After so many months of vexation over the uniting of Jane Bennet to Charles Bingley, the event itself arrived with a startling lack of distinction. A Tuesday like any other—save for what was unfolding in two homes, some three miles apart, in Hertfordshire. The departure of one of Longbourn's daughters was as inevitable as the change of seasons, but for Elizabeth, joy for her sister could not be felt without lament for her parting.

Indeed, it was not until she walked into their room to find the last of Jane's trunks piled high in the corner and the bride herself seated before the mirror that she had accepted what such changes would mean.

"Mama sent me to look in on you," Elizabeth said.

Jane chewed her lip as she gazed at her sister in the dressing-table mirror. Elizabeth tutted softly and stepped behind her, fingers absently toying with one of the curls crowning Jane's head. With a sigh, Jane leaned back, her eyes drifting shut.

Elizabeth let her eyes travel around the bedchamber they had shared for most of their lives. More than a simple room, it had been where hurts were mended, joys were savored, and burdens divided in equal measure. But it was Jane's presence that had made these four walls a sanctuary for Elizabeth—and it was that which was now to change.

"You look so lovely today," Jane said at last.

Elizabeth, startled by the interruption of her thoughts, noticed her sister looking up at her.

If Jane was a beauty under ordinary circumstances, today she was truly captivating. Though simply dressed, she was undeniably elegant, adorned only with seed pearls at her throat, a satin ribbon crowning her head, and pale blue embroidery tracing the hem and bust of her ivory gown. Her complexion was radiant, her hair like spun gold, and when she turned gracefully to Elizabeth, she might have been a goddess in fresco.

"Me?" Elizabeth cried. "What have I to do with it?"

"Lizzy," Jane admonished.

"No one shall ever call me lovely whilst I stand beside you, dear sister." Elizabeth said with a playful quirk of her brow. "And I shall not even bother to compliment you, for it is just as well that you do not become both beautiful and conscious of it."

"You are too modest, Lizzy," Jane tutted, but Elizabeth only laughed.

"No, Jane," Elizabeth said earnestly as she took her sister's hand. "I wish you would, for once, look at yourself. You are quite the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."

Elizabeth bent so that they were nearly cheek to cheek in the reflection, and as they looked, the familiar sounds of home settled around them—the murmur of their parents' voices drifting through the floorboards, a slamming door, bursts of laughter, Mrs. Hill's humming, and the distant rise and fall of a scale being played.

Then, quite suddenly, Jane's face crumpled and fell into her hands. Elizabeth, startled by this sudden loss of composure in her steady sister, stepped between Jane and the mirror, kneeling before her and producing a kerchief.

"Come now, you cannot cry. You are to be the happiest creature in the world, remember?"

But when Jane let out a sob, Elizabeth immediately threw her arms about her. Suspended in that moment was all the bittersweetness of womanhood. An ancient rhythm as persistent as the tides—sisters became wives, just as wives became mothers. Little girls grew into women and then, in their turn, scattered like seeds to the wind. For every beginning, there must first be an end.

But knowing this did nothing to dull the ache of parting.

"I am being ridiculous, I know," came Jane's muffled voice, "but everything is to be different now."

Elizabeth let out a long breath and shook her head. "Not everything.''

"You will visit often, will you not?" Jane asked as she pulled back to dab her eyes with the kerchief.

"I promise to call with such regularity as to become both predictable and tiresome," Elizabeth said with mock solemnity.

Jane laughed, then sighed heavily. She pressed her eyes shut once more and made to return the kerchief, but paused, a slight frown creasing her brow as she examined the object in her hand.

When Elizabeth leaned closer to see what had caught her attention, she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. There, stitched with fine green thread into the fabric laying open across her palm, were the letters:

'F.D.'

Jane traced the letters with a fingertip, her next question catching Elizabeth unawares. "Have you written to Miss Darcy since your return?"

Elizabeth shook her head, and Jane passed the token back with a searching look.

"It has been difficult to know what to say," Elizabeth admitted. "I know I must and yet I...I hardly know what I feel."

Jane nodded toward the cloth in Elizabeth's hands. "How did you come to have this?"

Elizabeth considered before answering. "It was the day Mr. Collins proposed. When he found me on Oakham Mount. I was crying." She said with a small shrug.

"Perhaps you may find the opportunity to speak to him?" Jane ventured.

Elizabeth let out a mirthless laugh. "And say what, precisely? That I was eavesdropping on his cousins? Your wedding is hardly the time to ask him if he truly considers a woman of my standing only fit to—" She broke off, pinching her nose with a wince.

Jane pressed her arm in sympathy, and Elizabeth gave her a reassuring smile.

"No good can come from dwelling on it, and I would not have you distressed for me today, of all days." After a pause, Elizabeth added more to herself, "And—I begin to think you are right. If he spoke at all, it seems likely the colonel misunderstood him."

"Should I speak to Charles? Perhaps he might know something more."

"Oh, heavens, no!" cried Elizabeth. "Do anything but that! I am well, Jane. Truly."

Jane appeared unconvinced, but before she could protest, their mother's voice came ringing through the house, "Oh, for heaven's sake! Jane! Elizabeth! Where have they got to? Kitty, you must go find them. We must leave, and soon if we are to make it to the church in good time."

But before Kitty could be cajoled any further, they rose as one and made their way downstairs, sharing a brief, resigned grin as they went.

It was not often that all the residents of Longbourn undertook to travel anywhere at the same time, but as the entire Bennet family was to attend Jane's wedding to Mr. Bingley, Longbourn's sole carriage could not possibly contain the flounce and frippery of six eager ladies and one begrudging gentleman.

Thus, on the morning of the blessed event, Mr. Bingley had offered to send his own handsome barouche, drawn by a fine pair of chestnut hackneys to convey his bride and some of her relations—a scheme that met with Mrs. Bennet's eager approbation.

Soon after Jane and Elizabeth had presented themselves for a final, anxious inspection by the lady of the house, the sound of carriage wheels on the lane drew their attention. Five elegantly coiffed heads pressed together at the drawing room window, admiring the flash of white-stockinged legs and the fine blue lacquer of the equipage as it approached.

Lydia let out a low sigh of appreciation as a liveried footman stepped down to take the bridles of the horses, whose coats gleamed like burnished bronze in the sun.

"Papa," Lydia murmured, still gazing at the carriage, "should we not have a new one? Ours is nothing to Mr. Bingley's."

Behind them, Mr. Bennet leaned over the heads of his brood, sliding his glasses down his nose as he peered out the window.

"I should not waste a penny on such a vehicle for these muddy lanes, Lydia. No, child, it would be far more prudent to fit the farm cart with benches if there are many more such occasions before you are all married off."

Lydia's eye-roll was the mirror of her mother's.

"Who will ride in it?" asked Kitty, shading her eyes as she looked more closely. "I suppose Jane must, of course."

"And I must be allowed to sit beside my daughter!" cried Mrs. Bennet. "For no one can understand a mother's feelings on such an occasion. Parting with one's child, even when it is so felicitously done, is a pain of the cruellest sort."

Lydia made a face. "And of course, she will want Lizzy to join her."

"Then there will be enough room for me!" declared Kitty stoutly.

"Why not I? Or Mary?" snapped Lydia, petulantly.

"Oh, Mary does not care for such things," said their mother, waving a hand at her middle daughter.

Mary lifted her chin and folded her arms but would not deign to reply.

"Perhaps Jane ought to decide, Mama?" Elizabeth suggested as reasonably as she could.

Mrs. Bennet gave her second daughter an irritated look before turning back to the bride. "Jane, dear, why don't you let one of your youngest sisters ride with you? I am sure my Lydia would love such a treat."

Kitty stamped her foot. "Why should Lydia ride in Mr. Bingley's carriage? I should go, for she is already to go to Brighton with Mrs. Foster."

"I cannot help it if Mrs. Foster prefers me! Why should I be punished for that?"

Elizabeth turned her head to look at Lydia. "You are to go to Brighton? With Mrs. Foster?"

Lydia grinned, while behind her, Kitty scowled.

"It was so very good of her to invite you," said Mrs. Bennet, beaming at her youngest daughter. "Mrs. Foster is a delightful girl, and you will have ever so much fun."

Glancing at her father, Elizabeth was dismayed to see the faint amusement in his expression. Before she could speak, he ended the discussion.

"I believe I should like to ride with Jane, my girls. You must excuse an old man for being a bit sentimental on his daughter's wedding day. But come now, let us away. We would not wish to frighten your groom with our tardiness, would we?"

As his wife busied herself with blessings and urgings to haste, he leaned toward Elizabeth and murmured, "Though if he has not been put off by now, I daresay there is little we could do to send him away, eh, Lizzy?"

"The family is already assembled in the dining room, Mr. Darcy, sir," Mr. Hill informed him upon his arrival at Longbourn for the wedding breakfast.

Longbourn's butler was a portly man in his late forties, broad of middle and ruddy-cheeked, with hair that jutted out at right angles from the shining dome of his scalp. He conveyed a distinctly lived-in air, though his coat was pressed smooth and his stockings were as white as Darcy's own. When he rose from his bow, Darcy saw his sharp eyes narrow as he surveyed him down the length of his crooked nose, one thick-fingered hand held out in anticipation.

As Darcy doffed his hat and gloves and passed them over, he wondered what this man knew of his own association with the family. Though his actions were nothing but proper, Darcy could not shake the niggling sense that he was less than welcome here—by the staff, at least. He had no great familiarity with Longbourn's servants, but he knew they were few in number, and where help was scarce, loyalty ran deep.

"Thank you, Mr. Hill." Darcy said as the man turned on his heel, leaving him alone in the entry.

After the ceremony, Darcy had delayed his arrival at Longbourn for as long as civility allowed. He had needed time to compose himself after what had been one of the most difficult hours he could remember. He had expected no less. He had come not for comfort, but for Georgiana and Bingley's sake. Yet, even knowing this, he had not anticipated how keenly he would feel the weight of Elizabeth's silent presence.

While the clergyman spoke of love and devotion as if they were tidy principles, something born of them smoldered, real and raw, behind his breastbone. To speak of love and to feel it were experiences not to be compared—no more alike than playing with toy soldiers was to breathing in the acrid smoke of musket fire, while shouted and died beside you.

Ignoring the rapid staccato of his heart, Darcy gave his waistcoat a quick tug and strode into the fray.

Longbourn's dining room was larger than he remembered. Beneath the low ceiling, the long table adorned with ornate silver vases overflowed with bright bouquets, charming if not truly elegant. The meal laid out was sumptuous by any standard, boasting an impressive variety all handsomely displayed. Milling around the table was a crowd of familiar faces, perhaps two dozen in all, talking and laughing with good humor.

Bingley greeted him with a broad smile as he entered, parting the sea of guests to meet him at the door, his hand firmly entwined with his bride's as she trailed behind him.

"Did you get lost, old chap?" Bingley said, clapping Darcy on the shoulder. "I was worried your horse had thrown you in a ditch."

"Er, no," Darcy responded. Before he was required to say more, someone called for Bingley. With a sheepish smile, he excused himself, drawn back into the throng of well-wishers. His wife dipped her head to Darcy in passing, and they moved away.

A flicker of satisfaction stirred in Darcy at the evident pleasure they took in each other. Indeed, he could not say which of them seemed the more pleased—Bingley or his wife, whose expression was so radiant that he scarcely recognized her as the demure creature he had first met in the autumn.

The new Mrs. Bingley was among the most handsome women Darcy had ever met, and today was no exception. He had no doubt that within a year, she would be counted among London's greatest beauties, and Bingley the envy of many a man besides. Yet, for all her undeniable allure, she could not hold his attention. His gaze, as it always did, drifted to Elizabeth.

To Darcy, her loveliness remained as indefinable now as it had always been. It was not something to be measured in proportions or rosy hues—though by any standard, she was handsome. She was more than that—had always been more. Whatever essence made flesh human, Elizabeth possessed in greater measure than anyone he had ever known. To look upon her was to feel, to touch, to taste, to see. She was as much a sensation as she was a person.

Even now, when seeing her was a torment, he knew to his bones he would never look away. He felt the warmth of his blood at her nearness, and whatever pain it cost him, he would endure—if only to know what it was to be alive.

Darcy's contemplation was interrupted by a creeping awareness that he was not alone. Mr. Bennet had come to stand beside him. Darcy blinked, swallowed, and inclined his head to the other gentleman, grateful that his thoughts were his own.

"As pretty a picture as I have ever seen, if I do say so myself, eh, Darcy?" said the older gentleman nodding towards Mr. and Mrs. Bingley.

"Ah, yes." Darcy said, clearing his throat. "Indeed."

"And I've no doubt they will do well together. Their tempers are by no means unlike—so complying that nothing will ever be resolved upon, so easy that every servant will cheat them, and so generous that they will always exceed their income. A most promising union, indeed."

"Exceed their income–" scoffed a familiar voice on his other side. "He has five-thousand a year."

He turned his head to see the mistress of the house looking fondly at the bride and groom. Though Darcy instinctively revolted at the crass mention of his friend's wealth, he cleared his throat and said, "Rest assured, madam, Bingley has income enough for comfort, and he is not a man of dissolute character. Your daughter will be well looked after."

"Tis good to hear such an assurance now," quipped Mr. Bennet. "I always prefer to speak of these concerns when there is nothing whatsoever to be done about them. It saves a great deal of trouble, for had I known him to be a rake or a gamester, I should have had to object."

"Oh, Mr. Bennet, do not vex me today of all days!" cried his wife, then turning to Darcy, she said, "Perhaps you would like to seat yourself beside your friend and leave my husband to his incivility. Indeed, nobody should pay him any mind."

Darcy inclined his head and moved to take his seat—one which was diagonally opposite Elizabeth. As he adjusted the tails of his coat, he thought he saw her watching him from the corner of his eye.

Soon, the rest of the guests began to take their seats and, to Darcy's surprise, Mrs. Bennet settled into the chair next to his, sparing him a curt nod as she adjusted her skirts.

As the meal commenced, Darcy scarcely heeded the conversation, his attention fixed on Elizabeth despite his efforts at discretion. Only when Bingley repeated his name did he rouse himself, realizing too late that he had been asked about the estate of a mutual acquaintance. Resolving to be more attentive, he turned to the conversation at hand.

He was not the only one distracted at the table, however. Elizabeth had spoken little, reserving her words for Jane. Even Bingley, for all his affability, seemed unable to draw her into much conversation. And though Darcy made a greater effort to mind the room at large and to respond politely when spoken to, he remained acutely aware of her every movement—and most especially, the slight furrow between her brows when she thought no one was looking.

"I knew as soon as I saw her that Jane would marry well," Mrs. Bennet said to someone further down the table. "When she was but a babe in arms, she had the most perfect features—and you know, a girl cannot be so handsome and not make a fine match, whatever her portion may be.

"Indeed!" came Sir William's genial voice. "Mr. Bingley will take with him one of the jewels of Hertfordshire."

"I hope he does not take her anywhere!" cried Mrs. Bennet. "Now that our Mr. Bingley is wed, he will no doubt purchase Netherfield forthwith."

"I am sure you are correct. When every other consideration is made, they will find that there is no situation in the country preferable to Netherfield Park," said a woman whom Darcy believed to be Mrs. Long—or was it Mrs. Ledbetter? He could not recall.

"True, true," cried Sir William. "A lady will always be of the opinion that she cannot be settled too near her family, I am sure."

"And of course, when there are children, who better to help than her own mother?" replied .

"Perhaps she might prefer to exchange letters on the topic instead?" Mr. Bennet said in a low voice.

"No, indeed," Mrs. Bennet continued, ignoring her husband. "Jane would never wish to be away from Hertfordshire—and why would she when we are all here?"

"Quite right," said a woman Darcy thought was some relation to —Mrs. Phipps, was it?

"Would that all young ladies had the good sense to accept such fortune when it presents itself!" Mrs. Bennet declared, nodding emphatically before her gaze slid to her second daughter. "But some will refuse a perfectly good gentleman—simply because they do not like him—and throw away every advantage as if it were nothing!"

Elizabeth coughed and reached for her cup, her cheeks crimson. Jane glanced between her mother and sister, and Darcy thought he saw her hand move beneath the table. Elizabeth's eyes flicked to her at the touch.

Nothing but the clink of silverware could be heard for a time, until–"Do you intend to stay long in the neighborhood, Mr. Darcy?"

Turning, he saw Mr. Phipps—or was it Phillips?—addressing him.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "I will not have the pleasure of remaining this time. I am to return to Pemberley this afternoon."

"A great shame," cried Sir William. "Your presence always adds much to our little society."

A peal of laughter came from somewhere down the table, but was quickly silenced with a muttered, "Hush, Lydia."

Darcy ignored this, inclining his head in acceptance of Sir William's compliment.

"You are welcome at any time, Darcy—you need only name the day. And of course, you may remain a while longer if you wish," Bingley said, glancing at his wife, who nodded.

"I thank you, Bingley—Mrs. Bingley—but I fear I must return to Derbyshire as planned. I have been remiss in my duties of late, and my neighbors, I am told, have begun to fear my loyalties lie in another county."

"A wise decision, Mr. Darcy," said Mr. Bennet. "Better to leave when they wish you had stayed than the reverse." He took a sip of his tea before adding, "There is much about being a gentleman I could easily forgo, but one privilege I could never do without is the ever-ready excuse of estate business to take me home. Truly, I know not how a man would take his leave with grace were it not for tenants or farm matters requiring his attention. Heaven forbid he should simply admit he wished to go."

In his periphery, he saw Elizabeth avert her eyes, clearly vexed by this statement.

"Mrs. Bennet," said Bingley, "I must say, you have quite outdone yourself with this meal. Absolutely marvelous—I cannot remember a better one."

The woman beamed with delight as others joined in the chorus of appreciation.

"I hope you will come that much more often now that we are all family. Indeed, I have been told I set as fine a table as any in London," said Mrs. Bennet. Then, with a pointed look at Darcy, she added, "Though I am sure not everyone may agree."

Darcy blanched as the eyes of the room turned toward him. Swallowing a half-chewed bite with some difficulty, he replied, "I assure you, ma'am, I have never found anything wanting at your table."

Mrs. Bennet's eyes narrowed as she examined him, and he hastily added, "Indeed, a finer syllabub I have never tasted."

She gave a begrudging nod before saying with a sniff, "And mark you, Mr. Darcy—our cook has spent all his life right here in Meryton. He has not a drop of French blood in him."

Across from him, Darcy saw Elizabeth's knuckles turning white as she clutched her teacup, her eyes closed.

"He does you great credit, I am sure," Darcy said.

Mrs. Bennet opened her mouth—only to close it again, and soon the discussion moved on to talk of Jane and Bingley's plans to travel north on their wedding trip. As the meal concluded, the table gradually emptied Darcy listened with half an ear as Bingley spoke of inns and roads, but his gaze drifted across the room—just in time to catch Elizabeth slipping out through the front door.

Elizabeth pressed a hand to her chest as she hurried toward the garden's edge, her slippers soundless on the dense carpet of summer grass. At the far corner, the crooked willow awaited her, its sheltering boughs as familiar as an old friend. Reaching it, she rested a palm against its firm surface and drew a long, slow breath before pressing the back of her hand to her flushed cheek, and closing her eyes.

Blessed, wretched day.

Her family's unguarded behavior was a mortification she had long learned to endure, but Darcy's quiet civility in the face of such crudeness unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Where once he would have looked on with disdain, he had now been gracious and composed. Humiliation mingled with gratitude as she grimaced at the memory of her parents' conversation.

Breath by breath, she forced herself to calm, her pulse to slow. Another hour, and he would be gone. She need only endure until then.

Yet the thought of his leaving, with no knowing when she might see him again, made something in her recoil. Despite every rational reason she had to wish this day over—to wish him away—she did not. She wanted him to stay. To make sense of his character. To understand what still eluded her. And if she was honest, she wanted to follow the pull of her attraction, reckless as it was. To release her heart from the tether of reason and doubt. To let it go where she now knew that it would.

She resolved then to find a way to speak to him, though she could not say whether it would help. Her confusion was a constant torture.

"Miss Bennet," came a low voice from behind her.

Six forceful beats of her heart came in quick succession, her mind utterly blank. She did not turn immediately, her eyes firmly closed. She had imagined it, surely.

And yet she felt him—an aura of heat toward which every sense was attuned. She had not heard his approach, but even with her back to him, he was as palpable to her as a flame. And, she thought, every bit as dangerous.

She turned.

He stood some six feet away—tall, solemn, his eyes as dark and unfathomable as night. The gaze he settled upon her was heavy, like the pressure of deep water. And between them, suspended like a physical weight, was everything.

"You left," he said simply.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"Are you—" he ventured, then broke off, shaking his head. "No, forgive me. I have no right to ask."

He looked at his boots, and Elizabeth was transfixed by his fingers, curling into a fist, then loosening—once, twice, three times. The motion was restless, unconscious. For some reason, witnessing his agitation eased her own.

"You may ask me, if you will," she said, the words tumbling from her before she could consider them. Her voice was small, hoarse from disuse.

He looked up, blinking.

"It is only—" He cleared his throat. "Are you well, Miss Bennet?"

A laugh escaped her—she could not help it. The question seemed absurd, unexpectedly so. But when his brow furrowed and he looked away, she wished she had suppressed it.

She paused, uncertain how to express the complexity of what was in her heart. So instead, she asked, "Are you well, Mr. Darcy?"

A short, mirthless huff escaped him in response.

When at last he did speak, he said, "I am aware that my presence cannot have been easy for you, and I am profoundly sorry if I have caused you any discomfort. I wished to show my support for Bingley's union—to offer them whatever endorsement I could, given the mistakes that I—" But he broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose.

She could not speak.

"You have my assurance that I did not follow you in order to press you with feelings you cannot welcome," he said. "But perhaps I should have stayed away. Perhaps I should not have come at all."

He looked confused, uncomfortable.

"Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth said, but he did not seem to hear her.

"It seems I must apply to your charity to forgive my importuning you yet again, little though I know I deserve it."

Little as he deserved it? And what charity did she deserve?

"Mr. Darcy," she said with more force. "Please do not apologize. You came for Bingley, and it was good of you to do so. Indeed, I am glad that you did."

When his gaze fell on her once more, she felt her skin tingle as though it were a physical touch. Then, as the mortification of the situation returned, she spoke in a rush, "I should not have spoken to you as I did in Kent. I was—"

But he raised a hand to stop her. "Please, do not distress yourself. I must assure you, whatever you may believe of me, I would always prefer a painful truth to a comforting lie. Most especially from you, Miss Bennet—" He broke off, his hand raking through his hair.

"No, Mr. Darcy, I wish to explain myself. When you approached me that day I was upset. Quite overwrought, in fact."

He continued to watch her, dark eyes steady, piercing, and she forgot everything for a few long moments.

"Am I to know why?" he asked, his deep voice recalling her to the present.

"It was... It was..." What could she say to explain herself to him? "I believe I overheard something I was not meant to, and it upset me. That is all."

Darcy looked surprised, then took a step closer.

"Was it my aunt? What did she say?"

She looked away, shaking her head.

"No, it was not her... it was—" But she stopped herself, her throat tightening as hot tears blurred her vision. She could not cry—not here, not now. There were too many people at Longbourn to whom she would have to give an account for them. She shook her head again.

"I should not say anything more, I was not meant to have heard it at all."

He looked as though he wished to press her, but he did not speak, did not move—only watched her with that grave, searching expression she had come to know well.

For Elizabeth she would not speak further on this topic lest she risk whatever tentative peace that had brought them this far be broken. There were other, important things to be said.

"I believe I have misjudged you, Mr. Darcy. Your coming here today is proof of that." She paused, wrapping her arms around herself as she continued, "What I said then revealed something of my own character and understanding, for which I must always feel some shame."

"Miss Bennet—" He began, but she cut him off.

"Georgiana told me of Wickham," she said simply.

His mouth closed, a flicker of something passing over his face like a shadow.

"I owe you an apology," she said quietly. "It was because of my wounded pride that I did not disbelieve him. I encouraged him to speak ill of you, for it served my purpose of disliking you. You had embarrassed me, and so I wished you to be the worst sort of man. It was childish, petty, and far less than you deserved."

"Do not regard it, Miss Bennet, truly."

Despite herself, a tear traced down her cheek, and she wiped it away angrily. "Please, do not say that. I do not deserve your forgiveness. I wish you would not offer it."

"I am not offering it, for I have never blamed you." He stepped closer, his Adam's apple bobbing beneath his cravat."If there is anyone who should beg forgiveness, do you not think it is I?"

Elizabeth's mouth had gone dry, and she could not speak for a time.

"We argue too much, Mr. Darcy," she managed at last, letting out a shaky laugh. "I shall not concede this to you, but neither will I argue for who is to be forgiven and for what—if only because I have learned that you are not always wrong, yet I fear I am still too stubborn to admit to it."

He laughed—a warm, full sound—and the tension within her eased somewhat.

"I wish that you would argue with me," he said with a small smile. "You look at me when I vex you. It has made me quite fond of your ill-temper."

Her heart did a curious little flip, and she suddenly felt unsteady on her feet.

"A pity," she replied, her voice sounding weak to her ears. "I had almost begun to think you quite rational."

"Less rational than I might hope—at least where you are concerned."

Elizabeth's cheeks grew warm, and she sought to change the topic before she said anything she might regret.

"Georgiana…" she murmured.

Darcy straightened. His smile fading into a frown.

"... I am very sorry for what has happened to her. She was used most infamously, and still, she... she…" Elizabeth broke off and shook her head.

Darcy held his breath. The conversation he had dreaded was now upon them. Surely, she would understand. He knew her to be too kind to judge his sister harshly for the affair, but even so, a tiny thrill of trepidation fluttered within him as he waited for her response.

"...she is quite remarkable, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy exhaled, and her eyes briefly met his before she continued, "I had no notion of what she had endured. Of how badly she was injured. It is... Well, I am so very angry with Wickham. Quite furious, in fact."

Darcy nodded, his throat tight.

She looked down, her words coming more softly now, as if she were choosing them with care. "I cannot help but be proud of her...and of…of you." She lifted her gaze, meeting his again, her voice gaining strength. "It cannot have been easy. Indeed, it must have been so very painful."

Darcy was unexpectedly disarmed by the sentiment. It was a feeling as intimate as an embrace, and, inexplicably, he wished for her to embrace him in truth. To offer more of this softest, sweetest benevolence. He had never wished for pity, yet when it came from her, it was comfort. It was understanding. And despite how vulnerable he felt in the face of it, he also felt stronger for it. As if her approbation of him made him more than he was before, and perhaps more than he had ever been.

"She possesses a greater courage than she understands. And I—" She broke off and she shook her head. "Well, I have much to learn from her."

"She is better for knowing you, Miss Bennet," Darcy said, earnestly. "I know I have said it before, but your influence has done more for her than you can possibly know."

"My influence?" Elizabeth scoffed. "I have not been a good friend to her of late. I have not written to her since leaving Kent, and I fear she must despise me for my inconstancy. For my cowardice."

Darcy shook his head.

"You mistake the matter. She only worries for you," he continued, his voice heavy. "I must say again, I am to blame for this. It was my actions that put this wedge between us, Miss Bennet. Had I not breached every sense of decency by reading your letters, I am certain you would not feel such unease."

Elizabeth chewed her lip, silent for a moment. Then, her face screwed up, and she looked at her feet. "I hardly deserve such a friend. She is too kind, too good, too wise for me."

"Please…" Darcy said fervently, stepping forward and touching a finger to her chin so that she lifted her eyes. "Please, do not tempt me to say again what you would not hear. What I promised I would not express. You may regret your actions but never say that you are not worthy."

She kept his gaze as he let his hand fall away, and in that instant, he saw all the hope he had long denied himself reflected in her eyes. He did not remember his hands coming to rest on her arms, but soon he became aware of the warmth of her bare skin beneath his palms. His skin tingled, his head swimming with the sensation. Then, a thrill, as he felt the delicate pressure of her fingertips on his elbows.

At that moment, a black and white cat leapt up onto the stone wall some five feet from where they stood, a tiny kitten dangling from its mouth. The cat crouched, shrinking down to make itself seem smaller, wide yellow eyes watching them warily. The little creature, dangling by the scruff, kicked its feet and mewled softly in protest.

Slowly, it backed away, movements cautious, before it turned and fled down the wall. With one graceful leap, dropped to the ground and disappeared into the bushes, darting through a gap near the gate.

Elizabeth hastily pulled away, wrapping her arms about herself and angling her body slightly away from him, her cheeks flushing pink. Hands fell to his sides, as he tried to control his ragged breathing.

"Will you come?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse. "To Pemberley?"

Please—

A half-minute passed, and with each second of silence, his hope waned.

"I understand," he said carefully, "that your greatest objection to visiting Pemberley is the necessity of my company. But, should you consent to come, I shall ensure my absence during your stay. You need only see Georgiana."

She did not speak, and he now began to wish that he had not either.

"I am sorry, Miss Bennet," he began. "I should not have—" Darcy broke off, running a hand through his hair and turning away.

"I would like that," she said at last, "very much."

The world slowed. Halted, in fact. Every detail around him became startlingly clear—sharper than before. The handsome willow, its boughs flowing like strands of hair. The riotous blooms of the garden, mingling together like soft brushstrokes of color against a canvas of green. The hidden benches, the even paths, the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. Though the park surrounding the house was much smaller than those he was used to, it was no less handsome—a place both serene and vibrant. He had never noticed its beauty until this moment.

"Thank you," was all he managed for a time. He remained still and silent, afraid that he had imagined it.

At last, he said, "Georgiana will keep me informed so that I can make arrangements to depart before your arrival."

Elizabeth looked away, her cheeks pink as she shook her head. "You need not trouble yourself on my account, Mr. Darcy."

"I would wish you to be comfortable," he said—and he knew it was true. What he wanted no longer mattered to him if it caused her any unease.

She toyed nervously with her hands before saying, "I—I would like to have the opportunity to see Pemberley as it is meant to be seen."

Darcy frowned, repeating her words. "As it is meant to be seen?"

She worried her lip, then replied quietly, "I have heard that a house is never so complete as when its master is present. It would be a shame to travel so far and be disappointed."

Something swelled within him, strong and warm, like the gust of wind that billowed a sail. His face softened, and a slow, hesitant smile spread across his lips.

"I would not wish it to lack anything in your eyes," he said. "I shall do all in my power to ensure that it does not."

Nothing more was to be said between them, for at that moment voices could be heard from the house. He wordlessly offered his arm, and together they made their way towards the front stoop to farewell the couple, each too conscious to look at the other, but pleased nevertheless.