There had been no word from Colonel Fitzwilliam, no sign, nothing but the endless ache of waiting.
She had wondered—oh, how she had wondered!—where he had gone, what decision he would make, whether he would return to her at all.
And now fate had flung them together without mercy or design.
Was it proper to greet him?
Her mind warred against itself:
Courtesy demanded distance;
Memory cried out for connection.
She had sworn to give him time.
Would she betray that promise now?
Her gaze flickered sideways, betraying her even as she fought for composure.
The Earl was laughing; the Countess leaned in, graceful and dignified.
And Darcy—
he sat with that same rigid grace, his shoulders stiff, his head slightly bent toward his aunt—
but something about him was brittle, strained, as if the very air around him were too sharp to breathe.
The sight tore at her unexpectedly.
Elizabeth remembered—too well—those evenings at Pemberley:
the glow of the fire, the low murmur of Darcy’s voice, the quiet sense of belonging she had once felt among these very people.
The Earl’s booming tales of Lady Catherine’s youthful tyranny;
the Countess’s warm, knowing smiles;
Darcy’s hand resting lightly atop hers, as though it had every right to be there.
How strange it was—
to be so near to that life,
and yet so utterly removed.
To see all she had once held dear as if through a glass darkly—
distant, untouchable.
Her throat tightened painfully. She blinked hard, willing back the sudden burn behind her eyes.
This was the price of remembering.
This was the price of loving a man who no longer knew how deeply he had been loved.
Perhaps she could simply nod. A smile, nothing more—a gesture of polite civility.
That would not break any promise.
