The summer brought with it a deceptive peace. Hertfordshire bathed in the warmth of June, the fields golden with ripening grain and the air rich with the scent of roses climbing garden trellises. Yet beneath the surface, subtle tremors stirred.
Darcy had returned. Not just to Netherfield, but to Longbourn—more often now, and never alone in thought. He had come first to see Elizabeth, but now it was I whom he watched most keenly. A silence hung between us, taut with unspoken questions neither of us dared voice too soon.
It had been just over a fortnight since that moment in the orchard. I had not seen him alone since then, but I felt his gaze whenever we shared a room. He spoke with Mr. Bennet about literature, with Jane about her garden, even with Lydia—though briefly and with amused caution. But when he addressed me, it was with a gravity I could not easily deflect.
I had not expected this shift. My presence in the Bennet household had always been accepted as natural—after all, the daughter of a baron might have chosen the company of wealthier circles, yet here I remained, preferring the honest chaos of Longbourn to the still halls of Ashworth Park. Elizabeth had once called me a paradox, and perhaps I was. I knew Latin, had studied philosophy, and had seen the world once through the lens of another century. In this new life, I had vowed not to meddle too much—but Darcy's changing affection was not something I had foreseen.
Nor could I ignore it.
The news of Bingley's proposal to Jane came swiftly, like a long-held breath finally released. He had asked her on a walk one morning, and returned with cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Jane said little of the moment itself, but her smile lingered for days.
Mrs. Bennet was beside herself with triumph.
"I knew he would come to his senses! And to think, I had nearly given up! What a blessing! What a match!"
Elizabeth and I exchanged a knowing glance. The match was indeed a happy one, but it was Jane's steadiness and Bingley's eventual courage—not chance—that had secured it.
The house was filled with preparations. Ribbons were inspected, linens aired, menus discussed until I could recite them in my sleep. Amidst this joyful flurry, I often sought solitude in the eastern garden, where the yews shaded the gravel paths and the world fell into soft quiet.
That was where Darcy found me.
"Lady Clara," he said, stepping into the shade.
"Mr. Darcy."
"I hope I do not disturb you."
"You often do, but not always unpleasantly."
He smiled faintly. "A rare concession."
I folded my hands before me. "You must know your presence here is cause for speculation. Mrs. Bennet now dreams of a second wedding."
"Does she?" He did not look away. "And you?"
"I dream less than most."
His brow furrowed slightly. "Then let me ask plainly. Have I… misplaced my regard?"
I met his gaze. "No. But you have surprised it."
He exhaled, as though the tension he had carried had been partly released. "Then I will speak freely. Though your years are few, I have not found in many my equal in conversation. You understand what others merely hear. You see what others overlook. I find myself drawn to you, Lady Clara, and not as a passing amusement."
"Do you seek my affection or my future?"
"Both, if you would offer either."
The air shifted between us. I felt the weight of my age—thirteen in years, far older in truth. And he, a man who once loved Elizabeth. I had never sought his attention. I had once even despised him. But now, I saw him clearly, not as the symbol of pride I had known from fiction, but as a man of sorrow and quiet strength, humbled by rejection and changed by self-awareness.
"I will not be married for many years," I said carefully. "Nor courted in earnest until then."
"I understand. But I hope, when that time comes, I may still hold your respect. And, perhaps, something more."
I nodded, once. "We shall see what the years bring."
It was not a promise. But it was not refusal.
He bowed low. "Then I am content."
And for the first time, I believed he truly was.
Later that week, Elizabeth received a letter.
Her fingers trembled as she held the familiar seal. I knew before she spoke that it was from Mr. Wickham.
"He has written to me," she said, voice tight. "He claims he is ruined. That he seeks only sympathy."
I took the letter from her and read it slowly. Wickham's tone was manipulative—measured remorse, cloaked in injured pride. He made no mention of Georgiana, only vague grievances against Darcy.
"He wishes to draw you in again," I said. "To cloud your clarity."
"He once charmed me so easily."
"Because you believed yourself wiser than illusion. The clever are often most easily deceived."
She let out a breath. "I wronged Darcy."
"Yes."
"I may never be able to undo it."
"No. But you can begin again, with truth."
She folded the letter and placed it in the fire.
The days passed. Bingley and Jane announced a modest engagement period. Elizabeth grew quieter still.
Darcy did not call as often, but when he did, it was with purpose. He no longer watched Elizabeth. He watched me.
I began to wonder—when did his affections change? Was it at Rosings, when Elizabeth turned cold? Or earlier, when he saw me read Tacitus beside the fire? Or even before, when I walked alone in the garden and did not beg for his notice?
Whatever the answer, it did not feel hollow. He was not a man who shifted his regard lightly. And I, once a reader of Austen's pages, now stood within them, altering their course by the mere fact of existing.
It was a strange fate.
But it was mine.
Charlotte visited again, newly engaged to Mr. Collins.
"I was surprised," I admitted.
"So was I," she replied, not unkindly. "But certainty is rare, and kindness rarer. He may be foolish, but he is not cruel. I shall be content."
"You deserve more than contentment."
She smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But I value stability. Not everyone seeks love as their highest aim."
We walked the hedged path slowly. Charlotte had always been practical, and in this, she reminded me that not all happy endings are romantic. Some are simply peaceful.
On the day Jane and Bingley's engagement was celebrated with an informal dinner at Longbourn, Darcy approached me once more.
"Lady Clara," he said. "You once spoke of Aeschylus, and of fire."
"I remember."
"May I ask—what burns in you now?"
I looked up at him, surrounded by laughter and candlelight.
"Hope," I said. "And curiosity."
He inclined his head. "Then I shall not fear the flame."
And together, we stepped into a story that was no longer written for others.
It was written for us.