"Lizzy..? Elizabeth!"

Mrs Bennet's plaintive call turned to one of irritation, but she recalled herself almost immediately, shooting Darcy and Bingley a theatrical little smile and ushering them further into the room. Darcy glanced towards the doorway, sensing his opportunity would not be afforded him a second time.

"You go in, Bingley. I just remembered something I wished to settle with our driver…"

It was a fabricated excuse, and a poor one at that, but Darcy gambled on the fact that Mrs Bennet would be so enamoured with Bingley's presence and so eager to usher him into the very centre of their gathering that she would not remark upon it. Only one young lady seemed to notice his exit and her eyes were fixed on him so sharply that he felt strangely certain that she knew precisely whom he wished to speak to and that it was not in any shape or form a carriage driver. He smiled in a manner he hoped was reassuring, dipping his head to Mary almost imperceptibly, before retracing his steps. He paused in the hallway, wondering which direction Elizabeth might have gone in and immediately questioning the wisdom of following her.

I cannot very well follow her into a closed room! His thoughts were scarcely coherent, though, and as he glanced towards the main entrance to Longbourn, some fleeting movement beyond the door decided him and he walked towards it, pulling it open and stepping out into the cold, grey outdoors.

"I am quite well," Elizabeth blurted, before she saw who it was that had followed her. She was prompted by the sound of the door, no doubt, and as Darcy turned the corner towards her she was wiping something from one cheek, already forcing a pained smile onto her face.

"Truly, do not worry, I shall return shortly - oh!"

Darcy could not help but recognise the way her expression changed. Not just her expression: her entire posture grew rigid as she saw it was he that followed her, and his courage, which had powered him this far, failed him. He bowed, stiffly, but was still not quite able to tear his gaze from her.

"You prefer I send someone else? I can fetch anyone, merely say the word." He tried to smile and gathered from her reaction he was not entirely successful in the attempt. "Perhaps Mr Collins would be a better comfort to you."

He wanted to say what is the matter? Tell me, let me help. He wanted to say, is this because you do not wish us to leave - do not wish me to leave? Say the word and I will stay. Instead, he said nothing, clamping his lips closed lest the words bubble up out of him regardless.

"Mr Collins?" Elizabeth's eyebrows raised so suddenly that Darcy wondered why his suggestion should be quite so surprising.

"You are upset," he said, spitting out his words. "Perhaps you would rather he were here to offer you the comfort my presence does not."

"I am not upset," Elizabeth retorted, her voice shaking either with tears or anger, Darcy could not tell. "And if I were, I assure you I should not seek comfort from Mr Collins!" This last was a whisper, but no less pointed. When Darcy did not immediately respond, she sought to clarify further. "I scarcely know the man! He is Father's cousin, but I should no more confide in him than I should in - in anyone else." She drew in a long, shaky breath and at last began to look more like herself. "But in any case, there is nothing to confide. I am quite well."

"You regularly flee from your own parlour upon the arrival of guests, do you?"

Darcy could not resist making the comment, but when he saw a flash of pain in Elizabeth's eyes, he wished he had kept his mouth shut. He would do well to draw this interview to a close before he said something else he might regret. Elizabeth had not developed the ability to be truthful in their time apart. If anything, she had grown more inclined to lie. Mr Collins is a stranger to me. What nonsense! Darcy had seen with his own eyes how close they were, not one evening past!

"Forgive me," he muttered. "I came to reassure myself that you were not unwell, and I have done that. I will return to my friend." He turned on his heel and was poised to march back into the house when Elizabeth's voice stopped him.

"Mr Darcy." It was a weary call, a reluctant one, but still, he found himself stopping and turning back towards her, surprised to see two faint spots of colour in her cheeks.

"Elizabeth." He had dropped the formal Miss almost without realising it. Standing there, he did not see her as she was now but as she had been, that very last time they had met in London. He could almost hear the same words he had uttered to her then, the excuse of being called away, the promise to explain everything. I did explain everything. I wrote and heard nothing in return. The question that had dogged him for all the years they had been parted nudged itself to the forefront again, and he opened his mouth to ask it, but Elizabeth beat him to it.

"Do you ever think of our time in London?"

He nodded, unsure whether he could voice a single one of the thousand thoughts that crowded into his mind at that moment, and not trusting himself to try.

"I suppose it has faded into obscurity for you -"

"And has it not for you?" This afforded him clarity. She would not suggest, now, that she was the one who cared, that she had lost more than he. She was the one who had failed to meet him. If either of them bore the blame for their connection separation, it was not him.

"It is easier for gentlemen to forget, I wager," Elizabeth said, with a bittersweet smile. "You are more often out in the world, your lives are fuller. And in any case, you had your betrothed to think of." Her voice hardened with these last words so that it took Darcy a moment to process them.

"My betrothed?" He frowned, certain he had misunderstood.

"Anne de Bourgh." Elizabeth's gaze grew steely. "Mr Collins told me of your engagement. I wish you very happy, Mr Darcy. I suppose our friendship offered you some distraction, and I must be grateful that it went no further than a handful of walks in St James' park. Even so, I will treasure it."

"Anne de Bourgh - our friendship -" The words were ephemeral and Darcy struggled to grasp hold of them before they slipped free, like mist. At last, he found a foothold. "Mr Collins told you. I see, he is a stranger when it suits you, but when it comes to spreading rumours about those you prefer to think ill of, you credit him with all intelligence."

This was blurted out far sharper than it ought to have been, but Darcy was so stunned to have his cousin thrust before him, as if she was to blame for Elizabeth's disappearance, that he had no energy free to modulate his tone or his temper.

"Then he is lying?"

"He is mistaken," Darcy said, firmly. "I am not now, nor have I ever been, engaged to Miss Anne de Bourgh." He fixed his eyes on Elizabeth, certain that this was the only opportunity he would have to speak like this. Let him say his piece now and then never again. "There is but one woman I ever considered marrying, but she denied me the opportunity, four years ago in London. You accuse me of forgetting you, Elizabeth, but I was not the one who refused a final goodbye. I did leave London, in that you are right, but I did not leave you. I wrote a letter, explaining all, and I waited, as I said I would. It was you who never cared to meet me."

Elizabeth frowned, her features folding in on themselves as she struggled to make sense of his words.

"What letter?"

This was too much for Darcy to bear. He was no great correspondent but he had laid his heart and soul bare in that note, and for her to claim no memory of it was as if she threw away his whole self with it. He shook his head, already formulating one last, biting dismissal he had no opportunity to deliver.

"Mr Darcy?"

It was Mr Bennet who saw them, opening the door to Longbourn and glancing in confusion from Darcy to his daughter and back again.

"Lizzy? Is something the matter? Your mother has ordered tea and suggested I might find either or both of you outside." He glanced cautiously to the skies and shuddered. "I cannot think why, when it looks so much like rain. Come in and join us, do, and save poor Mr Bingley from being talked to death…"