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Chapter 22 She gets it Wrong

A rooster crowed sharply in the distance, breaking the stillness of the morning and pulling Elizabeth Bennet from the embrace of sleep. She blinked against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, a faint chill in the air brushing her skin. A gust of wind rattled the panes, the sound sending an inexplicable shiver down her spine.

For a moment, she lay still, her thoughts clouded by the remnants of a dream that did not fade as they usually did, but lingered—insistent and pressing. Scenes swirled in her mind, disjointed yet vivid: Mr. Darcy walking beside her, his voice deep and steady as they spoke of books, of Shakespeare, of things she had never imagined discussing with him. The Colonel's laughter rang in the background, light and teasing. A little girl—who was she?—dashed ahead, her joyful giggle echoing in the wind. And Miss. De Bourgh with an expression far more determined than Elizabeth had ever seen before, speaking in hushed tones over tea.

Elizabeth's heart quickened as the fragments settled, not disappearing but remaining just beyond reach, as if waiting to be remembered fully.

What was it? What did it mean?

She pushed herself upright, rubbing her temples. These were not mere dreams—they felt real, tangible. As if she had lived them. As if she should remember them.

An urgency stirred in her chest, an impulse she could not explain. She had to go—outside, somewhere, anywhere—but why?

The sensation of being drawn forward clashed against her usual morning routine, forcing her to temper her impulse. She could not simply flee the house without explanation. No, she had to carry on as expected, despite the restlessness curling inside her.

Sighing, she pushed the covers aside and swung her feet to the floor. The cool wood sent a shock up her legs, grounding her in the present.

Shaking off the unease, she dressed quickly and made her way to the small breakfast table where the rest of the household was gathering.

Mariah Lucas greeted her with a cheery smile, already halfway through her bread and jam. Charlotte, practical and composed as ever, was pouring tea, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to Elizabeth's unsettled mood.

And then there was Mr. Collins.

Elizabeth's appetite wavered as she watched him. He shoveled food into his mouth with enthusiasm, speaking through mouthfuls about Lady Catherine's latest directives for the estate. The sight was both revolting and sadly familiar, yet six weeks of exposure had not been enough to desensitize her.

"Lady Catherine," Mr. Collins declared, spraying crumbs in his excitement, "has shown such remarkable wisdom in her suggestions for the vegetable garden. Truly, her insight knows no bounds!"

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Charlotte, who managed to conceal her amusement with a polite nod. Mariah stifled a giggle behind her teacup.

Elizabeth reached for a piece of toast, her fingers tightening around it absently. She needed to hurry. No—she had no real reason to rush, and yet every moment spent at the breakfast table felt agonizingly slow, an obstacle to something she could not quite name.

She had never been one to allow impatience to dictate her behavior, but something was different today. The dream—or the memory, if that was what it truly was—sat in her mind like an unfinished sentence, begging her to find its conclusion.

After breakfast, Mr. Collins excused himself, donning his hat with an air of self-importance as he departed for Rosings to make his morning reports. Mariah retreated upstairs to pen a letter home, and Charlotte mentioned her plans to tend to the garden.

"What about you, Lizzy?" Charlotte asked, tying her bonnet beneath her chin.

Elizabeth glanced toward the window, where the bright morning sun beckoned. "I think I shall take a walk. The fresh air might do me some good."

Charlotte smiled knowingly. "Enjoy yourself. But do try not to wander too far. You know how Mr. Collins frets when you're late for tea."

Elizabeth laughed softly, but the sound felt distant. "I shall endeavor to return in a timely manner, though I make no promises."

Stepping outside, the crisp morning air filled her lungs, steadying her resolve.

She did not know where she was going.

She only knew she had to go.

Elizabeth's steps carried her forward, the pull in her chest guiding her with a certainty she did not fully understand. The fields stretched before her, bathed in the soft morning light, the air crisp with the scent of damp earth and fresh grass. A familiar landscape—one she had walked many times before—yet something felt different.

Just as she reached the clearing, movement in the distance caught her eye.

Mr. Darcy.

He was on horseback, his tall frame taut with purpose, his arms outstretched as he leaned forward in his saddle. Elizabeth barely had time to register what he was doing before she saw the small figure above him—a little girl perched precariously on a tree branch.

The very same child from her dream.

Elizabeth gasped, her feet halting as she watched the moment unfold. Just as the girl's grip faltered, Darcy spurred his horse forward, his hands reaching. He caught her effortlessly, pulling her into his arms just as she tumbled. The child let out a breathless laugh, clinging to him with an ease that spoke of trust, of familiarity.

Elizabeth felt her own breath hitch.

Darcy does not laugh.

It was an absolute truth, one she had long accepted. Mr. Darcy was serious, composed—so very unlike the kind of man who would find delight in childish antics.

And yet...

A memory, unexpected and vivid, flickered in her mind.

Darcy laughing.

Not just smiling politely, not the faint smirk she had seen once or twice, but laughing. A deep, unguarded sound, warm and rich. It was during a walk—no, not those quite walks she took with him every day the last three days, nor any she could place with certainty, they were walks as if they were dreams and yet she knew they were real. But she had said something, and Darcy had chuckled, shaking his head, amusement plain in his dark eyes.

Elizabeth pressed a hand to her temple, steadying herself.

No… no, I do not remember this.

But she did.

Her woolgathering shattered as she looked up again, realizing that Darcy had dismounted and was now approaching her. The little girl—Violet, her mind supplied, though she had no reason to know it—was walking with him, chattering excitedly.

Wait—how did she know the child's name?

Elizabeth's gaze darted between them, uncertainty creeping into her chest.

"Miss Bennet," Darcy greeted her, inclining his head, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, hesitation. Had he noticed her faltering step?

"Mr. Darcy," she returned, her voice steady despite the whirlwind inside her.

Violet turned her bright, mischievous eyes on Elizabeth and beamed. "You're here!"

Elizabeth blinked at the child's familiarity. "It would seem so," she murmured, searching her memory, searching for something that made sense.

Violet let go of Mr. Darcy's hand, stretching eagerly toward Elizabeth as if they were old friends. "You came to find him, didn't you?"

Elizabeth's heart stuttered. "Find him?" she echoed, uncertain.

Violet nodded, her expression alight with certainty. "Of course! You're supposed to find him. You're the special lady, and he is the special gentleman."

Elizabeth inhaled sharply as a sudden wave of memories crashed over her.

Flashes.

A modest tenant's cottage, the air thick with steam as she carefully ladled medicine into a spoon. A little boy, sickly but trusting, taking it from her hand. A woman's voice—his mother's—thick with gratitude. And there, standing near the hearth, was Darcy. Watching her.

Violet was there, too, bright-eyed and beaming, tugging on her sleeve. "You are the special lady."

Another flash.

A walk along the paths of Rosings, Darcy at her side. Violet darting ahead, plucking wildflowers and twirling in the sunlight. The nickname again—"special lady"—spoken with the assuredness only a child could possess.

Elizabeth's breath caught as she returned to the present, the images slipping away like mist. She felt the warmth of them still, lingering at the edges of her mind, and though they felt impossibly distant, impossibly unreal, they also felt... right.

Violet tilted her head, studying Elizabeth with the wisdom of a child who had already lived this day far too many times. "Has it gotten easier yet?"

Elizabeth let out a soft, breathless laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "I think it is."

Darcy, silent through the exchange, watched her closely. There was something in his gaze—hope, hesitation, longing.

For the first time, Elizabeth did not look away.

Darcy exhaled softly and gave Violet's hand a gentle squeeze. "Come, we must return you to your mother."

Elizabeth nodded, but as soon as they turned toward the Bendrick cottage, another wave of memories washed over her.

Flashes.

Darcy speaking of sending John to her uncle's warehouse for medicines. Not just for the sick child in the tenant's cottage but for Anne de Bourgh as well. She had recommended it—she could see herself doing so, hear her own voice explaining which herbs would help. But she hadn't done those things. Had she?

Elizabeth blinked, struggling against the contradiction within her own mind. The man beside her, the one leading a little girl so gently by the hand, was not the one she had thought she knew. Yet every time she tried to reaffirm her prior opinion of Mr. Darcy—proud, aloof, indifferent—another memory, another truth, surfaced to prove her wrong.

As they approached the Bendrick cottage, Violet's grip on Darcy's hand tightened. "Do I have to stay here today?" she asked, her small voice laced with disappointment.

Darcy gave her a gentle look, though his answer was firm. "Yes, Violet. Your mother will worry if you are gone too long."

Elizabeth glanced down at the little girl, her heart unexpectedly warmed by the way she clung to Mr. Darcy. It was a sight she never would have expected—a small child trusting him so openly, and him, in turn, treating her with such patience.

The door opened before they reached it, and Mrs. Bendrick stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron. She hesitated at the sight of them, her gaze flickering between Violet, Elizabeth, and finally Darcy. There was confusion in her eyes, and Elizabeth realized with a pang that the woman did not remember them from the previous days.

"Mr. Darcy?" Mrs. Bendrick asked, brow furrowed. "I—" she faltered, clearly uncertain why Lady Catherine's nephew would be standing at her doorstep, let alone holding her daughter's hand. Then her gaze landed on Elizabeth. "And you must be Miss Bennet? The one staying at the parsonage with Mrs. Collins?"

Elizabeth inclined her head. "Yes, Mrs. Bendrick. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Violet, eager to explain, piped up, "Mama, Mr. Darcy saved me from the tree again today."

Mrs. Bendrick gasped and knelt to inspect her daughter, her hands moving over Violet's arms and face, searching for any sign of injury. "Violet, how many times must I tell you not to climb that tree?" She turned wide eyes to Darcy. "Sir, I don't know how to thank you. I dread to think what might have happened if you hadn't been there."

Darcy inclined his head. "There is no need for thanks, Mrs. Bendrick. I am simply glad she is unharmed."

Just then, a wracking cough sounded from within the cottage. Mrs. Bendrick's expression immediately shifted to worry as she turned toward the door. "Thomas," she murmured, rushing inside.

Elizabeth, without hesitation, followed. The moment she stepped into the cottage, a wave of familiarity crashed over her. The simple furnishings, the scent of herbs lingering in the air, the frail boy bundled in blankets—it was all so familiar. Her heart skipped as a memory surfaced: her kneeling by the hearth, brewing tea for Thomas, Darcy standing beside her, quietly reassuring Mrs. Bendrick that medicine was on the way.

She knew.

She didn't know how, but she knew.

Elizabeth moved quickly, crossing to where Mrs. Bendrick was fussing over her son. "Mrs. Bendrick, may I help?" she asked softly.

The woman, startled, turned to her. "Oh, Miss Bennet, I—" She hesitated, her worry plain. "I don't know what else to do. He's been struggling all morning."

Elizabeth knelt beside the child, pressing a hand to his forehead. He was warm but not burning with fever. His breath was shallow, each exhale punctuated by the telltale rattle of congestion. And then, as if the knowledge had always been inside her, Elizabeth knew the answer. She turned sharply to Darcy, who stood in the doorway, watching intently.

"John has gone to fetch the medicine, hasn't he?" she asked.

Darcy stiffened. "Yes. It should arrive this evening."

Mrs. Bendrick's eyes darted between them, confusion deepening. "Medicine?"

Elizabeth turned back to her with a reassuring smile. "Yes. Mr. Darcy has arranged for special herbs to be brought from London. They will help Thomas breathe easier."

The woman's lips parted in astonishment. "Mr. Darcy has done this?"

Elizabeth hesitated for only a second before she answered with certainty, "Yes, and you need not worry. The medicine will be here soon."

Mrs. Bendrick let out a shaky breath, her hands smoothing over her son's blankets. "God bless you both."

Darcy met Elizabeth's gaze across the small room, something unspoken passing between them. She had remembered. Perhaps not everything, not yet—but enough to know what he had done.

As they left the Bendrick cottage, Darcy and Elizabeth fell into step beside one another, the well-worn path beneath their feet familiar, yet something between them had undeniably shifted. Silence stretched between them—not the comfortable quiet of understanding, but the weighty hush of thoughts left unspoken.

Elizabeth clutched her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. She wanted to hold on to the certainty she had possessed only yesterday—that Mr. Darcy was proud, disdainful, and insufferable. It had been easier when she had been so sure of her opinion. But now… now she wasn't sure of anything.

How could she reconcile the man she had believed him to be with the one who ensured medicine for a tenant child? The one a little girl called "special"? The one who listened—truly listened—to her? But that was not all. As they walked, her mind filled with strange, fleeting impressions—memories that were not quite memories, but neither were they dreams. She could recall standing beside him in quiet conversation, their voices hushed in a way that spoke of understanding rather than argument. A glimpse of him in the drawing room at Rosings, his gaze warm rather than distant. The feel of his hand against hers in a moment of reassurance. Fractured pieces of something that felt real, and yet it could not be. Today was Thursday—just as yesterday had been Thursday, just as the day before that had been as well. The certainty of that realization sent a shiver down her spine.

They continued walking in silence, the only sound the soft crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Elizabeth wanted to speak—to demand answers to questions she could not yet form. She cast a sidelong glance at Darcy, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression unreadable.

Then, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the stillness.

"Ah, there you are," Fitzwilliam called out as he came into view, his stride quick and purposeful. His usual ease was tempered with urgency. "Darcy, you're needed at Rosings. Anne is having trouble with her mother again."

Darcy exhaled sharply, his posture stiffening. "What has she done now?"

"She's being... herself," Fitzwilliam replied dryly. "Only worse. Anne sent me to find you before Lady Catherine has another fit of apoplexy."

Darcy turned toward Rosings without hesitation, already prepared to face the inevitable storm, but before he could take another step, Elizabeth surprised herself by speaking.

"I should come too."

Both men turned to her in surprise.

Elizabeth wasn't entirely sure why she had said it—only that something deep inside told her she was meant to be there. She had spent weeks caught between certainty and confusion, and now, more than ever, she felt the need to understand. Lady Catherine, Anne, Darcy—there was something unspoken between them all, something Elizabeth had overlooked before.

Fitzwilliam arched a brow, then smirked knowingly. "Well then, let's not keep her ladyship waiting."

With that, the three of them set off toward Rosings, an unspoken tension settling between them as they braced for whatever confrontation awaited them inside.

Elizabeth had witnessed many things since arriving at Rosings, but never had she seen Anne de Bourgh stand so tall, nor Lady Catherine so livid.

The argument had begun the moment they entered the grand sitting room. Lady Catherine was pacing, her sharp features set in fury, her hands clenched as though she longed to seize something and shake it into submission. Anne, in contrast, sat with perfect poise in the high-backed chair, her hands folded lightly in her lap, her expression calm but unyielding.

"You have overstepped yourself, Anne," Lady Catherine declared, her voice ringing through the room with the same authority she used to cow servants and clergymen alike. "You forget who is mistress of Rosings."

"I do not forget," Anne replied, her voice cool, measured. "But it is you, Mother, who forgets that I am no longer a child."

Elizabeth barely contained her shock. Anne's tone held no deference, no meek submission to the formidable woman who loomed over her. This was not the pale, frail creature who once faded into the background of every gathering. This was a woman standing firm.

"I have made my decision," Anne continued. "It is final."

"Final?" Lady Catherine's voice rose. "You presume to make declarations? You act as though you rule this house, as though your whims are to be obeyed without question."

"They are not whims," Anne said smoothly, "but necessary changes for the betterment of Rosings."

Lady Catherine let out a sharp breath, her fury twisting into disbelief. "Necessary?" she repeated. "Necessary to whom? Not to me! You have been ill since birth, Anne. I have protected you, guided you—"

"Controlled me," Anne interrupted.

Silence fell.

Even Fitzwilliam, who had stepped forward instinctively when they entered, seemed momentarily stunned.

Anne did not shrink from her mother's burning glare. "I know what you think of me, Mother," she continued, her voice quieter but no less steady. "I have always known. That I am weak. That I am incapable. But I am neither. You have mistaken my silence for submission. I am mistress of Rosings, and I will make decisions accordingly."

Lady Catherine scoffed, her fingers curling over the armrests of her chair as she straightened. Before she could issue a retort, her sharp eyes flickered toward the doorway, where three figures had just entered—Darcy, Fitzwilliam, and Elizabeth.

Her entire demeanor shifted. With a dramatic flourish, she turned her full attention to Darcy. "Ah! There you are, Darcy! Just in time to hear this nonsense." She gestured toward Anne dismissively, as if she were no more than a wayward child. "Your cousin has been led astray by foolish notions. It is no doubt the influence of idle minds." Her gaze swept over Fitzwilliam, then landed on Elizabeth with a clear sneer.

Anne's jaw tightened, but she remained silent, waiting for the storm she knew was coming.

Lady Catherine turned back to Darcy with a piercing stare. "You are too indulgent with her," she declared. "You allow her to think she may take liberties that are not hers to take. It is high time, Darcy, that we set things to rights. You and Anne were meant to be married. It was the wish of your mothers, of our families—of me! And yet, you dawdle here, entertaining unsuitable company." Her eyes flicked to Elizabeth once more. "Wasting your time on impossibilities when duty has already decreed your path."

Fitzwilliam let out a slow breath, glancing toward Anne, but she held up a hand—silent, composed. She would not let him interfere.

Darcy, however, stepped forward, his expression darkening. "Aunt, I have told you before, and I shall say it once more—Anne and I have no such arrangement." His voice was firm, measured, but there was a steel beneath it that left no room for argument. "There was never an understanding between us."

Lady Catherine's mouth twisted in outrage. "Never an understanding? I have spent years preparing Rosings for the two of you! Years! And now, you insult me with this—this defiance?" Her voice rose. "Anne, tell him! Tell him that you were raised to be his wife, that you have always known your duty!"

Anne lifted her chin, her expression unreadable. "I have always known my duty," she agreed. "But it is not what you believe it to be."

Lady Catherine's nostrils flared. "What nonsense is this?"

Anne inhaled deeply, then exhaled, her voice steady but resolute. "My duty is to Rosings, Mother. To its tenants, to its people. To ensure that it is not merely a house of grandeur, but a home where those under our care feel safe. What you built, Mother, is a house of fear. Servants who cower, tenants who barely dare to speak. I will not allow it to continue."

Silence fell over the room.

Lady Catherine stared at Anne, her expression shifting from outrage to something more unreadable—perhaps shock, perhaps something deeper.

Elizabeth's mind reeled. She had been so utterly wrong.

Anne de Bourgh was no timid, sickly creature living in her mother's shadow. She was strong. She was capable. She was fighting—for herself, for Rosings, for something greater than anyone had ever given her credit for.

And yet, as much as Elizabeth marveled at this revelation, another emotion crept in—one she could not quite name, one that unsettled her.

Lady Catherine's words echoed in her ears. You and Anne were meant to be married.

It should not matter. It did not truly matter. And yet… it did.

The way Lady Catherine spoke of Darcy, as though he were a possession to be claimed, a pawn to be maneuvered—it grated against something deep inside Elizabeth, something she did not want to examine too closely. She had always known that in Darcy's world, marriage was often about duty, about alliances. But to hear it stated so plainly, so callously, made something in her twist uncomfortably.

She stole a glance at Darcy, at the rigid set of his jaw, the simmering anger just beneath his composed exterior. He hated this as much as she did. Perhaps more.

Then she looked at Anne, standing firm, unyielding against the force of her mother's will.

Lady Catherine, for the first time, seemed uncertain.

Her gaze flickered around the room, searching for an ally, but she found none. Not in Darcy, whose expression was cold with quiet defiance. Not in Fitzwilliam, whose arms were crossed as he leaned against the mantel, clearly unimpressed. And certainly not in Elizabeth, who found herself standing with Anne more than she ever would have expected.

Lady Catherine's mouth tightened, but for once, she held her tongue.

Fitzwilliam, arms crossed, let out an exasperated breath. "If you were so assured of handling the matter yourself, Anne, then why send me to fetch Darcy?"

Anne turned her cool gaze upon him, arching a brow. "I did not send you, Richard. I was well aware that Darcy was otherwise occupied—paying his attentions to Miss Bennet, as he has been inclined to do of late." Her tone was even, but the glint in her eyes held unmistakable amusement. "I knew better than to interrupt such endeavors."

Fitzwilliam frowned, clearly taken aback. "Then—"

"It was my mother who insisted upon his presence," Anne continued smoothly. "And I admit, I am rather surprised you heeded her request with such urgency. One would think you had better sense than to be drawn into her schemes."

Fitzwilliam's mouth opened, then closed again, a rare moment of speechlessness passing over his features.

Anne exhaled, her resolve unwavering. "You know as well as I that this—this is the only way we shall escape this endless day." Her voice lowered slightly, a thread of something almost weary beneath the steel. "Every time we waver, every time we revert to how things were, we remain trapped. I will not let that happen."

Elizabeth barely breathed, her heart pounding in her chest.

Lady Catherine scoffed, her piercing gaze sweeping the room. "What is this absurdity you speak of?" she demanded. "Trapped? Endless day? You sound positively deranged, Anne. And now you would drag Darcy and Fitzwilliam into your delusions?" Her voice rose, sharp and imperious. "This is precisely why you are unfit to manage Rosings. You have neither the strength nor the sense for it."

Anne did not flinch. "You mistake clarity for delusion, Mother," she said coolly. "I know exactly what I am saying."

Lady Catherine let out a harsh laugh. "What you are saying is nonsense! And Darcy—" Her sharp eyes swung to him. "I have indulged this foolishness long enough. It is time you put an end to it. Rosings cannot be left in the hands of a girl with wild fancies, especially when you—" She turned then, her gaze locking onto Elizabeth with newfound fury. "—when you allow yourself to be distracted by her."

Elizabeth stiffened, barely able to process the venom in Lady Catherine's voice before the full force of it was upon her.

"This is your doing," Lady Catherine accused, her voice trembling with anger. "You have bewitched him! I see it now—You are calculating. Uncouth."

Elizabeth's jaw tightened. "I have done nothing of the sort."

"Oh, but you have." Lady Catherine took a step closer, her finger lifting as though to strike her accusations into Elizabeth's very skin. "I knew what you were from the start—headstrong, impertinent, and without the sense to know your own place."

Darcy moved slightly, but Elizabeth spoke before he could. "And what place is that, Lady Catherine?" she asked, her voice steady despite the fury building within her.

Lady Catherine's nostrils flared. "Far beneath my nephew. Beneath Rosings, beneath me."

Elizabeth's spine straightened. "Then I wonder, Lady Catherine, why it is that I continue to stand here, unmoved."

Lady Catherine gasped at the insolence, but before she could unleash another tirade, Anne spoke. "Because she is not beneath you, Mother."

The room fell silent.

Anne's voice was measured, her expression calm. "And neither am I."

Lady Catherine's chest rose and fell rapidly, her fury evident, but Anne did not falter.

"I am mistress of Rosings," Anne continued, her gaze unwavering. "And I will see it run properly."

Elizabeth stared at her, truly seeing her for the first time. Lady Catherine had wielded power through intimidation for so long, but Anne—Anne had learned to wield hers through patience, through quiet strength. And now, for the first time, she was claiming it.

Darcy's voice, when he finally spoke, was firm. "You would do well to listen to your daughter, Lady Catherine."

Fitzwilliam nodded. "And to reconsider your opinion of Miss Bennet."

Lady Catherine's glare swept the room, her face twisting with outrage. "I will do no such thing."

Anne's lips pressed together. "What you built, Mother, is a house of fear. Servants who cower, tenants who barely dare to speak. I will not allow it to continue."

Lady Catherine looked at Anne, then at Darcy, then at Elizabeth with one final, searing glare. And for the first time, Elizabeth saw something in the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh that she never expected.

Doubt.

Lady Catherine's mouth tightened, her gaze sweeping the room as if searching for an ally. But there were none.

Her fury simmered just beneath the surface, but something else was there now too—uncertainty.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room, her skirts flaring as she left. The door shut behind her with a decisive click, leaving behind a silence that felt almost deafening.

Elizabeth exhaled sharply, the tension in her shoulders refusing to ease. Her heart pounded, her emotions tangled in a storm she could not fully grasp.

She had just been humiliated. Laid bare by a woman who had no right to speak to her in such a way. She knew Lady Catherine was overbearing, prejudiced, and unkind. But still, the words cut deeper than she had expected.

She turned on Darcy, Anne, and Fitzwilliam, her eyes flashing. "This is absurd."

Darcy tensed. "Elizabeth—"

"No," she snapped, taking a step forward. "I have listened and watched and played along with all of this, but what has it mattered? What has changed? It is still Thursday, is it not?" Her voice rose. "We are still trapped in this infernal day, and I have yet to hear a single reason why."

Fitzwilliam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Miss. Elizabeth—"

"No," she repeated, her anger unfurling like a whip. "You all act as though you hold the answers, as though you understand something I do not. But if that is the case, then why are we still here?"

She turned to Anne, her voice sharp. "You've been standing up to your mother for months? Reshaping Rosings? And yet nothing has changed?"

Anne's expression darkened. "That is not fair."

Elizabeth let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, is it not? Because from where I stand, it seems rather convenient that you all have spent months learning and growing, and yet somehow I am the one who has been left in the dark."

Anne's hands curled into fists at her sides. "Perhaps that is the problem."

Elizabeth froze.

Anne took a step closer, her voice cutting. "Perhaps it is you, Elizabeth."

Darcy stiffened. "Anne—"

"No." Anne's gaze did not waver from Elizabeth's. "She is so quick to rage at all of us for not fixing this, but has she even considered that she might bear some responsibility? That this day has not ended because she has yet to change?"

Elizabeth's breath caught, her anger suddenly twisting into something raw.

Her fingers curled at her sides, her pulse hammering in her ears.

She had judged Darcy. She had judged Anne. Had judged all of them without hesitation, without true consideration.

She swallowed hard. "I—" She exhaled sharply, turning away. "I need some air."

Elizabeth left the room, her heart pounding, her mind spinning.

For the first time, she wondered: was she the one keeping Thursday from ending?

As Elizabeth stepped through the door of the parsonage, she barely had time to remove her bonnet before Charlotte's voice reached her.

"A note arrived from Mr. Collins not long ago," Charlotte said, folding a piece of paper with practiced patience. "He has been summoned to Rosings and will not return until dinner. Tea is canceled."

Elizabeth froze mid-step. A flicker of guilt passed over her face before she could school her expression. Charlotte, ever perceptive, glanced at her but said nothing.

Instead, she set the note aside and turned back to her embroidery. "I daresay he will take the opportunity to extol Lady Catherine's virtues at length," she continued, her tone neutral but knowing. "No doubt he considers it a great honor to have been summoned."

Elizabeth managed a faint smile but said nothing as she removed her gloves with deliberate slowness. The weight of the afternoon still pressed upon her—the sharp exchange at Rosings, Anne's unyielding resolve, and her own discomfort at being confronted with truths she had long ignored.

Charlotte glanced up again, this time truly looking at her. "Elizabeth?" she asked gently. "You look troubled."

Elizabeth hesitated. The words felt heavy on her tongue, but she could not keep them inside. "Charlotte… do you think I am too judgmental?"

Charlotte blinked at her in surprise. "That is an unexpected question."

Elizabeth let out a short, humorless laugh. "It is, isn't it? And yet, I find myself asking it."

Charlotte did not answer right away. Instead, she studied Elizabeth carefully, her expression thoughtful.

The hesitation was telling.

Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her temples. "I see. You do think so."

Charlotte hesitated once more before choosing her words carefully. "You have a sharp mind, Elizabeth, and a keen eye for people. But sometimes…" She paused, then said gently, "Sometimes, first impressions can be misleading."

Elizabeth sat down abruptly, the weight of Charlotte's words pressing upon her. First impressions.

Her mind reeled back—how many times had she relied on those? When she met Darcy at the Meryton assembly and decided he was arrogant and proud? When she met Wickham and believed him honest and good? When she assumed Anne to be weak and docile?

"I've made so many mistakes," she murmured, mostly to herself.

Charlotte tilted her head. "What has brought this on?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it again. How could she possibly explain? How could she put into words the strange, fractured memories clawing at the edges of her mind—memories of days she had not yet lived, of conversations she had only just begun to remember?

"It's… Thursday," she said finally, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Charlotte frowned. "Yes, of course. But what does that have to do with anything?"

Elizabeth swallowed hard, realizing she had spoken aloud. Charlotte's confusion was plain, and for the first time, a sliver of doubt entered Elizabeth's thoughts.

Had she imagined it all?

Elizabeth swallowed, the question ringing in her mind. The memories felt as real as the chair beneath her, as tangible as the warmth of Charlotte's hand still resting on hers. And yet…

"I am not sure," she admitted finally, her voice quieter than before.

Charlotte studied her carefully. "What happened on your walk?" she asked. "I assumed you met Mr. Darcy again?"

Elizabeth hesitated. "Yes."

Charlotte's lips twitched slightly. "And what, pray, did he do to cause you to question yourself?"

Elizabeth frowned at the question, at its quiet insistence. What had he done? Nothing, really. He had spoken with her, walked beside her, and—most disorienting of all—had not at all been the man she had once believed him to be. But how was she to explain that?

"It's not just that," she said, struggling to find the right words. "It's… I remember things, Charlotte. Conversations we had—he and I, and others too. But I couldn't have had them, and yet—" She shook her head, exhaling sharply. "I do not know how to make sense of it."

Charlotte was quiet for a moment, considering her. "What sort of things do you remember?"

Elizabeth bit her lip. "Little things, at first. Him speaking of his sister. Of Rosings and Pemberley, and of a tenant child who needed medicine. But also things that cannot be possible—talks of books we have both read, of—" She stopped, because suddenly the words of our arguments threatened to slip out.

Charlotte arched a brow. "And these memories… they trouble you?"

"Yes—no." Elizabeth sighed, frustrated by her own uncertainty. "I do not know. It feels as if I have been living the same day over and over again, but only now am I aware of it. As if—"

"As if the day is repeating itself?" Charlotte finished, her voice mild.

Elizabeth's head snapped up, her heart pounding. "You believe me?"

Charlotte hesitated, considering her response. "I believe you believe it," she said carefully. "But let us take a step back, shall we? You say you are remembering things you could not possibly know. But might it not be that you are simply… reconsidering them?"

Elizabeth frowned. "What do you mean?"

Charlotte gave her a knowing look. "Elizabeth, you have always been quick of wit, but also quick in judgment. And when you have judged a person, it is difficult for you to be persuaded otherwise."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but Charlotte held up a hand.

"Let me finish," she said, gently but firmly. "When we were in Meryton, you determined that Mr. Darcy was proud and arrogant upon your first meeting. And from that moment forward, everything he did—every look, every word—was seen through that lens. Nothing could change your opinion, not even reason."

Elizabeth's breath caught. She wanted to refute it, to argue, but a part of her knew Charlotte was right.

Charlotte continued, her voice thoughtful. "And then there was Mr. Wickham."

Elizabeth flinched.

Charlotte sighed. "You liked him immediately. He was charming, agreeable—he flattered you. And so, when he told you of Mr. Darcy's supposed cruelty, you believed him without question. Without proof. Because it fit the narrative you had already constructed in your mind."

Elizabeth's fingers curled into her skirts. "You are saying I have done the same now? That I have merely convinced myself that Mr. Darcy is…" She trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

Charlotte tilted her head. "Not convinced yourself, no. But you are finally seeing another side of him. You are allowing yourself to consider that you may have been wrong. And perhaps that is why these 'memories' feel so strange—because they do not align with what you once believed to be true."

Elizabeth sat very still.

Could that be it?

But before she could consider it further, a sharpness rose in her, a defense she barely recognized before it was already slipping out.

"And what of Mr. Bingley?" she demanded, her voice quick and edged. "Would you defend that as well? Mr. Darcy, in his all-knowing wisdom, decided my sister's affections for him were not strong enough, and so he tore them apart. Tell me, Charlotte, is that not arrogance?"

Charlotte regarded her steadily, her expression calm. "Perhaps. But is it arrogance to wish to protect a friend from a marriage that might not have been wanted?"

Elizabeth's eyes flashed. "Jane did want it."

Charlotte nodded. "I know that. You know that. But did Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then shut it again. Because… had he? Had she even been certain at the time? Jane was so quiet in her affections, so composed.

Charlotte's voice softened. "In Mr. Darcy's society—indeed, in our society—marriages are often the result of situation and convenience. Mr. Bingley seemed to have all the favor, did he not? Your mother was rather vocal in her adoration of his circumstances."

Elizabeth's stomach twisted. She could still hear her mother's shrill excitement over Bingley's fortune, the way she spoke of Jane's future marriage before it had even been secured.

Charlotte continued gently, "Would Jane have been able to hold firm against your mother if she didn't feel herself in love with Mr. Bingley?"

Elizabeth inhaled sharply. No.

If Jane had been uncertain, she might have been persuaded.

Again, memories flickered—not her own, yet somehow they were.

Darcy speaking in measured tones, trying to explain his reasons. The walks where he admitted his faults, where he confessed that he had only been thinking of his friend's happiness and not Jane's.

She had argued with him then. Just as she was arguing with Charlotte now.

She wanted to say it wasn't so. That she had been right about everything.

But had she?

Had she really?

Her throat felt tight. She looked at Charlotte, who was waiting patiently, her expression full of understanding but also quiet challenge.

Elizabeth exhaled, a long, shuddering breath.

Could that be it?

Had she been so blind, so stubborn, that she had dismissed an entire person based on a single moment? Had she willfully ignored the good in him because she wanted to dislike him?

But if that were the case, why did the memories feel so real?

She swallowed, shaking her head. "No, Charlotte, it's more than that. These are not merely reconsidered thoughts. They are memories. I remember talking to Anne about her health. I remember helping a tenant's child with medicine. I remember things that have not happened, and yet I know they have."

Charlotte's gaze turned assessing. "And do these memories make you think better of Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth hesitated, the weight of the question settling over her. "…Yes."

Charlotte gave her a small, knowing smile. "Then perhaps that is all the more reason to hold onto them."

Elizabeth blinked at her, momentarily speechless.

Hold onto them.

The idea should have unsettled her—only hours ago, she had been railing against this endless Thursday, against the unnatural pull of these memories she could not have lived. And yet, she no longer felt the same desperate need to deny them.

Perhaps because they were not merely memories of Darcy's failings, but of his kindness, his patience, his quiet constancy.

Her heart twisted.

She wanted him.

The truth settled in her chest, heavier than she had expected.

She had spent so long convincing herself that he was the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to marry. And yet, in the clarity of all she had learned, she could no longer deny the longing that had crept into her heart.

But now that she had acknowledged it—now that she had seen herself clearly for the first time—another, colder fear took hold.

Had he seen her as well?

Had he seen her stubborn pride, her quick temper, the sharpness she wielded as a shield when she felt cornered? Had he seen how swiftly she had turned to anger, how easily she had assumed the worst of him, of Anne, of everyone?

Had she been so determined to lay all blame at his feet that she had overlooked her own faults?

Anne's voice rang in her mind. Perhaps it is you, Elizabeth.

A lump formed in her throat.

What if it was?

What if, after all these months of Darcy striving to prove himself, it was she who was undeserving?

The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

She hoped—desperately, fervently—that it was not true.

But for the first time, she was not entirely certain.

Thoughts?