He would not.
NiNETEEN
Longbourn, Meryton, October 1812
Elizabeth
“And then Mama insisted the roses must be white, not pink, for she declared pink would clash with—” Jane paused, a small frown creasing her brow as she studied her sister’s face. “Lizzy, are you listening?”
Elizabeth blinked and took a delicate sip of her tea before offering a small, apologetic smile. “Forgive me, dearest Jane. What were you saying about the roses?”
Jane laughed. "You have not heard a word I've said for the past five minutes. And we only have a month until the wedding—there is much to decide!"
"Three weeks since Mr. Bingley proposed and you are already exhausted with planning. Imagine how you will feel by November."
"I am not exhausted, I am excited. Though I confess, I thought Mr. Darcy would have returned to Netherfield by now. Mr. Bingley mentioned yesterday that he could come any day now, but—"
Elizabeth's heart gave a painful lurch at the mention of his name, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. "Perhaps his business in Bristol required more time than anticipated."
"Perhaps. Still, it has been a month since we left Bath. I had hoped—"
The sound of approaching footsteps drew the sisters’ attention, and both turned toward the doorway just as Hill appeared there.
"Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy, ma'am."
Everything stopped.
The room. Her breath. Her heart.
Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth's teacup slipped from her fingers. Jane caught it before it could shatter, but Elizabeth barely noticed. She could only stare at the doorway, frozen, as two figures entered.
Mr. Bingley came first, beaming as always. And behind him—
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Elizabeth thought she might die. Actually die, right there in the drawing room at Longbourn, because her heart had forgotten how to beat and her lungs had forgotten how to draw breath and the floor was tilting at a very alarming angle.
He looked—
Thinner. Tired. Shadows beneath his eyes. But his gaze found hers immediately, and in that instant Elizabeth saw everything: hope and fear and longing and something that looked almost like desperation.
She gripped the arm of her chair to keep from swaying.
“Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy!” cried Mrs. Bennet as she swept into the room from the adjoining parlour. “How very good of you to call! We aresopleased to see you again!”
Mr. Darcy bowed. "Mrs. Bennet. Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth."
His voice was exactly as Elizabeth remembered—deep, controlled, achingly familiar. She managed a curtsy, though her knees felt weak.
"I did not know you had arrived at Netherfield," Mrs. Bennet continued. "Mr. Bingley said nothing of it yesterday!"
"I arrived only this morning, ma'am," Mr. Darcy replied.
Mr. Bennet emerged from his library, drawn by the commotion. When he saw Mr. Darcy, his expression transformed into something Elizabeth had rarely seen: genuine, unguarded gratitude.
"Mr. Darcy," her father said, crossing the room with his hand extended. "I have been hoping for the opportunity to thank you properly."
