The morning of the Meryton assembly dawned with the kind of mild radiance only an English summer could muster—hazy blue skies, a warm breeze, and the scent of ripening meadows drifting in through Longbourn's open windows. For once, the house was not in disarray, but bustling with cheerful purpose. Jane's engagement to Mr. Bingley had made Mrs. Bennet more gracious, if only temporarily, and Elizabeth less guarded. As for me, I had been invited to the assembly not as a child lingering in the shadow of the Bennet daughters, but as Lady Clara Ashworth—a young lady in society.
Though I was still shy of fourteen, the world seemed suddenly to take sharper note of me.
It was not the first ball I had attended. In my previous life, I had survived office parties, impromptu weddings, and the aggressive chaos of dance clubs. But here, beneath chandeliers and candlelight, I found a strange elegance in the ordered rituals of Regency society. Here, a glance could carry more meaning than entire conversations in my former world.
I stood beside Elizabeth as we entered the assembly room, wearing a simple but well-fitted gown of lavender muslin—an early gift from Lady Helena, who had insisted I look "as an Ashworth ought."
"You'll attract the wrong sort of attention if you're not careful," Elizabeth said under her breath, smiling despite herself.
"What sort would that be?" I asked.
"The sort who see a title and nothing more."
"I can spot those. I've had practice."
"And what of those who see more than a title?"
I paused. "Them, I'm still deciding about."
Darcy arrived not long after us. Bingley, ever genial, had entered first and was already surrounded by acquaintances. Darcy entered more quietly, though the stir he caused was inevitable. The room bent subtly around him as though he were a pillar in the midst of it—tall, composed, and impossible to ignore.
His eyes found me within seconds.
He crossed the room with deliberate steps, not toward Elizabeth, not even toward Jane—but toward me.
"Lady Clara," he said with a bow. "You are radiant tonight."
"Thank you, Mr. Darcy."
"If your dance card permits, may I request the second?"
I nodded, heart steady. "You may."
He smiled—not the faint, reluctant twitch I had once known, but something genuine.
He bowed again and stepped away.
Elizabeth turned to me the moment he was out of earshot.
"Clara, you must tell me plainly—has something changed?"
"Not changed. Revealed."
Her eyes narrowed. "You speak in riddles."
"Only because the truth is too large for a single word."
She considered that, then said no more.
---
The second dance arrived, and Darcy claimed it with a grace that surprised even me. He was a skilled dancer—precise, attentive, but never boastful. He did not speak during the opening bars, but when he did, his voice was low.
"I have considered your words. The fire in Aeschylus, the burden of knowledge. You said you were not yet more than what you are."
"Yes."
"May I tell you something I have never said?"
"You may."
"I was not proud by nature. I became proud through instruction. From my mother. From society. I believed reserve to be dignity, judgment to be strength."
"And now?"
"Now I learn that the strongest people are often those who carry their truth openly. As you do."
The music turned, and we parted briefly, rejoined, then turned again.
"And you?" he asked. "What taught you your strength?"
I met his gaze. "A life lived in silence. And a second life I promised would be different."
His brow creased, just briefly, but he did not press further.
---
After the dance, I excused myself to the side of the room, needing air. Charlotte had arrived late, escorted by Mr. Collins, and I watched her quietly from across the hall. She stood with practiced composure, engaging in small conversation with neighbours, Mr. Collins doting at her elbow. She did not smile much, but neither did she seem unhappy.
"I believe she is learning to be content," Elizabeth said, appearing beside me.
"Charlotte is not the sort to pine for lost possibilities," I replied. "She is too wise."
"You speak as if you are ancient."
"In many ways, I am."
"You know," she said carefully, "I once thought Mr. Darcy the worst sort of man."
"I remember."
"I no longer think that."
"Nor should you."
She glanced at me. "But I think he now sees in you what he once sought in me."
"I believe he sees something different in each of us."
"And what do you see in him?"
I did not answer immediately. "I see someone trying very hard to be better than he was. That is rare. And precious."
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes."
"Good. So am I."
We stood in companionable silence until the next dance began.
---
Later in the evening, Colonel Fitzwilliam approached.
"You have grown taller since I saw you last," he said playfully.
"And you have grown no less forward," I replied with a smirk.
He chuckled. "I see Lady Catherine's house has not dulled your wit."
"Rosings could not blunt an axe," I said. "Let alone a tongue."
He offered his arm. "Will you walk a moment?"
We stepped into the hall adjoining the ballroom.
"I worry about Darcy," he said, once we were alone. "Not because he is in pain, but because he is... changing."
"That is not always dangerous."
"No. But it is unfamiliar. He is different around you."
"In what way?"
"In every way. He is more alive. More watchful. Less... resigned."
"I take no credit for his growth."
"But you inspire it."
I said nothing.
Fitzwilliam hesitated. "Forgive me, Lady Clara. But do you return his affection?"
I turned to him, calm. "I do not yet know what my affection is. But I know it is not false."
He nodded, as though that were answer enough.
---
As the evening drew to a close, Darcy found me again.
"I am leaving for Pemberley next week," he said. "There are matters to attend to."
"I understand."
"I would invite you and the Bennets, when the season permits. If your guardians allow it."
"I believe they would."
"I should like you to see it. Not for its grandeur, but for its silence. You may find it... kindred."
"I accept."
He bowed. "Until then, Lady Clara."
"Until then, Mr. Darcy."
And with that, our story stepped once more toward the unknown.
Not toward the familiar conclusion I once read in a book, but toward a future being rewritten with each passing hour.