Jane reached for her hand. “You are. You simply look outward first, quickly. I look inward, patiently.”
Elizabeth squeezed her fingers. “I beg your pardon, then, for doubting you.”
“There is nothing to pardon,” Jane said warmly. “You only wish to protect me.”
“I always will,” Elizabeth replied.
They exchanged a smile, and the moment passed as naturally as it had come. Jane reached for her slippers, and Elizabeth straightened her shawl.
“Come,” Elizabeth said briskly. “Let us go down to breakfast before we are missed—and before I have time to form yet another opinion I must later retract.”
Jane laughed, and together they left the room, arm in arm. As they descended the stairs, Elizabeth found her thoughts lingering on Jane’s words. She had always known her sister to be kind, patient, and unfailingly generous in her judgments—but this quiet clarity, this measured understanding of circumstance and character, struck Elizabeth anew. Jane did not argue loudly, nor insist upon her own cleverness. She simply saw—and waited.
Still waters, indeed,Elizabeth thought, and felt a flicker of humility warm her chest.
Her attention shifted, as it must, to more immediate concerns. The carriage would need to be requested, propriety observed, farewells made. She was, she admitted, faintly relieved at the prospect of departure. Miss Bingley was no longer confined to her room, and the thought of enduring another day beneath Caroline’s sharp gaze and sharper tongue was not an inviting one.
And yet—
A small pang caught her unawares.
She would miss Mr. Darcy.
The realization unsettled her. Their conversations—quiet, searching, edged with wit and unexpected warmth—had become something she looked forward to more than she cared to admit, even to herself. He listened. He challenged. He revealed just enough to suggest depths she had not yet sounded. It was not the sort of acquaintance one easily relinquished.
By the time they reached the breakfast room, Elizabeth had schooled her expression into calm attentiveness, but she remained quieter than usual. Jane, composed and serene, made the necessary request for the carriage with gentle gratitude and perfect propriety.
Elizabeth said little as the meal progressed, her thoughts divided between the comfort of home awaiting them—and the curious, unanticipated regret of leaving this one particular house, and one particular gentleman, behind.
∞∞∞
Darcy noticed Elizabeth’s quiet the moment she entered the breakfast room.
It was not sullenness, nor displeasure—only a thoughtful stillness that sat oddly upon her, like a borrowed shawl. She listened more than she spoke, her gaze drifting now and again, her hands folded in her lap rather than occupied with her usual activity. He found himself watching her far more closely than propriety demanded, a faint unease settling in his chest.
Jane spoke at last, her voice gentle as ever, requesting the use of the carriage to return to Longbourn that morning.
Darcy scarcely registered the words before Bingley reacted.
“Nonsense,” Bingley said at once, pushing back his chair slightly. “It would not be safe. You were ill only yesterday, Miss Bennet. You must stay another day at least. The roads are uneven, the air chill. Pray, remain until after church tomorrow. We can attend together, and afterwards you may return home with your family.”
Darcy felt a sharp, irrational jolt of alarm.
Elizabeth leaving? Today?
The thought unsettled him more than he realized. He had known her only weeks, andreallycome to know her for only a few days, and yet the idea of Netherfield without her presence—without her voice, her quick expressions, her thoughtful questions—felt suddenly diminished. He realized, with no small astonishment, how swiftly she had become woven into the fabric of his days.
Before he could consider the impropriety of it, he added his voice to Bingley’s.
“I agree,” Darcy said firmly. “Another day of rest would be prudent. You have both been through a great deal, and it would be a comfort to us to know Miss Bennet is fully recovered before you depart.”
Jane hesitated, clearly torn between gratitude and propriety. Elizabeth glanced up then, her eyes meeting Darcy’s. Something unreadable flickered across her face—surprise, perhaps, followed by consideration.
At last, Jane nodded. “Very well. One more day.”
Darcy exhaled, only then aware he had been holding his breath.
Elizabeth offered him a small smile across the table—not playful, not teasing, but warm and quietly appreciative. It settled something inside him, even as it stirred something else.
