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Nobody answers me.

"It is the blow, your ladyship," Mr. Pettigrew murmurs. "It is not uncommon. The mind mislays the hours nearest the injury. They may return. They may not."

"May not?" My aunt draws herself up. "Mr. Pettigrew, my nephew is the master of Pemberley. He cannot be permitted to mislay his Thursdays."

"No, your ladyship."

"Mend it."

"I—yes, your ladyship. That is—rest, and quiet, and above all no agitation. The head must not be excited."

"Excited." She turns the full force of her attention upon him. "In this house?"

"Only that a second shock, so soon, might do real harm—"

"Nonsense. Darcy has never been excited in his life."

Fitzwilliam makes a small sound, like a cough strangled at birth.

"I shall speak to Hobbs," my aunt announces. "That bough ought to have been cut at Michaelmas. I said so at the time."

"Hobbs says you did not give the word, Aunt."

"Then Hobbs is mistaken, and he shall be informed of it." She sweeps to the door. "And I want to know what that Bennet girl was doing in my lane at such an hour. Grubbing about in the mud like a milkmaid. It is not to be borne."

The door shuts behind her with great force.

Mr. Pettigrew winces on my behalf. "Not excited," he says faintly, to no one in particular.

But I am no longer listening to him.

"Miss Bennet," I say.

Fitzwilliam and the apothecary exchange another look.

"It was Miss Bennet who found you, sir," says Mr. Pettigrew. "In the lane. She ran all the way to the house for help. All the way, without her bonnet. I believe she has not left since."

She found me.

She ran.

Something eases in my chest that I had not known was clenched. I recall the walk to the parsonage, the pounding of my heart, the words ready. I recall how certain I was, all the way down the lane. I had never been so certain of anything.

I do not recall her answer. I find I do not need to.

She ran all the way without her bonnet.

"Fitzwilliam," I say, and I cannot help smiling, though it pulls at the cut on my temple. "Where is Miss Bennet? She will be worried."

Fitzwilliam opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

"Fetch her up, would you? I do not like to think of her waiting below with our aunt prowling about." I lie back against the pillows, and the room steadies, and for the first time in months I feel entirely at peace. "We are engaged."

Chapter Three — Elizabeth

"He is asking for you," says Colonel Fitzwilliam. "He says you are engaged to him."

I am sitting in Lady Catherine's small breakfast parlor with mud drying stiff on my skirt and a cup of tea I have not touched going cold in my hands. I look up at him. I wait for the rest of the sentence. Surely there is a rest of the sentence.