We returned to Hertfordshire beneath a reluctant sun, its rays flickering in and out from behind heavy clouds, as if uncertain whether to honour the season or the mood.
The ride from Rosings was a quiet one. Elizabeth said little, and I—though inclined to fill silences—knew this was not the time. Some emotions were not to be soothed, nor softened. They needed their solitude.
For my part, returning to Longbourn had become a familiar ritual. Though I was not one of the Bennet daughters, I had long been a fixture in their lives. As the daughter of Baron Ashworth, my frequent visits were not only permitted, but welcomed. My father's estate lay only a few miles from Longbourn, and Lady Helena often insisted that I keep company with "good country girls" to develop a balanced character. In truth, my mother hoped I would absorb their manners, and not their fortunes.
The Bennet girls had become my dearest companions. I was something of a half-sister to them, both due to affection and proximity. Elizabeth, in particular, had grown to be more than a friend. She was my compass in a world I did not belong to by birth—only by chance, or fate.
When we arrived at Longbourn after Rosings, the house seemed curiously smaller, as though its walls could sense we had come back altered. Mary greeted us with a gentle smile. Lydia demanded to know what gowns were worn at Rosings. And Kitty sulked at not being asked.
Elizabeth retired early. While I returned home and went straight in the drawing room, seating beside the hearth, re-reading a letter I had never received. Mr. Darcy's words did not yet lie in my hands, but I could imagine them. They were words written in agony, likely penned the night after Elizabeth's refusal. Words that might never reach her ears now.
I knew what was coming—or thought I did.
But fate, when tangled with time and affection, seldom follows the script.
It was three days later when Mr. Darcy appeared at Longbourn.
Unexpected. Uninvited. Unmistakable.
He arrived on horseback, dismounting with the stiffness of a man uncertain whether to regret his decision. His coat was damp with spring drizzle. His expression, however, was anything but soft.
Mr. Bennet received him in the study.
I, claiming a misplaced volume of Dryden, happened to wander past the door just as it opened.
"Lady Clara," Darcy said, with a brief bow.
"Mr. Darcy," I returned. "What a remarkable surprise."
He hesitated. "I did not come to impose."
"Then you've already succeeded more than most."
The corner of his mouth twitched, though the humour did not quite reach his eyes.
"I should like to speak with Miss Bennet," he said. "If she permits it."
I regarded him carefully. He looked tired, his usual dignity tinged with something brittle.
"I shall ask her," I said. "Though I make no promises on her behalf."
Elizabeth's response was simple: "Let him wait."
So he did. In the garden, beneath the budding lilacs, Darcy stood with his gloves in one hand, staring into the hedge as though it might solve him.
I watched from the parlour window, heart tight. How strange, to feel compassion for him. In another lifetime, I had scorned men like Darcy—silent, self-important, rich in judgment. But here he stood, wounded and brave enough to return.
Perhaps hearts built like towers could learn to open.
Elizabeth emerged ten minutes later, her step measured. They spoke for only a quarter of an hour. Then she turned away, and he bowed, deeply, before walking back to his horse.
"What did he say?" I asked her later.
"That he did not expect me to change my mind," she replied. "But that I deserved to know the truth."
"And do you believe him?"
She was quiet for a moment. "He spoke of Wickham. Of Georgiana. He told me things I had not guessed. I… am no longer certain of anything."
"Then perhaps that is the beginning of understanding."
She looked at me. "How did you know? That Wickham was not as he seemed?"
Because I had lived.
Because I had loved someone like him once, in a world of neon lights and coffee shops.
But all I said was: "Experience, I suppose."
She nodded, and we said no more.
Mr. Darcy left Hertfordshire the next morning. He did not call again.
Weeks passed. The days grew longer, the skies clearer. Elizabeth seemed changed—less quick to laugh, more prone to silence. She walked more often alone. And though she said nothing to me, I knew the wind had shifted.
Something had begun in her, quiet and deep.
As for me, I found myself restless.
Though I was thirteen, I felt far older—an old soul trapped in a child's years. I read endlessly, wrote pages I never showed anyone, and walked with Charlotte whenever she visited.
Bingley had returned to London again, without proposing.
Charlotte did not weep.
"I would not wish to marry a man who needs convincing," she said. "Love should not require a defence."
I admired her all the more for it.
And in the silence that settled over Longbourn, I waited.
For a letter. For a change. For what came next.
It was the beginning of June when news reached us that Darcy and Bingley had returned to Netherfield.
The entire county buzzed.
Mrs. Bennet was beside herself. "Mark my words, he has come back for Jane! And Mr. Darcy—well, I care not for his pride, but what a fortune he has!"
Elizabeth said little.
I, however, took to the garden.
Darcy came to call two days later.
He greeted Mr. Bennet politely, addressed Mrs. Bennet with decorum, and sat in the parlour as though nothing had ever passed between him and Elizabeth but ordinary civility.
I saw the change immediately.
He no longer looked brittle.
He looked resolute.
I took a seat beside the window, needlework in hand, though I scarcely made three stitches.
Darcy's eyes searched the room. Not for Elizabeth.
For me.
"Lady Clara," he said at length, "your thoughts on the Greek dramatists remain with me. I have begun reading Euripides again."
"You must not stop at one," I replied, lifting my gaze. "Sophocles is the wiser. But Aeschylus—he burns."
He smiled faintly. "As you do."
Elizabeth arched a brow.
Darcy, recovering, turned the conversation.
But the words had already been said.
That evening, I lingered in the orchard.
Darcy found me there just before dusk.
"I must apologise," he said without preamble. "My words this afternoon were—indelicate."
"They were sincere."
He exhaled. "You remind me of no one I have ever known."
"Because I am no one you have ever known."
"I begin to believe that entirely."
He paused. "You see more than others do. You speak not as a child, nor quite as an adult. Forgive me, but—who are you?"
I looked up at the setting sun, feeling its gold on my cheeks.
"I am Clara Ashworth," I said, "daughter of a baron. Scholar of forgotten things. Friend to truths that have yet to be spoken."
"And nothing more?"
"Not yet."
He studied me as one might study a book in a foreign tongue.
"You will change the world," he said.
"I intend only to change a few hearts."
He bowed.
"Then mine is already altered."
And with that, he left.
I remained alone beneath the trees, heart quiet and storming.
Darcy had loved Elizabeth. Of that I had no doubt.
But Elizabeth had wounded him. Her refusal, her belief in Wickham, her pride—it had drawn blood. And now, somehow, his gaze had turned to me.
Not as a child.
Not as a replacement.
But as something… new.
And though I was not yet of age, not yet the woman I would become, I felt the first breath of a wind that would carry us both.
This was no longer Jane Austen's tale.
This was the echo of a new beginning.