The rhythm of the days bore the same structure: morning calls to the village, readings in the drawing room, and near-daily excursions to Rosings.
Outwardly, little had changed.
And yet beneath the sameness stirred a quiet, relentless current—a pulse of expectation, of hope, of fear—that she could neither hasten nor resist.
Lady Catherine, at least, remained wholly unchanged.
At the gentlemen’s departure, her sentiments were pronounced with their usual grandeur.
"I assure you, I feel it exceedingly," her ladyship declared over dinner, her spoon pausing dramatically in its course to her mouth. "I believe nobody feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men; and know them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Mr. Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely—more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases."
At this, Elizabeth could not suppress a slight smile.
If Lady Catherine imagined that Mr. Darcy’s attachment lay with Rosings—rather thanwith something, or someone, beyond its hedges—she would not be the one to disturb so comfortable a delusion.
Yet as she stirred her tea, Elizabeth felt a pang she could not quite quell.
He is gone,her heart whispered.And still, he has not come.
But she pushed the thought aside with practiced steadiness, willing herself to trust the course she had set.
He needed time.
And she would give it to him.
It was after dinner, a day or two later, that Lady Catherine, with her usual imperious condescension, addressed Elizabeth directly.
"Miss Bennet, you appear rather out of spirits. I can only suppose you do not wish to return home so soon. That is most natural. But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company, I am sure."
"I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation," Elizabeth replied, with her usual civility, "but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday."
Lady Catherine waved her hand in a half-dismissive gesture, though her narrowed eyes betrayed her displeasure at being refused.
But it was not her ladyship's countenance that held Elizabeth’s attention.
It was Anne's.
The girl, usually content to observe the world from behind a veil of indifference, allowed the faintest flicker of emotion to cross her pale features.
Disappointment—mild, but unmistakable.
And was there not a glimmer of curiosity too?
It was not the first time that week Elizabeth had caught Anne watching her with an intensity far beyond her customary listlessness.
Quiet though she was, Anne had always been more perceptive than her mother allowed, and Elizabeth could not help but wonder: had the Colonel, in some quiet moment, confided something of her strange confession?
There had been no opportunity to ask. They were never alone.
And she could scarcely imagine Colonel Fitzwilliam—or Mr. Darcy—entrusting anything of real importance to Lady Catherine's care.
Still, a subtle change lingered in the air between them, like mist that clings long after the rain has passed.
On the final morning of her stay, Elizabeth rose earlier than usual and slipped from the parsonage into the grove.
The path—their path, she had come to think of it—was still moist with dew, and the birds chattered in the hedgerows as if nothing in the world had changed.
She paced the worn trail slowly, her fingers brushing the fresh leaves as she passed.
