Page 29 of Time Stands Still

So lost was she in her happy recollections that she did not, at first, register the unusual quiet of the house. It was only as she finished dressing that she realised she had not heard Mr. Collins delivering his customary morning lecture on horticulture to the gardener below her window. A familiar sound, as reliable as the sunrise itself. She smiled to herself; in her giddiness, she had likely missed it entirely.

She began to pack for the journey to London, her heart light. With her trunk ready, she proceeded down the stairs, ready for the day's campaign to begin.

She found Charlotte in the breakfast parlour, but the scene was not as it should be. Her friend sat alone at the table, a single cup of tea before her. Maria was not there. Mr. Collins was not there. The usual breakfast spread was absent. This deviation from the morning’s established pattern was so jarring that Elizabeth stopped in the doorway, a sudden, cold dread piercing the warmth of her reverie.

“Good morning, Eliza,” Charlotte said, her voice quiet, her expression unreadable.

“Charlotte,” she began, a true flicker of unease now taking hold. “Is all well? Where are Mr. Collins and Maria?”

“Maria is still in bed,” Charlotte replied, taking a slow sip of her tea. “As for Mr. Collins, he is in his study. He is… indisposed. The events of yesterday have quite overset him.”

Elizabeth froze, her hand hovering over the back of a chair. Yesterday’s events? The words seemed to hang in the air, electric with an impossible meaning. It could not be. Surely, she had misheard. The hope that flared in her chest was so fierce it was painful.

“Charlotte,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, her heart hammering against her ribs. “What day is it?”

Her friend looked up at her, her expression one of gentle confusion. “It is Friday, Eliza. The sixteenth of April. Why do you ask in such a tone?”

The sixteenth. Not the fifteenth again, but the sixteenth.

A new day.

A real day.

A day of consequence.

The spell was broken.

A sob, sharp and overwhelming, broke from Elizabeth’s throat. Tears sprang to her eyes, hot and unrestrained. The weight of the past days, the terror, the loneliness, the crushing, repetitive despair, all of it seemed to lift from her soul at once, leaving her so light she felt she might float away.

“Oh, Charlotte,” she whispered, sinking into a chair, the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks in a deliverance of profound relief. “I am so sorry. For all the trouble I have caused you, for the offence to your husband…”

“Hush, now,” Charlotte said, her voice full of its usual, sensible kindness as she reached across the table to take her hand. “There is nothing to forgive.” A familiar twinkle appeared in her eye. “Mr. Collins will recover his composure once he has had time to accustom himself to the advantages of being so nearly allied to the master of Pemberley. And as for you…” She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. “I have never seen you look so happy.”

A carriage rumbled on the gravel outside, and Elizabeth’s head snapped up, her heart leaping into her throat. He was here.

She hurried to the window. The familiar Darcy carriage was there, and from it, he descended. A moment later, Colonel Fitzwilliam followed. Her heart gave a strange flutter of confusion. Then, to her profound astonishment, she saw a third figure already seated within: Anne de Bourgh, her face pale but her posture resolute. So, he had brought his cousins instead of a maid.

Their presence there spoke volumes of the finality of the previous day’s rupture, and of a shared, familial support that was deeply moving. As Darcy looked up towards the house, his eyes found hers at the window. A brilliant, unrestrained smile broke across his face, a look of pure, unguarded joy. In his gaze, she saw the same wondrous relief that was flooding her own heart. It was a look of shared understanding, a silent, joyful acknowledgment that the day had not repeated, that their trial was at an end.

By the time the visitors were shown into the parlour, Elizabeth had composed herself. Darcy’s greeting to Mrs. Collins was perfectly proper, but his eyes never left Elizabeth, a brilliant, possessive light in them that made her heart sing.

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward, his own face wreathed in a genuine, good-natured smile. He took Elizabeth’s hand and bowed over it. “Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice warm. “Allow me to be the first to wish you happy. And to welcome you to the family.”

Elizabeth felt a blush rise to her cheeks, but she met his kind gaze with a smile of her own. "Thank you, Colonel. You are very good."

"Indeed, Miss Bennet," Anne de Bourgh added, her voice soft but sincere. "I am so very happy for you both."

"And I thank you, Miss de Bourgh," Elizabeth replied, her heart warmed by their genuine kindness.

They took their leave of Charlotte, who wished them a safe journey with a look of profound, unspoken understanding. As Darcy handed her into the carriage, she exchanged a brief, reassuring smile with Miss de Bourgh. His hand enclosed hers, his thumb stroking softly over her knuckles in a gesture of intimate reassurance that sent a thrill through her.

The Colonel, ever the gentleman, engaged her in light conversation as the carriage pulled away from Hunsford, but Elizabeth, after a few polite replies, found her attention entirely absorbed by the man who sat opposite her. His leg was so close to hers it almost touched, and his gaze held hers with a quiet, possessive joy. Her heart felt near to bursting with the need to speak to him, to say his name, to ask if he felt the same miraculous sense of release that she did. The desire to talk of the broken spell, to share in the wonder of it, was a palpable thing. But she restrained herself. With his cousins present, such a conversation was impossible. It was a private joy, a private mystery, to be savoured later. With a small, internal sigh, she turned her attention to the lady seated next to her in the carriage. “Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth began, her voice soft with genuine contrition, “I must beg your forgiveness for the distress my presence has caused you and, indeed, your entire household. It was never my intention to bring such… such upheaval.”

Anne met Elizabeth’s gaze, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “There is naught for you to forgive, Miss Bennet. On the contrary, it is I who should beg your pardon for my mother’s deplorable conduct. For too long,” she continued, her voice gaining a surprising, quiet strength, “I have allowed myself to be swayed by her will, to fear her displeasure. But yesterday… to witness such unbridled vitriol directed at you, and at Fitzwilliam… it was more than I could bear.”

“Indeed,” Darcy interjected, his voice tight, his gaze hardening at the memory. “My aunt was informed precisely of the implications of her behaviour, Anne. We left her in no doubt as to her folly.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. “Lady Catherine was made acutely aware of the, ah, financial realities of the situation, Miss Bennet. After you and Darcy departed, my aunt’s fury, having lost its primary target, turned upon Anne and myself. She made it quite clear she considered Anne’s defiance a betrayal of the highest order.” He spared a brief, proud glance at his cousin. “But Anne, I must say, was magnificent.”