past the cold exterior to the man beneath. But would she have to do so all over again? Could she bear to relive those misunderstandings, to endure his disdain, to navigate the pain of separation before she could have him again?
Elizabeth stood among the throng, her heart hammering as the Netherfield party entered. The air around her crackled with murmurs of curiosity. She heard the whispers pass from one eager lip to another, the gasps of admiration at Mr. Darcy’s fine, tall figure, the murmured speculations on his fortune.
"Ten thousand a year at least," someone muttered behind her. "And such a noble bearing!"
"A most eligible young man," another added, with a sigh that spoke of wistful ambition.
Elizabeth lowered her lashes, willing her pulse to slow, but the past and present blurred together.
She remembered the conversation—no, not a memory, a future that had already been lived. She and Fitzwilliam, newly married, lying in the soft glow of candlelight, speaking of this very night. His voice had been hushed, his expression unreadable, as he admitted his poor behavior.
“There was no excuse,” he had told her. “I had just arrived that day, after leaving Georgiana for the first time. I was in no mood to socialize, but to stay back would be to endure Miss Bingley’s company alone. That, I could not abide.”
She had teased him into explaining further, and he had sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. “Miss Bingley had latched onto my arm, and before I had properly stepped inside, I heard it. ‘Ten thousand a year, at least. Such noble bearings. A most eligible young man.’”
His lips had pressed together. “But the worst—Lady Lucas and your mother, saying I had already inherited. As if my father’s death was a boon to my fortune. As if I should be grateful.”
Elizabeth had felt a pang at the memory of his father, a loss he had never spoken of lightly. “And then,” he had continued, “I heard, ‘He would not be quite so handsome if he were not so rich.’”
