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Chapter Text

In a small village called Meryton, in a modest house called Longbourn, the Bennet family lived — though "lived" was perhaps too generous a word. Exist was more accurate, and survival still fitting for two of its daughters, Mary and Kitty.

Mrs. Bennet, whose nerves were the most exercised part of her constitution, ruled her daughters with a hand that was sharp and unrelenting. Her voice, shrill and ceaseless, cut through the halls from dawn till dusk. Orders were barked, faults found, and indignities imposed with a mother's entitlement and a tyrant’s cruelty.

If she were a queen, her favorites were the gems of her court: Jane, the fair beauty whose smiles were rewarded with tenderness, and Elizabeth, whose wit Mrs. Bennet admired as much as she feared. Despite her foolishness, Lydia was also indulged with a mother's blind love. But Mary and Kitty—ah, poor Mary and Kitty—were no more than servants under their roof.

"Mary, fetch the coal for the fire. Mary, clean the silver."

"Kitty, your sister's shoes are muddied — polish them!"

They obeyed, of course. Disobedience meant punishments that stung deeper than mere words. Once, when Mary had dared correct Lydia’s French, Mrs. Bennet had seized her by the wrist so fiercely she wore bruises for a week, hidden under long sleeves. And when Kitty once asked, too timidly, if she might join her sisters on a carriage ride to town, Mr. Bennet had laughed long and loud before ordering her to scrub the floors for her presumption.

Mr. Bennet's cruelty was a quieter thing, but no less keen. A sharp word here, a mocking smile there, always a public humiliation for any mistake — Kitty’s stammer, Mary’s seriousness, all fodder for his amusement.  

They bore it because they must, for this place was not a home from which a girl could simply walk away.

Mary, as the middle child, had long since given up hopes of love from her parents. She found some comfort in her books, in the worn hymnal she sang from each Sunday, and in the secret solace of writing her sermons, hopeful essays about virtue and dignity that no one would ever read.

Kitty, the younger of the two, was still a bundle of nerves, quick to tears, fearful of her own shadow. She clung to her sister as a drowning sailor might to a floating plank, and Mary, though she would not have called herself brave, became Kitty’s secret strength.

Sometimes late at night, when the house was asleep and the darkness was kind, they would huddle together in Mary’s narrow bed, whispering their small hopes aloud.

"Do you think,"Kitty would ask, "we shall ever be happy?"

And Mary, stroking her sister’s hair, would answer in a voice full of more conviction than she felt.

"We must believe it, dearest. Or else what is left for us?"

That was their life in the shadows of their family home, at least until unexpected news invaded the household.

 Netherfield Park was let at last.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged,” Mrs. Bennet crowed one morning, arms akimbo, voice triumphant, “that a single man in possession of a good fortune, like Mr. Bingley, must be in want of a wife... and we have three perfect daughters to offer!”

Her eyes gleamed as they swept over the breakfast table. Jane, all golden curls and shy smiles, returned her mother's eager gaze. Elizabeth, with an arch of her brow, merely smirked.  While Lydia giggled, too busy stealing jam from Kitty’s neglected plate to notice.

Mary lowered her gaze to her untouched porridge. She knew what would come next, as always.

“You, Mary, must not embarrass us with your sermons,” Mrs. Bennet snapped. “And Kitty... keep your mouth shut for once.”

“But... Mama...” Kitty whispered, stuttering her words.

“Enough!” Mrs. Bennet slapped the table with an open palm. “No one wants to hear your nonsense!”

Kitty shrank down, tears welling in her wide blue eyes. Mary moved her foot under the table, touching Kitty’s gently in silent solidarity.

Their father, hidden behind his newspaper, chuckled.

“Perhaps we shall sell them off by the dozen, my dear,” he murmured, not bothering to look up. “A discount for the dull ones."

Elizabeth laughed aloud, Jane smiled thinly, and Lydia roared with glee at the comment.

She instead felt the familiar burning behind her eyelids but said nothing. As the sisters had learned long ago that in this house, dignity was the only armor she possessed.

The preparations for the upcoming assembly were frenzied, cruel, and relentless. While Jane and Elizabeth were dressed in fine muslins and ribbons, and Lydia pranced about trying different bonnets, Mary and Kitty were put to work.

Mary polished her shoes until her back ached. Kitty pressed dresses until her hands were raw from the iron’s heat. If a speck of dust clung to a hem, if a wrinkle marred a cuff, the shrill cries of Mrs. Bennet echoed through the halls.

"You want us to look like beggars, do you?" she screamed when Mary dared suggest her dress was too threadbare to be mended again. "Ungrateful girl! After all we have done for you!"

What "all" she meant, Mary could not say.

At one point, as they sat mending torn hems by candlelight, Kitty sniffled quietly.

"I wish we could run away," she murmured.

Mary glanced sideways at her, heart aching.  

"Where would we go, sweetling? Women have so few choices."

"Anywhere would be better than here," Kitty said, her voice breaking.

Mary reached out, taking her sister’s hand. "One day," she promised. "One day, we shall find a way."

That evening, Mary and Kitty stood to the side in the assembly rooms, dressed in gowns so old the fabric was nearly transparent in places. Their hair was neatly done — they had done it themselves — but there was no sparkle to them, no ribbons, no jewelry. Their beauty, such as it was, went unnoticed in the glare of Jane’s ethereal glow, Elizabeth’s lively wit, and Lydia’s reckless laughter.

No one asked them to dance.

She did not expect it. Kitty, still so young in heart, looked crushed each time a gentleman passed them by without so much as a glance.

Mary held herself still. Calm. Composed.

It was then that she noticed Mr. Darcy.

He stood apart from the crowd as much by manner as by height, a handsome but forbidding figure. His dark gaze swept the room, critical, assessing, and lingered for a brief, shocking moment on Mary.

Not Jane. Not Elizabeth.

Mary.

Her breath caught.

He saw her.

It was not a long look; it was not even a warm one. But it was real, not a glance that dismissed or overlooked her.

For Mary, used to being invisible, it was astonishing.

Their eyes met.  

He gave no smile, no bow — but something in his gaze was thoughtful. Measuring. Curious.

Then the moment passed, and he turned away.

It was nothing. Less than nothing. And yet— it warmed a small, secret place inside her heart that had been cold for too long.

By the end of the evening, Jane had charmed Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth had succeeded in amusing half the gentlemen present, and Lydia had drunk two glasses of punch and was flirting shamelessly with a red-coated captain.

Mary and Kitty walked home in silence, trudging behind the family carriage, for Mrs. Bennet had declared there was no room for them inside.

The cold bit through Mary’s thin slippers. Her arms ached from carrying Kitty’s weight when her sister stumbled on a rock.

"I'm sorry," Kitty whispered, tears threading her voice. "I'm such a burden."

Mary squeezed her hand.  

"You are not a burden," she said firmly. "You are my sister. And I would carry you to the ends of the earth if I must."

Kitty looked at her with wide, grateful eyes, and Mary smiled through her weariness.

Somewhere deep within her, a tiny flame flickered.

She would not always live thus. She would not always be dismissed, humiliated, or treated as less. She had been seen.

And though she could not yet dare to hope — not yet — she clung to the memory as a drowning girl clutches driftwood, and whispered to herself:

“There must be more to life than this.”

Chapter Text

The following morning at Longbourn brought no peace. The air was damp and chill; mist curled against the windows like ghostly fingers. Mary rose before the others, as she always did, and tended the small hearth in the scullery, her fingers stiff with cold. Kitty trailed after her, silent and shivering.

The Bennet ladies — Jane, Elizabeth, Lydia — were still abed in their chambers upstairs, their laughter and quarrels muted by thick walls. Only Mary and Kitty labored at the tasks deemed too tedious, too menial for the rest.

As she scrubbed a stain from the worn wood floor, Mary caught her reflection in the dull metal of the kettle. A plain face. A weary one. The brown hair with glints of gold, escaping from her cap; hazel eyes that caught the light strangely, as if holding secrets even she did not know.

No one else in the family shared her coloring — not Jane’s angelic blondness, nor Elizabeth’s dark, lively features. Nor even Kitty’s, for though she and Mary bore a resemblance, Kitty's shade was lighter, her frame more delicate.Their difference was rarely spoken of. But it existed. It clung to them like mist: something unseen, but felt.

Mrs. Bennet bustled into the kitchen soon after, cheeks flushed from the exertion of dressing.

"Mary! Kitty! Idle hands again?" she screeched.

Mary rose from her knees, curtsying low.

"We have nearly finished the washing, ma'am," she said softly.

Mrs. Bennet sniffed, displeased.

"Nearly is not enough! Mr. Bingley has returned to Netherfield after his hunting expedition, and everything must be in readiness should he call. Lord knows, it is not for you two to impress him," she added with a sneer.

Kitty dropped her cloth, fumbling. Mary bent swiftly to retrieve it, shielding her sister from Mrs. Bennet’s wrath.

"Out of my sight," the woman barked. "You two lower the tone of the household."

Mary tugged Kitty toward the back stairs.

As they climbed the narrow, creaking steps to the attic rooms, Mary heard Mr. Bennet's voice drifting from his study:

"Why trouble yourself, my dear? Some creatures are born to serve and others to shine."

The words, spoken in languid amusement, stung more than Mrs. Bennet’s shrill abuse. And yet — deep inside — something colder lingered beneath Mr. Bennet’s tone, something almost like... resentment.

The day passed in monotonous toil. By late afternoon, Elizabeth summoned them to assist in trimming new bonnets. Lydia whined for ribbons. Jane offered soothing smiles, her kindness sincere but distant.

Mary sat at the edge of the room, stitching in silence.

Again, she noticed it — the contrast. Their sisters' lively chatter, bright gowns, flushed faces — all light and air. She and Kitty — muted, pale, almost ghostly beside them.

At one point, Lydia screeched with laughter.

"You look like foundlings from the village!" she cried, tossing a piece of crumpled lace at Mary.

Elizabeth chuckled half-heartedly; Jane pursed her lips, disapproving but silent. Only Mary saw Mr. Bennet's expression as he passed the open door.

Not amusement. Not disapproval. Guilt.

It flickered over his face and was gone.

Mary’s needle stilled in her hand.

The evening brought a summons.An invitation had arrived from Netherfield: Mr. Bingley proposed a small gathering to celebrate his return. Mrs. Bennet was in a trance; Jane was to be made perfect; Elizabeth encouraged to charm. Lydia clamored to attend.

Mary and Kitty were pointedly excluded.

"It would be an embarrassment," Mrs. Bennet said, smoothing her gown. "One cannot parade charity cases before fine society."

Mary said nothing.

Kitty bit her lip until it bled.

Later, after the house had settled into uneasy quiet, Mary and Kitty huddled together by the narrow attic window. Outside, the world was silver with moonlight; fields stretched endless and free beyond the hedgerows.

Kitty pressed her forehead to the glass.

"Do you think they would notice if we disappeared?" she whispered.

Mary laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Yes," she said grimly. "But not for grief."

They stayed there, side by side, until the stars wheeled overhead and the cold seeped into their bones.

The morning brought further humiliation. Mrs. Bennet berated Mary for failing to starch the table linens properly; she boxed Kitty’s ears for clumsiness. Mr. Bennet merely watched from the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face.

As Mary knelt to scrub the flagstones.

"It is a pity the good Lord did not grant you better birth, girls. Then you might have been worth more." he said idly.

Mary kept her head bowed. But her heart thundered.

 As week dragged on, heavy with unspoken words.

News came that Mr. Darcy — the silent, proud friend of Mr. Bingley — would remain at Netherfield for some weeks yet. Mrs. Bennet grumbled at his haughty airs; Lydia giggled at his fortune. Mary thought little of him — or tried to.

But sometimes, in her dreams, she saw dark eyes studying her with quiet intensity, and woke with a start.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed since the event, and Longbourn grew colder by the day — not in weather, but in spirit.

Whatever slight hope Mary had allowed herself — that time might soften their household’s disdain — withered in the dim corridors and silent meals. Small acts of cruelty bloomed like mold in the corners of Longbourn.

It began with "accidents."

A careless shove as Mary passed with a tray; a rough pull at Kitty’s hair as she bent to the hearth; a basin of cold water overturned over clean linens, blamed — of course — on the clumsy girls.

Once, while Mary knelt scrubbing the stone steps to the garden, Mrs. Bennet passed by and “did not see her.” The iron-tipped cane she carried struck Mary sharply across the shoulders. Mary bit her lip until she tasted blood, refusing to cry out.

Later, upstairs in their cramped attic room, Kitty helped her unlace her gown. Bruises bloomed across Mary’s back like black violets. Kitty's small hands trembled as she dabbed them with a cloth soaked in cool lavender water.

"I hate them," Kitty whispered fiercely. Tears streaked her pale cheeks. Mary caught her hand.

"No," she said hoarsely. "Hate makes us like them." 

But in the secret corners of her heart, she hated too.

The following afternoon, Mary was ordered to polish the Longbourn library. The room — once her secret refuge — now loomed like a cavern. Dust shimmered in the weak winter light. Mr. Bennet had long since abandoned his books; he preferred instead to mock from the doorway as Mary scrubbed and dusted.

He did so now, lounging idly against the jamb, smiling faintly as she struggled with the heavy ladder.

"You were born for service, my dear," he drawled. "A pity no fine house will ever have you."

She kept her gaze down.

The ladder wobbled beneath her as she stretched toward a high shelf. Kitty, forbidden to assist, hovered anxiously by the door. For a long moment Mr. Bennet chuckled for the scene the sister painted and turned away, bored.

The ladder shifted. Mary felt herself slip — a sickening lurch — and then nothing but empty air. She cried out once. However she never felt the hit, as strong arms caught her before she struck the stone hearth.

For a moment, the world spun — books, dust, the heavy scent of wood polish — and then steadied. She found herself cradled against a broad chest, the coarse weave of a fine wool coat brushing her cheek. She struggled to form a sentence, mortified.

"Forgive me…sir…" she gasped.

Mr. Darcy set her gently on her feet. He was taller than she remembered — dark, severe, with eyes that missed nothing.

"You are hurt," he said shortly.

Mary backed away, head bowed. "No, sir…I am clumsy… it is nothing…"

But his gaze was sharp. Her sleeve had ridden up in the fall, revealing faint purple bruises along her wrist and forearm. Mr. Darcy’s expression darkened.

"Accidents," he said, voice low, "rarely leave such marks." Mary flinched.

Behind them, Kitty hovered like a frightened wren.

"I fell," Mary whispered. "I am... It's something normal for me."

Darcy's jaw tightened, but he said no more. Instead, he retrieved the fallen ladder himself, setting it aside with ease.

"You should not have been left alone to do such labor," he said, more to himself than to her.

Mary bobbed a curtsy.

"Thank you, sir," she murmured, and fled with Kitty trailing after her.

That night, as they huddled in their narrow bed.

"He saw.", Kitty whispered.

Mary shivered.

"It makes no difference."

But deep inside, a tiny ember — too small to name — flickered to life. Someone had seen her. Well, seen them and had not looked away.

In the days that followed, Mary caught Mr. Darcy’s gaze on her more than once. Never openly nor lingering but he watched always from a distance.

When she passed in the hallway carrying heavy buckets, then when she knelt beside the hearth, mending torn linen. Or that time Mrs. Bennet slapped Kitty sharply for some made up fault.

His gaze was cool, unreadable always on them if they happen to encounter each other in the times he happens to accompany Mr. Bingley.

But his eyes were there. Not full of pity, not precisely, it was something heavier. Kitty often described it as something darker.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Bennet grew shriller by the day. Jane was to be married — she was sure of it — and Elizabeth must soon follow. And of course, her Lydia was to be launched into society like a cannonball, thanks to her sisters good connections.

 But Mary and Kitty were afterthoughts.Or worse, burdens, as she recalls their parents refer to then once. It was like yesterday that she overheard Mrs. Bennet hissing at Mr. Bennet about them.

"I will not have those two ruin it! Let them stay out of sight… or better yet, out of the house altogether!"

Mr. Bennet's reply was low and bitter:

"They are your charity, my dear. Your crosses to bear."

After hearing them speak thus, she pressed her head against the cold wall and closed her eyes.

 They were Charity, mere Crosses to burden them for their sins. But never daughters, never meant to be loved.

In mid-December, Longbourn received another invitation to Netherfield — a small gathering before Christmas, to celebrate with the neighbors, as the party was leaving to spend the holidays in London. So, as to be expected, Mrs. Bennet was beside herself.

"Gowns! Ribbons! Mr. Bingley must not escape!"

Mary and Kitty were, of course, excluded.

Mrs. Phillips attempted a protest.

"Surely," she said gently, "all the girls might benefit from the evening —"

Mrs. Bennet rounded on her.

"Those two? Impossible! One does not parade the scullery maids before gentlemen!"

Mary stood silent as a stone, Kitty clutching her hand tightly.

Mr. Bennet merely laughed.

On the Eve of the celebration, as frost silvered the hedgerows and the world turned white and sharp, Mary and Kitty sat alone by the tiny attic window.

Far across the fields, the lights of Netherfield twinkled warm and golden. Music floated faintly on the air — violins, laughter, the clink of glasses.

Kitty wept quietly. While Mary stared at the stars until they blurred.

"I wish," Kitty whispered, "we could run away."

Mary said nothing.

But inside her heart, something shifted.A small, fierce seed took root.

Someday, they would be free, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

The days after the library accident slid into a grim pattern. Mary was kept carefully out of sight. As Mrs. Bennet would find the smallest reason to snapped at her for; and her father barely acknowledged it at all.  

So the true focus of their ire had shifted.

Now it was Kitty who bore the brunt of Longbourn's worst cruelty. Subtle at first, — snide remarks, cold glares — not too different for her treatment from before but it escalated rather quickly.

A spilled cup of tea resulted in a vicious spit to her face or missed stitch in sewing earned her a sharp blow with the wooden yardstick.

Mary, frantic, tried to intervene more than once — but each time she did, punishments only grew worse. She was ordered to scrub the scullery floors until her hands bled and ended staining them, thus they was locked in the attic with no fire for an entire night.

Finally, Mary understood. They would hurt Kitty worse if she tried to protect her. So she learned to watch, to wait and tend for Kitty’s bruises in silence when the house slept and no one would hear their muffled sobs.

Visitors still came and went from Longbourn — as if the house were any other respectable country estate.

Mr. Collins, their simpering cousin, had departed, thankfully, to Kent. But Mr. Bingley continued his polite courtship of Jane after his return from town, often bringing the guests from Netherfield and as always Mr. Darcy accompanied him.

He was an uncomfortable presence: too tall, too silent, his gaze too sharp.He spoke little to anyone, beyond what politeness demanded. But Mary often caught him watching.

Not with the casual interest of the idle rich — but with the quiet calculation of a man adding up a column of debts and finding the sum amiss.

It was during one of these stifling afternoon visits that the conversation turned — as it always did — to the upcoming ball hosted yet again at Netherfield, the reason for this one was unknown to the sister.

Mrs. Bennet, flushed and breathless with excitement, could hardly contain herself.

"My Jane will certainly be engaged before summer!" she crowed. "And Lizzy too, if we are fortunate!"

Mr. Bingley laughed, blushing, and stammered out some eager encouragement.

Darcy stood slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back.

Mary, seated demurely near the window with Kitty, kept her eyes lowered.

She heard Darcy’s voice, cool and precise, cut across Mrs. Bennet’s babble:

"And will all the young ladies of the house be attending, madam?"

Silence fell like a stone.

Mrs. Bennet blinked rapidly.

"Of course, Mr. Darcy," she said, voice brittle. "All...all my daughters shall be there."

Darcy inclined his head slightly.

"As it should be," he said.

Mary dared a glance at his eyes through her spectacles and he was looking at her.

And for the first time, there was no blankness in his gaze. Only quiet, smoldering anger, it frightened her as she did not want to be the recipient of it.

After the gentlemen departed, Mrs. Bennet's fury broke over the house like a summer storm.

"Ungrateful, wicked girls!" she shrieked, rounding on Mary and Kitty.

"You forced my hand, I don't know how but you did… you shamed me before gentlemen — you will come to the ball, and you will be silent and invisible, do you hear? I will not have you embarrassing your sisters!"

Mary bore it without a word.

Kitty cried quietly into her apron.

Mr. Bennet watched from his chair, smiling faintly, as if the destruction of his household were nothing more than a clever jest.

The door had barely closed behind Mrs. Bennet when Kitty turned to Mary, eyes wide with disbelief.

"She’s truly letting us come?" she whispered. "To the ball?"

Mary sat stiffly on the edge of the narrow bed, her fingers laced tightly in her lap. "Only because Mr. Darcy asked directly," she said. "She would not dare contradict him in front of Bingley."

Kitty lowered herself onto the quilt beside her, the excitement already waning from her expression. "Even so… we shall be there. With music, and dancing, and everything. Do you think—do you think anyone will ask us to dance?"

 "No, dear"

Kitty looked down, nodding as though she had already known. But her voice, when she spoke again, held a small wistful note. "I still wish I knew how."

Mary blinked. "Dance?"

"Yes," Kitty said, hugging her knees. "Even if I never use it. Even if no one sees. I just want to feel like I belong in that room. Like I *could*, if only for a moment."

Mary’s heart tugged at the simple ache in her sister’s voice.

"I could teach you," she said.

Kitty’s head jerked up. "You can dance?"

Mary gave a crooked smile. "I can mimic the steps well enough. I watched Jane and Elizabeth learn in the drawing room for years while dusting the pianoforte. I used to hum the music and follow the movements with my feet while polishing the floor."

"You are a miracle, Mary Bennet,” Kitty stared at her.

Mary laughed—a real, quiet laugh—and stood, brushing her skirts aside.

"Come," she said, holding out a hand. "Let us be rebels, then. Two Bennet girls learning dances they were never meant to know."

The attic room was narrow, with slanted beams and threadbare rugs, but Mary cleared a small space by pushing aside the old trunk and chair. She began slowly, humming a familiar tune under her breath, guiding Kitty through the steps of a simple country dance.

“Right foot. Back. Now forward. Gentle turn of the hand…yes, like that. No, you’re not going to trip. I’ve seen you carry six dishes down the stairs at once without dropping a crumb.”

 “That’s because they weren’t spinning,” Kitty giggled, flushed and out of breath.

“You’re not spinning,” Mary teased. “You’re… elegantly rotating.”

They stumbled, recovered, and laughed again. And though their shoes scraped on rough wooden floorboards, and though no orchestra played for them, the little attic felt, for a few precious moments, like a ballroom of their own.

When they finally collapsed onto the bed, breathless and warm, Kitty reached over and squeezed Mary’s hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For letting me pretend I belong.”

Mary turned her face to the ceiling. “You do belong,” she said, the words fierce and soft at once. “You just need to learn how to walk through the fire without showing the burn.”

Kitty was quiet a long moment. 

“You’ve always known how, haven’t you?”

Mary didn’t answer. But in the silence, her grip on Kitty’s hand tightened, dabbing at the lastest bruises with trembling fingers.

"We will go to this ball and we will have our moments of joy" she whispered.

Kitty sniffed.

"But... what good will it do?"

Mary thought of Mr. Darcy’s voice, sharp as a blade.  

Of the way he had looked at her.

"We must be seen," she said slowly. “ I mean… we might be seen by someone who finally cares."

Kitty stared at her, wide-eyed.

"You think he...?"

"I do not know," Mary admitted. "But it is a chance."

And chances were rare, and precious, and must be seized with both hands.

The day of the Netherfield Ball dawned icy and bright.

Frost silvered the grass; the hedgerows glittered as if hung with diamonds.

Mrs. Bennet, anxious beyond words, had ordered seamstresses to cobble together half-decent gowns for Mary and Kitty.

The dresses were plain, ill-fitting, and in the wrong colors — but at least they had clean hems and fresh ribbons.

Mary thought she had never looked so strange — so false — in her life.She caught her reflection in the cracked mirror upstairs.

A pale girl in a limp muslin gown stared back at her — hair scraped back severely ínto a tight bun, eyes too large in her thin face that look like golden glass under the sunlight once you look at her spectacles.

She touched the mirror lightly, tracing the face that was — somehow — not hers.

"Come," said Kitty, touching her arm. "We must go down."

Mary turned away from the mirror and did not look back.

Chapter Text

The grand ballroom of Netherfield was a spectacle of opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast shimmering light upon the polished floors, and the air was filled with the harmonious strains of violins and the soft murmur of genteel conversation. Guests adorned in their finest attire moved gracefully, their laughter mingling with the music.

The Bennet family descended upon Netherfield like a noisy flock of birds. Jane, serene and lovely, glided forward on Mr. Bingley’s arm. Elizabeth, vivid and laughing, quickly gathered admirers. While Lydia dragged Kitty flitted about the edges of the dance floor, forcing her to chatter.

And Mary — Mary lingered near the potted plants, her hands folded tight against her stomach, willing herself invisible.

Mr. Darcy was across the room, speaking quietly with Mr. Bingley.

She often felt his gaze sweep over the crowd — and settle briefly on her. No smile, no nod, only that steady, unreadable regard.

Later, as the musicians struck up a new set and the room shifted and swirled around her, Mary found herself drifting along the edges of the ballroom.

She stopped near a window, staring out into the frost-laced gardens.

A voice spoke behind her.

"You do not dance, Miss Mary?", She turned.

Mr. Darcy stood there, impeccably dressed, his dark hair crisp against the white of his cravat.

"I do not often dance, sir," she said quietly. "I am... not sought after."

A strange expression flickered across his face.

"Then they are fools."

Mary blinked, stunned. Though before she could answer, Mrs. Bennet’s voice rang out over the music.

"Mary! Come away from the walls… do not be a disgrace!"

The spell broke as Darcy stepped back, bowing stiffly and Mary dropped into a curtsy and retreated, heart hammering.

Behind her, Mr. Darcy remained by the window, staring out into the frozen night.

From her place by her mother, Mary allowed herself a moment’s quiet—only to catch, in the far corner of the ballroom, near were mere moments ago she have been standing, the sight of Elizabeth laughing softly as she spoke with Mr. Darcy.

The candlelight glinted off his dark head as he inclined toward her. His stance was relaxed, familiar as her sister touched his sleeve lightly while saying something, and he responded with a rare smile, from afar she could no determine the meaning behind it. But it probably was not a bad one, Lizzy could charm almost everyone with her witty personality and resplendent eyes.  

And of course Mr. Darcy would not be the exception.

Mary turned away, the warmth his previous compliment had sparked within her fading to ash. Of course, it was Elizabeth. It will always be Elizabeth.

How foolish to think he had meant anything by his words.

Mary Bennet stood at the periphery, her hands clasped tightly before her. Her gown, though modest, was of a soft lavender hue that complemented her golden-brown hair and hazel eyes—features that set her apart from her sisters. She observed the dancers with a composed demeanor, masking the turmoil within.

Mr. Darcy, ever observant, noticed her solitary stance. Unlike the vivacious Elizabeth or the radiant Jane, Mary exuded a quiet dignity. Her eyes, though downcast, held a depth that intrigued him. He recalled their previous encounters—the moments when her intellect shone through her reserved exterior.

As the evening progressed, Mr. Bingley approached Mary with a warm smile. "Miss Mary, would you do us the honor of performing a piece on the pianoforte? Your sister Lydia have spoken highly of your musical talents."

Mary hesitated, her heart pounding. She felt the weight of expectation and the fear of judgment, she knew Lydia had no good deed doing this. Yet, the opportunity to express herself through music was a solace she could not refuse.

With a nod, she approached the instrument. The room quieted as she seated herself, her fingers trembling slightly. She began to play—a haunting melody that resonated with emotion. Her voice, clear and poignant, carried the lyrics of a melancholic ballad, capturing the attention of all present.

Mr. Darcy listened intently, captivated by the raw emotion in Mary's performance. He sensed the vulnerability beneath her composed exterior and felt a stirring protectiveness. Her song spoke of longing and resilience, mirroring the strength he had glimpsed in her.

As the final notes faded, the room erupted in polite applause. She stood, offering a modest curtsy before retreating, seeking refuge near a window, the cool night air offering respite from the intensity of the ballroom.

Mr. Darcy approached her, his expression earnest. "Miss Mary, your performance was profoundly moving. You possess a remarkable talent."

Mary met his gaze, surprised by his sincerity. "Thank you, Mr. Darcy. Music has always been a means of expression for me."

He nodded, his eyes reflecting understanding. "It conveyed emotions words often fail to capture."

Their conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Bennet's shrill voice, calling Mary to join her sisters. With a polite excuse, Mary departed, leaving Mr. Darcy deep in thought.

Throughout the evening, he observed the interactions within the Bennet family. He noticed the subtle slights directed at Mary—the dismissive gestures, the lack of acknowledgment. It troubled him, igniting a desire to shield her from such disregard.

“God help us if Kitty opens her mouth tonight,” Lydia's voice rang out near the refreshment table, loud enough to carry.

“She’ll stammer so much they’ll think she’s caught a fever,” added Maria Lucas with a giggle.

“Maybe she can ask for sympathy,” Lydia sneered, “like Mary with her tragic little books and holy look…and her depressing play of the pianoforte”

“Enough.” Kitty’s voice cracked, barely audible, but she stepped forward with a trembling jaw. “You should not speak about Mary like that.”

Darcy, pausing just behind a marble column trying to avoid the attentions of Miss Bingley, caught every word. His brow furrowed as he watched Kitty’s small figure tremble under her sister's scorn.

Mary appeared then, her face unreadable. She gently touched Kitty’s shoulder and murmured something that seemed to steady her. But her eyes met Lydia’s—and there was no submission in them.

Darcy could not look away.

As the ball concluded, guests began to depart. Mr. Darcy sought Mary once more, finding her assisting Kitty with her shawl. He approached, offering his assistance.

"Allow me, Miss Kitty," he said, draping the shawl over her shoulders. Turning to Mary, he added, "Miss Mary, I hope we have the pleasure of your company at future gatherings."

Mary offered a gentle smile. "Your kindness is appreciated, Mr. Darcy."

He inclined his head, his gaze lingering before he took his leave.

The laughter from the Netherfield ballroom still echoed faintly through the open doors as Mary and Kitty were ushered out into the cold night.

Mrs. Bennet’s voice had been low and furious the moment the music ended.

“You’ve humiliated me enough for one evening,” she hissed. “How dare you draw attention to yourself like that? Playing, as if anyone wanted to hear it. No one asked for your concert, Mary.”

“I was asked by Mr. Bingley,” Mary said quietly, trying to keep her voice calm. “He requested it.”

“Do not be insolent,” Mrs. Bennet snapped. “You think that because a gentleman deigns to speak to you, you’re suddenly a lady of consequence? You’ve always been vain. Just like….”, a somber look from her husband stopped her mid sentence.

Mary blinked, the shift in tone sudden and sharp. But before she could ask what she meant, Mrs. Bennet turned to the footman, barking, “Leave them. The carriage is full enough. They’ll walk.”

Kitty opened her mouth to protest, but Mary pressed her hand gently.

“Let it go,” she whispered. “It’s only a mile.”

Still, the road was dark and uneven, and the night was bitterly cold. Their slippers were not made for gravel, and the satin hems of their gowns dragged through dirt and dew.

They had made it to the edge of the Netherfield drive when a quiet voice called out behind them.

“Miss Mary? Miss Catherine?”

A young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, approached holding a lantern. He was dressed in the simple brown coat of a stablehand, but his features were kind and familiar.

Mary blinked in surprise. “Thomas?”

He smiled faintly, a little unsure. “Aye, Miss. I… I recognized you when you arrived earlier. Wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

Kitty tilted her head. “You lived at Longbourn?”

“My mother was housekeeper, years back,” he said. “You were only little when I left to apprentice at Netherfield. But I remember you. You and your sister… you were always dressed in ribbons and lace. Miss Jane and Miss Lizzy were kind, but you two...” He stopped himself, then offered a softer smile. “You never looked down on the staff. Not once.”

Mary looked down at her mud-streaked skirts. “That was a long time ago.”

Thomas hesitated. “May I walk you home? This road’s not safe after dark. And it’s colder than it looks.”

She nodded, moved by the offer. “We’d be grateful.”

They walked in silence for a few moments. The crunch of gravel beneath their feet, the flicker of the lantern. Thomas glanced at them now and then, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“It’s odd,” he murmured finally. “You live under the same roof as before, yet you seem…” He trailed off, searching for words. “Smaller, somehow. Not you,” he added quickly, “but the way you're treated. Like you’ve shrunk to fit a space never meant for you.”

Mary felt Kitty’s fingers curl tighter around her own.

“You always belonged in brighter rooms,” Thomas said, his voice almost shy. “Still do.”

They reached the lane leading to Longbourn. From a distance, the house looked cold and quiet, windows dark but for one flickering light in the drawing room.

Thomas tipped his hat. “Best you go in quickly. Frost’s coming.”

Mary offered him a tired smile. “Thank you, Thomas. For walking with us.”

He nodded, but didn’t leave immediately. As they walked toward the house, he remained a few paces behind, as if ensuring they made it to the door.

Only when it closed behind them did he turn back toward the night, his lantern swinging gently at his side.

That night, as Mary reflected on the evening's events, she felt a glimmer of hope. Mr. Darcy's attentiveness had pierced the veil of isolation she often felt. Perhaps, amidst the grandeur of Netherfield, a connection had been forged—one that transcended societal expectations and familial neglect.

Chapter Text

It had been nearly a fortnight since Ball, and Fitzwilliam Darcy had not yet found peace. He had returned to Netherfield after assisting Miss Mary and Miss Kitty at the parlour, the image of Mary shivering in the cold, her shawl thin and worn, burned behind his eyes. There was something wrong in that household, something deeper than mere neglect. He had seen the bruises on her wrists—old, faded, and expertly hidden beneath long sleeves. But once seen, they could not be unseen.

Today, it was a quiet morning when he sat alone at his writing desk. The late autumn light filtered through the high windows, casting long golden slants across the mahogany. His pen paused over crisp, expensive paper, fingers tapping in hesitation before he began.

He would write to Georgiana.

Though it was far too early to send another letter to his sister, the last one had been sent merely two days ago and still unresponded. He decided Georgie might be the only one that could understand his predicament since Richard was still at the front, and though the letter might never be sent, it was in writing that his thoughts always found their clearest shape. He dipped his pen and began.

Netherfield Park, Hertfordshire

January 28th, 1812

My dearest Georgiana,

You will forgive the unusual length of this letter, I hope, the tone and time. I find myself more unsettled than usual, not by the company I keep...though it is varied..., but by the observations I cannot help but make while in Hertfordshire.

 I write to you because my mind is uneasy and my heart stirred in ways I scarcely understand. I suspect you will laugh at me, the ever-brooding brother who once advised you against romantic sensibilities, since the incident at Ramsgate, now pouring emotion onto parchment like a poet in spring.

He set the pen down for a moment, fingers steepled before his brow. What was it about her — about Mary Bennet — that lingered? It was not her beauty. She was not the most charming, nor the brightest in company, nor the most accomplished by society's standards. And yet, something about her stayed with him.

But I must confide in you, for I trust your insight, and more than that, I trust your goodness.

You know my thoughts on Bingley’s new acquaintance. Miss Bennet — Jane — is indeed lovely and gentle, and I can find no fault with her manner. Miss Elizabeth, too, is clever and observant. But that is not the reason for this letter. Rather, it is the quietest of their number — the middle Mrs Bennet — who has drawn my attention in a most unexpected way. Two young women here in Hertfordshire whom I had scarcely noticed upon my arrival: Miss Mary Bennet and her sister, Miss Catherine—Kitty, as they call her.

He hesitated. The lines of her face rose before him — not in perfect symmetry, but in quiet strength. There was something… familiar. Not in person. In resemblance.

 Georgie, I do not write of them in the same tone I have used for others. These are not coquettes. They do not seek male attention nor pretend for it. They are—strange to say—on the outskirts of their own family. Often left out, their presence is treated as an inconvenience, and their labor far exceeds what any young lady should be expected to bear.

At first I thought it was simple favoritism, the sort many siblings endure. But I have since begun to suspect a deeper cruelty. There is a fear in Miss Mary's eyes that no gentle home should inspire. A hesitation in her voice, as though words might betray her.

He pressed the pen harder as he wrote the next line.

 I saw bruises. I saw too much.

 And I saw her perform at the ball. Not merely with talent, but with soul. With a grace born of suffering, perhaps—one that felt entirely undeserved.

 She is not beautiful by society's fickle standards, but there is something in her countenance I find... compelling. Familiar. As though I have known her longer than these brief weeks.

 And Kitty—so like her in character, yet altogether younger, more fearful, as if watching her sister's suffering unfold before her.

 I know how it sounds, sister. Idle fancy, bred from melancholy and isolation. But something within me whispers that their story is not the one they have been told.

 I shall observe further. And if there is a way to help them—particularly Miss Mary—I will find it.

 Your devoted brother,

 Fitzwilliam

He set the letter aside, sealing it though unsure if it would ever be sent.

That same morning at Longbourn, rain lashed the windows with ceaseless fury. Mrs. Bennet had retired early with a headache, and Mr. Bennet was hidden away in his study, as always. Jane and Elizabeth were visiting the Lucases, leaving only Mary and Kitty to tidy the drawing room—a chore they had been assigned for reasons no one cared to explain.

Mary, feeling the stirrings of melancholy still from the ball, found herself dusting with too much vigor.

“Careful,” Kitty said softly. “You’ll knock something over.”

“I do not care,” Mary whispered. “This room...this house...nothing in it belongs to us.”

Kitty hesitated. Then, with rare boldness, she nodded toward the far side of the room.

“There’s something behind the cabinet,” she said, lowering her voice. “I saw Mrs. Hill trying to move it the other day. She said it was too heavy, but I think she was hiding something.”

Mary’s curiosity stirred. Together, they crept to the back corner, where an old cabinet stood half-covered in a musty sheet. It had not been moved in years. Dust thick as velvet coated its top.

Mary pushed against it. Kitty joined her. With effort and muffled grunts, they shifted it just enough to reveal a hollow behind.

There, wrapped in linen, was a small wooden box.

Mary retrieved it carefully. She sat cross-legged on the worn carpet and unwrapped the box with trembling fingers. The latch was old but not locked. It opened with a soft click.

Inside was a miniature portrait.

The woman in the painting could not have been more than twenty-three. Her hair was the same golden-brown shade as Mary’s, swept up elegantly. Her eyes—large, hazel, gentle—seemed to look right through her.

Mary gasped.

“Kitty,” she said, her voice hollow. “It’s us.”

Kitty knelt beside her, gaping.

“I thought maybe it was you,” she said, “but… now I see it. The nose. The cheekbones. The eyes.”

There was a little inscription on the back of the portrait. No name, only two letters and a year — M.W. 1792.

There also was a ring tucked into the velvet beneath it—an elegant gold band with a single sapphire. Mary held it in her hand. It was too fine for any Bennet woman.

“Who is she?” Kitty asked.

“I do not know,” Mary replied. 

They stared at the woman in silence. A thousand unspoken fears hummed between them.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Mary closed the lid and slid the box back into its hiding place. They shoved the cabinet into place just as the door opened and Lydia flounced in.

“What are you two doing?” she demanded. “Scheming as usual?”

Mary wiped her hands on her apron. “Just cleaning.”

“Good. Because you’ll both be scrubbing the scullery later, Mama says.”

As Lydia left, Kitty whispered, “We cannot stay here forever.”

Mary nodded slowly.

“No,” she said. “We cannot.”

At Netherfield, Darcy stood before the window, Georgiana’s sealed letter in his coat pocket. Below, the grounds were cloaked in mist. He thought of Mary’s hands as they played the pianoforte—delicate, bruised, too pale. He thought of her eyes looking into his as she finished her performance—no expectation, only silent strength.

He would send the letter after all and he would begin to ask questions. Because something had always been wrong and he could no longer look away.

The portrait had not left Mary’s thoughts for a moment. Every time she closed her eyes, the woman’s face stared back—soft and beautiful, and so terribly familiar. It filled her with a longing that had no name, a craving for the impossible: to know love, real love. To be wanted.

Mary sat in bed, knees drawn to her chest. Kitty lay beside her, but neither slept.

“We cannot stay here,” Kitty whispered, her voice hollow from hours of silence.

“No,” Mary replied. “We said it before, but this time… I mean it.”

Kitty turned to her, eyes wide. “Where would we go?”

“I do not know,” Mary admitted. “But even the open road is kinder than this place.”

They had waited too long. Mr. Bennet’s punishments were growing harsher. The discovery of the portrait had stirred something in her—a rebellion, perhaps, or a final thread of hope. He had taken everything else from them. He would not take the truth.

They waited two days, gathering what they could. A stale loaf of bread, a flask of water, and a small coin Kitty had hidden long ago, forgotten even by herself. Mrs. Hill pretended not to notice when they borrowed a length of rope from the kitchen cupboard. There was something strange in her gaze...guilt, perhaps. Or silent approval.

That night, when the house was still and the stars sharp against the sky, Mary and Kitty slipped from their room. Barefoot, cloaked in dark shawls, they crept past the nursery where Jane and Elizabeth had once slept, past Lydia’s room, past the heavy door of Mr. Bennet’s study.

They reached the servants’ stairwell and crept down. The front door would creak, they knew. Instead, they slipped through the pantry and out the back—through the scullery door, which Mary had left slightly ajar earlier that day.

The night air struck them like a slap, cold and heavy with the scent of wet leaves.

Kitty shivered. “We’ll go to Meryton,” she whispered. “Find the apothecary. Or the Lucases.”

Mary nodded. “Yes. They will help.”

They made it as far as the orchard beyond the back wall of the estate. They had just climbed over the stones—Kitty scraping her palm raw in the process—when a sharp voice tore through the silence.

“Mary? Kitty?”

They froze.

The voice rang again, this time with incredulous laughter.

“Oh my God—are you running away?”

Lydia emerged from the trees, holding a lantern and smirking.

Mary’s heart sank like a stone. “Lydia. Please.”

Lydia tilted her head, amused. “Papa’s going to love this.”

“We won’t come back,” Kitty said, voice trembling. “Just let us go.”

But Lydia only laughed louder.

“You’re mad if you think I’d let you leave. I’m the youngest Bennet daughter now. If you vanish, Papa will stop feeding me excuses. And Mama will throw a fit.”

She raised the lantern high, signaling toward the house. Moments later, Hill and two other servants appeared, drawn by the noise.

“Take them,” Lydia said smugly. “Tell Papa.”

Mr. Bennet said nothing when they were brought before him.

He only started.

The sisters were dragged into the drawing room, lanterns lit, Lydia seated like a queen on the settee, grinning.

“You ungrateful little wretches,” Mr. Bennet said at last, his voice low.

Mary tried to meet his gaze but faltered. Kitty hid behind her, weeping silently.

“You would throw away everything I’ve done for you. Risk scandal. Ruin. Exposure.” He stepped closer. “Do you even know what you are?”

Mary opened her mouth, but nothing came.

“You are nothing,” he snarled. “And I will show you what nothing means.”

The pain came quickly, savagely. He took them to the cellar, where the lash was kept—an old riding crop, cracked from use.

One by one, he beat them. Not across the back—he was not so stupid. The foot, the heel, the arch. Delicate flesh that bled quickly and left no visible scar under a slipper. Kitty screamed, then bit her knuckle to keep from sobbing. Mary gritted her teeth, willing herself not to fall.

“You will not walk again without pain,” he said coldly. “So next time you think of running, you’ll remember what freedom costs.”

When it was done, he had them dragged to the attic but the small room they shared there all these years— but an empty, frigid room with no windows, only dust and spiders.

“They are to stay here,” he told the servants. “Two weeks. No food. No water. No exceptions.”

He shut the door and they were alone.

Time blurred.

The pain in Mary’s feet pulsed like fire. She curled beside Kitty on the cracked floorboards, whispering prayers she no longer believed in. Kitty slept often, too weak to stay awake.

But not everyone obeyed Mr. Bennet 's command.

The second night, the door creaked open. Mrs. Hill slipped inside, trembling.

“I can’t let you die,” she whispered, and placed a bowl of broth and a bundle of herbs beside them. “He thinks the door is locked. It isn’t. But don’t try again… not yet.”

She came every third night. Once, she brought laudanum for the pain. Once, a piece of cake. She wept each time, quietly.

“I loved your mother,” she whispered once. Neither of the girls understood a word, too far gone in the pain to have a clear mind or response to anything other than comfort.

Mary tried to ask what she was saying. Hill only shook her head.

“Not yet. But soon. You’ll know everything.”

When the attic door was finally opened for good, the girls could no longer stand still without feeling as if the sole of their feet was on fire.

Still Mr. Bennet looked at them as if they were rats.

“Clean yourselves,” he said. “Say nothing. Hope you’ve learned your lesson.” He turned and left.

But the spark that had started in Mary that night in the orchard did not go out. It smoldered in her chest, low and constant.

They would try again and next time, they would not fail.

Chapter Text

The first Sunday following their confinement passed in an uneasy quiet. Though the girls had returned to their daily routine, something had changed. The air in Longbourn felt heavier, the silence longer. The household seemed determined to carry on as though nothing unusual had happened, and yet the walls held secrets now, their very silence a rebuke.

Mary bore the scars beneath her stockings, and Kitty walked with a careful slowness that betrayed more than weariness. Neither dared speak of the attic days aloud. They shared glances, fleeting touches, a squeeze of the hand in passing—silent affirmations of their resolve.

The morning sun had not yet burned away the mist when Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy set out on horseback toward Meryton. The countryside, lush and vibrant from last night’s rain, shimmered beneath a light dew. The road was quiet, save for the rhythmic clop of hooves and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Bingley, cheerful as ever, cast a glance at his silent companion. “Darcy, I must ask — what is your opinion of Miss Bennet?”

Darcy turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I cannot say I have formed a full opinion. I have not observed her much.”

Bingley laughed. “Come now, she has been in the room often enough. Surely you've seen how gentle and sweet-natured she is. I find her quite angelic.”

“She appears pleasant,” Darcy allowed. “But I must admit, I find something curious in the entire household. A sense of… tension, perhaps. Not from Miss Jane, of course. But her father and sisters seem uneasy in a way I cannot fully explain.”

Bingley frowned thoughtfully. “Do you think so? I’ve always thought of them as a rather charming family.”

Darcy offered a small shrug. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am imagining things. Still, I would advise some caution.”

The rest of their ride was filled with lighter conversation, but Darcy's mind lingered on the strange undercurrent he had sensed at Longbourn.

When word came that Mrs. Phillips was to visit, a strange ripple passed through Mrs. Bennet. She seemed at once agitated and hurried, calling Hill three times in one hour to ensure the drawing room was dusted, the silver polished, and the tea prepared.

"Do remember, Mary," Mrs. Bennet called in a falsely bright tone, "no sullen looks today. Your aunt will not appreciate any sourness, even if it is your natural state."

Mary said nothing. She sat quietly by the window, mending a torn chemise with thread far too pale to match the fabric. Kitty sat beside her, stitching a hem.

Mrs. Phillips arrived promptly at three, a burst of perfume and chatter, swathed in a shawl that glittered with gold thread.

"Fanny, dearest, how very charming to see you looking so well! And all your girls are at home, too!" she said, pressing kisses on cheeks with calculated affection.

She greeted each of the Bennet daughters in turn, giving Mary and Kitty only a cursory smile—until she paused.

"Kitty, my dear," she said softly, tilting her head, "how much you resemble..." But then she stopped, shaking her head. "No matter."

Mary looked up from her sewing.

"Resemble whom, Aunt?" she asked quietly.

Mrs. Phillips blinked rapidly and let out a tight laugh. "Only a distant cousin, I think. A resemblance long buried. Nothing at all."

But her eyes flickered, and when they met Mary’s again, something passed between them. A weight. A recognition.

The rest of the visit passed in mild conversation. Mrs. Phillips asked after Jane’s health and Lizzy’s latest readings, complimented Lydia’s ribbon, and told stories of recent assemblies in Meryton. But she watched the younger two closely, her gaze often drawn to the shape of Mary’s brow, the tilt of Kitty’s eyes.

Tea was served, and for a moment, the room fell into a hush.

"Fanny," said Mrs. Phillips, with studied lightness, "do you ever think of poor Margaret?"

The name fell like a stone in the room.

Mrs. Bennet’s cup rattled in its saucer.

"I do not see why you must bring up such melancholy subjects," she said sharply. "What good can come of dwelling with the past?"

"Only that I saw a woman in town last week who reminded me of her," said Mrs. Phillips, her voice laced with something more than nostalgia. "It struck me oddly. You know, I always thought Margaret had the finest eyes in Hertfordshire."

Kitty looked up, startled.

"Was she very beautiful?" she asked.

Mrs. Bennet made a noise of irritation.

"Not more than others. She was vain and romantic, which did her no good in the end. Let us speak no more of it."

But Mrs. Phillips was not so easily silenced.

"I only ask because—well, when she was staying here last, there was talk."

Mary set down her teacup.

"Talk? What sort of talk?"

Mrs. Phillips looked suddenly regretful. Her eyes darted to Mrs. Bennet.

"Oh, idle nonsense. Stories of her walking in the grove with a gentleman. You know how village tongues wag. But I always thought... Well, never mind. It is best left forgotten."

Mrs. Bennet stood suddenly.

"Yes, indeed. Forgotten."

The visit ended shortly after. Mrs. Phillips kissed them all again, murmuring that they were growing into young women now, and time passed so quickly. As she left, she pressed a small wrapped bundle into Kitty’s hands.

"For your headaches, dear," she whispered. "They must not be ignored."

And with a knowing glance, she departed.

Meryton was bustling with the usual midday activity when the gentlemen arrived. While Bingley engaged in an animated conversation with a milliner over ribbons and muslins, Darcy, uninterested in the domestic wares, wandered toward a quieter corner of the general store.

He had paused near a shelf of writing paper when he heard familiar voices from beyond the partition.

“Henry, I cannot stand by any longer,” said Mrs. Phillips, her voice low but urgent. “It is not right, what is happening in that house. Mary and Kitty look worse every time I see them.”

“You must be careful,” her husband replied. “We cannot go about accusing your sister's husband without evidence.”

“And what do you call girls who cannot walk without flinching? Who shrinks away when someone lifts a hand? That is not mere imagination.”

Darcy stood frozen. He dared not shift, lest they notice his presence.

“Especially considering Margaret,” Mrs. Phillips added in a softer voice.

There was silence.

“We do not speak of that,” Mr. Phillips said gruffly.

“No, we never did. And look what that silence has brought.”

Darcy quickly retreated before he could hear more. The name "Margaret" echoed in his thoughts.

Back at Netherfield, Caroline Bingley had just finished reading her newest letter from town when she overheard her brother and Mr. Darcy spoke before leaving for Meryton as the stables were near the window where she was seated.

“Miss Bennet seems very kind,” Bingley said.

“Yes,” Darcy replied with his usual restraint. “But I am not convinced of the merits of her family.”

Caroline's ears perked up.

That evening, as the gentlemen sat with brandy in the library, she glided into the drawing room where Louisa Hurst was arranging embroidery silks.

“We shall invite Miss Jane Bennet for tea tomorrow,” Caroline announced.

Louisa looked up in surprise. “You mean the one Charles fancies?”

“Yes, and for good reason. But I wish to observe her more closely. There is something odd about that family. And did you see how quiet that one sister is? Mary, I believe. Too quiet.”

Louisa raised an eyebrow. “You wish to pry.”

Caroline smiled thinly. “Naturally. Curiosity is a virtue, in moderation.”

Later that night, Mary sat at the small writing desk they shared, unwrapping the bundle. It contained a tiny glass vial of lavender tincture—and a folded scrap of paper.

Mary unfolded it with trembling fingers.

It read: “Eyes like hers do not lie. The past is never as buried as he thinks."

Kitty, reading over her shoulder, gasped. "What does it mean?"

Mary looked out into the night beyond the windowpane.

"It means," she said slowly, "that someone remembers. Someone besides us."

And the darkness outside no longer felt quite so empty.

The candle sputtered in the quiet of the parlour as Mrs. Phillips sat down at her desk. Her fingers trembled slightly as she uncapped her ink and unfolded a fresh sheet of paper. The hour was late, but sleep had evaded her since leaving Longbourn.

Meryton,

February 13th, 1812

My dear Edward,

 She began, then paused. It had been months — perhaps over a year — since she last wrote to her brother. Not out of any estrangement, but simply because there was nothing pressing to say. Now, her thoughts pressed like iron against her chest.

I write to you tonight with a heaviness I cannot ease. I should have done so long ago, and for that I ask your forgiveness. I have visited our sister Fanny this week, and what I saw has troubled me more deeply than I can express.

Her pen scratched across the page.

It is about Mary and Catherine… The two girls you know well are not born of Fanny. You may remember that Margaret left them in our sister’s care many years ago. I have never spoken on it before, trusting in Fanny and Thomas to raise them with a measure of Christian decency. I can no longer convince myself they have.

When I arrived, both girls bore signs of abuse. Their postures were stiff with pain. Mary walks as if her very soles are flayed — forgive the ugliness of the image — and Catherine’s hands shake as she passes me tea. I glimpsed bruises, fresh and old, on Mary’s wrists and beneath the collar of her gown.

Her handwriting tightened.

Worse still was the silence. The way Mary looked at the floor as she answered my questions. The way Kitty’s smile trembled when she tried to pretend all was well. These are not girls prone to dramatics. If anything, they are too quiet, too careful. There is no outcry — only exhaustion. The signs are all there, and I have ignored them for too long.

Edward, I know they are not our blood. But they are children. And no child — not even one born of a stranger — should live as they are living.

I write to you now not to ask you to storm Longbourn or accuse our brother-in-law outright. I write because you are a just man. And I am desperate. Someone must step in — must see to it they are not left to rot beneath their so-called family’s cruelty.

She paused, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes.

If anything happens to them — if one day they disappear from this world and no one has asked why — I would not be able to live with myself.

Please. Visit. Or send someone you trust. You must see them with your own eyes.

Yours in worry and affection,

Grace Phillips

And sealed the letter before she could lose her nerve.

The letter came early in the morning. Jane had gone to tea at Netherfield, and the sudden rain had caught her on the return journey. She had taken ill and would remain at the estate.

Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands. “Oh, this is splendid! She will be cared for by the Bingley sisters and their handsome brother. Why, she might never return if all goes well.”

Elizabeth stood, frowning. “I shall go to her. She will need someone by her side.”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Bennet waved a hand, already in thought. “But you must not go alone. Mary will accompany you.”

Mary looked up, startled. “Me, mama?”

“Yes, you. Lizzy needs help, and it would be good for you to be seen by the Bingleys and their party, since Mr. Darcy's last comment.” 

“Why should they have all the fun?” Complained Lydia, while stomping out of the room.

Mary gave Elizabeth a hesitant glance, but Elizabeth nodded subtly. Anything was better than remaining at Longbourn.

Later, as the carriage was prepared, Mrs. Bennet pulled Elizabeth aside.

“My dear, do not waste the opportunity. Mr. Darcy is rich, and single. A little charm would not go amiss. Smile more, laugh at his wit even when it isn’t funny. And perhaps… a little fluttering of the eyelashes wouldn’t hurt.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes but said nothing.

That afternoon at Netherfield, she made an effort to speak to Darcy while he read. Her attempts were met with polite but clipped responses. When she offered a teasing remark, he only looked at her with mild confusion.

Mary sat by the fire with Jane, pretending to read but watching carefully. Elizabeth sighed inwardly. Flirting with a man like Mr. Darcy was rather like attempting to court a statue.

The hour was late, Netherfield was silent, and the guests long retired when Darcy passed the music room on his way back from the library.

A faint glow shone under the door.

Curious, he opened it quietly.

Mary was seated at the piano, her candle low and her back straight. Her fingers hovered above the keys, trembling slightly, but she did not press them. Darcy watched in silence for a moment before speaking.

“You play in silence?”

She turned sharply. “Oh! I did not think anyone would be awake.”

“I often walk at night. It clears the mind. But may I ask… why do you not play aloud?”

“It is easier not to disturb anyone,” she said softly. “Besides, I am not very good. I taught myself… I only know around five pieces.”

“That is impressive.”

She shook her head. “It is simply listening, remembering. It is the one thing I can do well.”

He stepped further into the room. “That is not a small thing. Self-discipline and observation are rarer virtues than most assume.”

She blinked, uncertain how to respond. “Thank you.”

She rose, gathering her shawl. As she moved toward the door, she stumbled slightly, catching herself on a chair.

Darcy's brow furrowed. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Only tired.”

She left before he could press the matter. He remained in the room for a moment longer, troubled.

Something was very wrong.

The moonlight  filtered gently through the muslin curtains of Jane’s room. The house was quiet save for the distant clang of crockery from the kitchens. Elizabeth sat on the window seat, brushing out her hair, while Jane finished braiding hers  while sitting in the bed. Mary had just left some minutes ago to fetch Jane some medicine.

“Lizzy,” Jane began softly, her voice hesitating, “do you think... Do you think Mary and Kitty are truly well?”

Elizabeth paused. “What do you mean?”

Jane turned to face her sister, twisting her hands in her lap. “Well, you know.. they disappeared for some days and mama refused to say where they were… and at our aunt’s… I noticed how thin Kitty has become. Her hands were trembling, and Mary… she flinched when Aunt Phillips reached to touch her shoulder. And while they were walking…Kitty almost stumbled on the stairs.”

Elizabeth frowned but shrugged. “They’re just awkward. They always have been. Mary especially…forever in her head.”

“I do not think that’s all,” Jane insisted, brows drawing together. “I cannot pretend I don’t see it anymore. There is fear in their eyes. And bruises, Lizzy. Dark ones.”

Elizabeth remained quiet for a moment. “They’re strange girls, Jane. Always lurking in corners, whispering. They invite suspicion.”

“Suspicion is not justification.” Jane’s voice was firm, though still gentle. “They’re our sisters, Lizzy. Our family.”

At that, Elizabeth stood and crossed the room, taking her sister’s hand.

“I know,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. “But what would you have us do? Stir trouble? Accuse Papa? You know how Mama is with them. And besides…”

She hesitated.

Jane looked up. “Besides what?”

Elizabeth’s eyes moved to the window. “They're better than us.”

The words hung in the air like a bitter wind. Jane’s breath caught.

Elizabeth spoke again, quieter. “At least we’re allowed some freedom. If everything goes well, You’re to be married, and Mama… still parades me as a prize.” She gave a small, ironic laugh. “No one sees Mary. Except…” She stopped.

Jane studied her. “Except Mr. Darcy?”

Elizabeth looked away. “He’s peculiar. Since the ball, he’s barely said two words to me. But he was the one to make Mary join the company today, and the one asking after her at supper. He watches her, Jane. And not like a puzzled oddity.  But like a man.”

Jane remained quiet. Elizabeth’s expression was unreadable as she toyed with a stray ribbon.

“I dare say she’s even enjoying it,” Elizabeth muttered. “Mary, with her pale airs and obscure observations. Always so solemn. And now she has Mr. Darcy’s attention.”

“She didn’t ask for it, Lizzy,” Jane said softly.

Elizabeth didn’t reply. She only looked out the window, her reflection lost in the shining moon.

Chapter Text

The mood within Netherfield Park had shifted. Jane, though still pale, had begun to show signs of recovery. Her soft voice returned in whispers and her smiles in gentle flickers, but behind her eyes there was a somber anxiety that only Mr. Bingley knew the reason for. Elizabeth remained ever at her side, steadfast in her nursing. But it was her who quietly balanced the duties of nurse, companion, and watchful observer, her presence steady and discreet. Darcy, when he encountered her in the halls, found himself revisiting the memory of their encounter in the music room: the silence between them full of understanding and something else unspoken, glimmering like moonlight on still water.

Jane's mind had not been the same after the last solo conversation she shared with Charles— as he asked to be referred to in private. All happened one evening when Lizzy left to turn around the gardens before it was  too dark to be deemed proper and Mary asked to retire to the room the three sisters shared declaring that she had a tremendous headache— an excuse to leave the blooming couple alone.

At the moment all was perfect, They sat near the fire, the evening winding down. Jane smiled politely, eager to spend time with the gentleman, but Bingley seemed thoughtful.

"Miss Bennet," he said gently, "I hope you won't think me forward, but for some time, I’ve meant to inquire after  your younger sisters...  Miss Mary and  Miss Kitty..."

Jane's smile dimmed. "They are kind-hearted girls."

" Aye! Of course they are nothing but well manner gentlewomen… But Darcy has brought to my attention that they appear... troubled. Especially Miss Catherine."

Jane hesitated. "They… as all the bennet daughters,  have had to endure a difficult upbringing after the death of my Grandpapa...My father, he changed a lot after it, and some time after he lost his sister... he was heartbroken or so my mother says "

"Certainly, how bad it must has been for him… it is just that I once saw Miss Catherine near the orchard outside your home," Bingley added, "and she reminded me of someone. An old portrait at a business partner's home, here in Hertfordshire..."

Jane paled. "You must be mistaken… We have never heard of a neighbour having a piece like it."

“Oh! It is not in place near Meryton… The painting is at Wrotham Park, an old residency of Lord Wentworth… the Earl of Strafford”

Before she could even form a thought, their conversation was interrupted by Lizzy. As She barged in the room reprimanding her for being out of bed.

The morning was still young when Darcy, after breaking his fast with the other inhabitants of the house, retreated to the privacy of the small study he’d claimed during his stay. The light filtered in through the tall windows, casting golden patterns across the mahogany desk. His fingers drummed lightly against its edge as he tried to focus on the open ledger before him, but his thoughts had long wandered elsewhere.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” he called, voice restrained but not cold.

A footman stepped in, carrying a small stack of correspondence on a silver tray. Among the formal notes and invitations, Darcy’s eyes immediately found the seal he had been waiting for—the familiar handwriting of his sister, Georgie.

“Leave them,” he said, taking the letters in hand.

Once alone again, he turned the envelope over in his fingers. Her writing was neater now, more confident than it had been even a year ago. He broke the wax with care and unfolded the sheet.

My Dearest Fitzwilliam,

You cannot imagine how glad I was to receive your letter, though it startled me at first to read the tone with which you wrote. There was a tension beneath your words that made me anxious, as if the world around you had tilted without your consent.

I believe I understand now what you meant when you wrote of duty, protection, and the careful balance between observation and interference. You speak of a young lady who is perhaps more than she appears, and her sister who suffers silently beside her. I do not know these Bennet girls, not truly, but your words conveyed more than your reserve allowed. It is not just their circumstances you are watching, dear brother… but one of them, in particular, has found her way into your concern.

You wrote of Mary.

You described her voice, her quiet defiance, her moments of stillness as if they startled you—as if they were reflections of something you had not expected to find in that house. I think I understand. She reminds you of me.

Or perhaps, more painfully, of the girl I once was before Ramsgate.

But do not let your guilt or fear guide your next steps, Fitzwilliam. Let it be your heart. If you believe she is in danger, then act. If you think she is worth your protection, offer it. You know what it is to be powerless, even if you were never trapped as I once was. Do not let her fall through the cracks of propriety and name, as I nearly did.

And if her pain resonates with you, it is not a weakness to feel it. It is strength.

Write to me again soon. I would like to know more about her. And of you.

With all my love,

Georgiana 

Darcy exhaled slowly, his hands trembling faintly as he lowered the letter. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as a weight pressed more firmly against his chest.

Georgiana saw more than he had admitted, even to himself.

Mary.

He had watched her from the edges of his comfort, always careful not to intrude too far, not to speak too plainly. But in the quiet of her music, in the flicker of pain she hid behind lowered lashes, she had stirred something long dormant in him—something protective, yes. But also something gentler. Hopeful.

And now, Georgiana had given him her blessing to feel it. To act.

He folded the letter again, slower this time, and pressed it to his heart before slipping it into his coat pocket. His mind was already turning, calculating the distance between kindness and intervention.

He would not fail this time.

Several days into Jane's stay, the remainder of the Bennet ladies—Mrs. Bennet, Lydia, and Kitty—arrived at Netherfield. Their visit, far less solemn than warranted, filled the halls with Lydia's giggling and Mrs. Bennet’s shrill insistence that Jane would soon be betrothed. Elizabeth, seated stiffly beside her recovering sister, felt the familiar dread settle in her stomach. But today, it was not just embarrassment that tightened her spine—it was the cold distance in Darcy's gaze, the way he did not look at her.

"Jane, my darling girl!" Mrs. Bennet’s voice floated in like an unwelcome gust. "We were simply beside ourselves with worry!"

Elizabeth turned toward the door as it burst open, admitting Mrs. Bennet, followed closely by Lydia and Kitty. The trio descended upon the room like a squawking flock, cooing over Jane’s pallor, bemoaning the weak constitution that had rendered her bedridden, and loudly remarking upon the hospitality of their wealthy hosts.

Jane, ever gracious, attempted to sit up. "I am much better, Mama. Truly."

"Oh no, no, dearest. You must not move. We can all see how unwell you still are," Mrs. Bennet insisted, then turned to Elizabeth. "Has Mr. Bingley been in today?"

Elizabeth, trying to maintain civility, nodded. "Yes. He inquired after Jane and brought her some flowers from the greenhouse."

"And Mr. Darcy?" Lydia chimed in, giggling. "Is he still ever so glum and proud, or have you succeeded in making him smile at last?"

Before Elizabeth could answer, there was a knock on the door, and a servant appeared to announce that the Bingleys, Mrs. Hurst, and Mr. Darcy were in the parlor. And an invitation was extended for the ladies to join them.

Elizabeth, reluctant, glanced at Jane, who smiled weakly. "You should go, Lizzy. They’ve been so kind."

Mrs. Bennet did not need further encouragement. She fluffed her cap and led her daughters down the hall. Elizabeth walked slower, her mind occupied with her recent frustrations. She had begun to feel invisible, even among her own family. She did not miss the brief glances Mr. Darcy had cast toward Mary over the past days, nor how he seemed always drawn into conversation with her quieter sister. She feared her mother's reactions , if she were to notice  her failure in acquiring the gentleman’s affections.

The drawing room was ablaze with early sunlight. Caroline Bingley stood near the window, dressed in amber silk, her smile practiced.

"Mrs. Bennet, Miss Lydia, Miss Kitty, " she greeted. "So pleased to see you."

 Introductions were exchanged, and for a time, the room was a blur of formal pleasantries. Mr. Bingley beamed his usual friendliness, asking after Jane. Mr. Darcy, seated near the unlit fireplace, only nodded.

"And where is Mary today?" Miss Bingley asked, her tone sweet but sharp-edged. "She seems to have taken on a quiet sort of importance these past few days."

"Oh, likely reading a sermon," Mrs. Bennet said dismissively. "She's always been so dull." 

To Elizabeth’s surprise, Caroline smirked and shot Darcy a knowing look.

"Not as dull as one might think," he said quietly.

All eyes turned to him. Miss Bingley looked mildly affronted.

Before anything more could be said, the door opened and Mary entered, hands demurely clasped before her. She had a fresh blush to her cheeks and wore a modest lavender gown.

"Forgive my tardiness, I was in the kitchens. I thought it best to tend to Jane’s breakfast before coming down."

Mr. Darcy stood. "Miss Mary."

She blinked in surprise, but inclined her head. "Mr. Darcy."

"How thoughtful of you to look after your sister," he said, his voice softened with genuine respect.

Mary lowered her eyes. "It is not burden."

Miss Bingley, sensing the shift in attention, interrupted. "Do tell us, Miss Mary, what reading has occupied you this week? I confess, I could never understand how you spend hours in silent contemplation."

"I was reading about the lives of great women in history," Mary answered, gently. "Some of them were quiet, often overlooked, but many endured more than the world acknowledged."

Caroline’s brows rose. "How… charming."

Mr. Darcy's lips curled into what might have been the beginnings of a smile.

The drawing room grew stifling, the contrast between their manners and the hosts’ palpable. At the first opportunity, Elizabeth rose and quietly encouraged their departure. However to her displeasure Mr. Bingley asks them to at least stay until after tea time, to allow Jane to have her to break her fast at her own pace without the rush of packing their belongings. 

It was an hour after tea when Mary found herself wandering the side garden. The frost had lifted, and though the air remained crisp, the sun warmed her skin as she paused to admire a patch of early snowdrops.

"Miss Mary."

She turned to find Mr. Darcy approaching, hands behind his back.

"Mr. Darcy."

"Forgive me for intruding on your solitude. I only wished to enjoy the air myself."

She offered a small smile. "Then I shall not disturb you."

"On the contrary," he said, falling into step beside her. "Your company is far from disturbing."

They walked in companionable silence for a few paces.

"You seem... thoughtful," he said at last.

Mary nodded. "I often am. It is my nature."

"You are unlike your family."

"So I have been told," she replied, not bitterly but with a hint of tired amusement.

He looked at her closely. "I meant it as a compliment."

She blinked up at him, surprised. " I know, thank you."

They passed beneath the leafless archway, their breath visible in the cold.

"Do you play often?" he asked. "The pianoforte."

"Only when permitted," she said, glancing away.

"¿Permitted?"

"Our father is... particular."

She stopped walking. "You’re still fixed on that?"

He nodded. "It was... moving."

Her cheeks pinkened. "I sometimes need to remind my fingers."

They shared a moment of stillness, broken only when the distant bell rang.

"They will be readying to leave," Mary murmured.

He held out his arm. She took it, surprised again by the quiet strength of him.

Elizabeth stood at the window, her gaze fixed on the garden path where Darcy and Mary had been walking only moments ago. She had watched them in silence, her lips pressed in a thin line, her fingers tightening around the lace curtain. Mary had laughed at something Darcy said—not her usual dry chuckle, but a genuine, warm laugh. It unsettled her. She turned away before they could return to the house.

When Mary arrived at Jane's room, Lizzy was taking the trays of what was left of their sister's breakfast to the kitchen, as the maid helped them pack as little as they could. 

There was nothing she could do to help them without getting on their way, so she chose to merely observe their work.  Her mind drifts away to the garden, the last moments of peace before returning home, the warmth of Mr. Darcy before the cold walls of Longbourn trap her once again.

Her eyes keep roaming the room, until they find themselves in the nightstand where one of the books she has taken from the library remains untouched. She couldn't leave like that, it had to be returned to its original place. So she embarked herself to visit the library one last time.

The  mid-morning sun streamed into the library as Mary placed the book in one of the many  bookshelves that cover the room. She knew she had to leave soon, yet her hand  had a mind of its own, and found the worn leather binding of a volume she had never noticed before, it was a sheet music book. As she pulled it free, a folded paper fell from its pages. She opened it and read:

"In every quiet strength there is music yet unsung. —F.D."

A cough behind her made her turn. Darcy stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"I thought you might enjoy that book, so take it with you as a gift," he said.

"You left me a message."

"Only the truth. You carry yourself with a grace others fail to notice."

She looked away, unsure of how to respond.

"Is it wrong to hope that you will play again? Not for others. Just for yourself."

Mary nodded slowly. "Perhaps one day."

From the hallway, Bingley passed by and paused, his eyes curious.

When everything was loaded into the carriage the ladies started muttering various goodbyes to their hosts. Darcy, ever the gentleman, offered his assistance as the Bennet ladies climbed into their carriage. Mrs. Bennet was escorted first, then Kitty and Lydia. Elizabeth followed next, climbing without a word. Mary lingered, gathering her shawl.

As she stepped forward, Darcy extended his hand. She took it, gloved fingers slipping over him. But as she stepped up, his grip did not release at once. Their eyes locked. It was brief—perhaps no longer than the span of a breath—but both felt it: the warmth of contact, the electric spark where flesh met, the pull of recognition. Her fingers trembled as she withdrew, and he, uncharacteristically unsettled, watched the carriage disappear into the drive.

Darcy stood frozen for a moment, watching the carriage pull away. Elizabeth, watching from her seat, saw everything.

She turned from the view, her stomach tight with unease.

Back at Longbourn, days slipped by in their usual rhythm of quiet desperation. Mr. Bennet was once again cloistered in his study, his temper short and his gaze sharp. Mrs. Bennet busied herself with gossip and matchmaking schemes.

Mary and Kitty were tasked with cleaning the cellar—a task usually reserved for the housemaids, but one their father had deemed "character building." With sleeves rolled and kerchiefs tied about their hair, the girls descended the creaking stairs into the dust-filled gloom.

Until one afternoon, Elizabeth found Mary alone in the drawing room—resting after busy day preparing the gues’s rooms for yet another visit of Mr. Collins, pretending to read.

"You seemed very merry earlier this week," Elizabeth said with a lightness that barely masked the strain in her voice. "Mr. Darcy must be quite the jester."

Mary looked up, blinking. "He is not. But he has been... considerate."

Elizabeth crossed her arms. "It is unusual for a man so proud to show consideration. Especially for someone who is not... accustomed to much attention."

Mary closed her book. "If you mean to suggest I encouraged him, you are mistaken."

"Am I?" Elizabeth's voice grew sharp. "Mother has certainly formed an opinion on your behavior. She thinks you are trying to make a match for it."

Mary's cheeks flushed, but her voice remained calm. "It was not my doing. I never sought Mr. Darcy's attention."

Elizabeth looked away. "Just be cautious. You may find his attention flattering, but men like him do not marry girls like you."

Mary stood. "Then perhaps you should direct that advice inward, Lizzy. I recall you once hoped for more than mere indifference from him."

Elizabeth's face stiffened. "That was before I saw him for what he truly is."

Mary left the room, head held high.

Dinner that day was tough, the dark aura of the tension between the two women was obvious for all seated at the table, evening was underlined by cold silence. Elizabeth’s displeasure, veiled behind civility, had simmered since their conversation. Mary had felt her sister’s eyes on her more than once, and she suspected something was brewing.

It came the next morning.

Mrs. Bennet burst into their room in the attic, cheeks flushed and eyes sharp. “You think yourself clever, do you?” she snapped at Mary, startling both her and Kitty.

“Mama?” Mary blinked, setting aside the Psalms she had been quietly reading.

“Do not play the innocent with me! Lizzy has told me everything…your scandalous behavior at Netherfield, taking walks with Mr. Darcy, shamelessly lingering in his presence!” she shrieked. “Flirting with a man so high above you! Do you have any sense?”

Mary’s mouth fell open. “That was not…he…he only offered conversation…”

“Oh, please!” her mother cut in. “Do you think I am blind? Lizzy saw you! And now you’ll embarrass us all! He is for Lizzy, not for a scheming, simpering middle girl no one asked for! You will not ruin this for her!”

She turned her wrath to Kitty. “And you! Always loitering behind your sister like a stray pup—well, you both shall learn your place.”

Before they could protest, Mrs. Bennet jabbed a finger toward the door. “Down to the basement, both of you. That place hasn’t been cleaned in years. You may spend the day scrubbing floors and sorting rubbish…and pray that the dust knocks some sense into you!”

The basement at Longbourn was damp and musty, and the air felt heavy with disuse. Dust covered everything in a blanket of gray. Old furniture, broken tools, and long-forgotten crates lay scattered in disorganized piles.

Mary and Kitty worked in silence for some time. Mary scrubbed, her mind racing—not just from the unfairness of her mother’s wrath, but also from the memory of Mr. Darcy’s quiet voice in the music room, the way he had looked at her, not with disdain or dismissal, but something softer. And when their hands had brushed against the carriage…

She shook her head and focused on a corner behind some shelves. It seemed oddly arranged, as if someone had tried to cover something deliberately.

“Kitty,” she said, “help me move this.”

Together, they shifted a small wooden table and an old tool chest. Beneath it, a floorboard stuck up slightly at the edge. Mary tapped it. It gave a hollow sound.

Her heart pounded as she pried it up.

Inside was a shallow cavity—dark, still, and undisturbed. Nestled in the hollow was a weathered trunk. Its surface was scuffed, the hinges rusted.

Kitty leaned closer. “Should we open it?”

Mary nodded.

The trunk creaked as it opened, and a breath of old air escaped like a sigh from the past. Inside were folded linens, a pale blue child’s dress, delicate slippers, and in one corner—a small wooden horse. One ear was chipped.

Mary reached for it, and a wave of emotion surged in her chest. The toy was familiar. Unmistakably so. She knew its weight in her hand. She had held it before—many times. But how?

Kitty unwrapped something else: an old silk scarf, delicately embroidered with the letter “M”, and then a bundle of papers tied together with a faded ribbon.

Beneath them, half-covered by cloth, was a small portrait.

They lifted it together.

The woman in the painting was the same as the one they found before, maybe a little younger,  but surely it was the same woman.

Kitty lifted one of the papers and read the name written in ink on the back of the portrait: Margaret Bennet.

“She was a Bennet,” Kitty said, puzzled. “Like us.”

Mary nodded slowly, but she didn’t feel clarity—only more confusion.

“She must have been our aunt,” Kitty went on. “But why would her things be hidden?”

Before they could speculate further—footsteps.

Booted. Measured. Coming down the corridor just above.

Mary froze. “Quick,” she hissed.

They stuffed the letters into the folds of Kitty’s apron. Mary wrapped the portrait in the scarf and slid it beneath her own dress, flat against her stomach. They pushed the trunk back into the floor, replaced the board, and kicked dirt and splinters over the seams.

Just as they stood and tried to look busy, the door opened.

Mr. Bennet stood in the doorway, brows arched. “Still alive down here, are you?”

Mary forced a small smile. “Quite, sir.”

“Then do take care not to perish with enthusiasm.” His tone was light, but his eyes scanned the room with unsettling precision.

Neither girl spoke.

After a moment, he gave them a nod and turned away.

The silence stretched after he left.

“Do you think he knew?” Kitty whispered.

Mary shook her head. “I don’t know.”

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Mary  sat side by side in their shared room, she was waiting for kitty. The portrait rested on the nightstand, wrapped safely. The letters—yellowed, fragile, heavy with time—sat in her lap. 

But she could not bring herself to read them yet. Her mind kept circling back to the wooden toy, the smoothness of it, the memory it stirred: a hand offering it to her, warm, loving. Laughter.

A woman 's voice. 

She didn’t know who it was, as she only remembered the feelings it evoked on her, not the sound per se .

But she would find out.

Edward Gardiner adjusted his glasses as he finished reading his sister's letter, his brow drawn tight in consternation. He sat in his book-lined study, the lamplight casting long shadows across the dark oak desk. The house was silent but for the soft clink of china as his wife brought in a tea tray.

"You’ve read it twice now," Mrs. Gardiner said gently, placing a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder. "Is it as bad as she claims?"

"Worse, perhaps," Edward replied, setting the letter down. "I always thought it strange how little affection Fanny showed those two girls. But this... lashings? Starvation?"

Edward turned back to the desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. "I must go. I will not write to Thomas—if what Grace says is true, it would only give him time to hide the truth."

"Will you not go to Longbourn directly?"

He shook his head. "No. I shall visit Grace first. Tell Bennet nothing. Maybe she can invite the girls over. I want to see them without their watchful eyes."

His hand moved quickly, penning a short but firm reply.

 My dearest Grace,

Your letter has shaken me to the core. I am leaving for Meryton within the week. Please do not inform Mr. or Mrs. Bennet of my coming. I intend to visit you and observe matters with my own eyes.

If possible, arrange for the two girls to be at your home during my visit. I must see the truth for myself. I owe that much to Margaret, our dear friend. And to them.

 With thanks and resolve,

 Edward Gardiner

Mrs. Gardiner watched her husband quietly, her heart swelling with both pride and worry. "Be careful, Edward. If even half of what Grace says is true... you may be walking into a lion’s den."

Edward folded the letter and sealed it. "Then I shall walk in armed with truth and family. If Mary and Kitty have been wronged, I will see it made right."

He looked out the window, the moonlight catching the edges of the snow-dusted roofs of London. Somewhere in the quiet country, his sister's daughters were suffering, by her own hand no less. But not for much longer.

"No child deserves to live like that," he repeated softly. "Not while I still draw breath.”

The house had long since gone to sleep. The familiar creaks of Longbourn had settled into the stillness of night, broken only by the occasional soft whimper of the wind through the trees outside. In their small bedroom, Mary and Kitty sat cross-legged on the floor, a single candle burning low between them.

The letters and papers they had smuggled from the basement lay spread out like a forgotten garden of parchment. The portrait of Margaret Bennet,  now carefully unwrapped and resting against a stack of books, watched them from the corner of the room with calm, knowing eyes.

Kitty reached for the topmost letter with trembling fingers. “Are you sure we should read them now?”

Mary gave a small, solemn nod. “We must. We may not get another chance.”

She picked up a folded letter sealed with old wax, the crest barely visible—two interlocking branches and a pair of wings. Breaking the seal, she began to read.

“To my dearest friend and sister, Fanny…”

Mary blinked, surprised. “This is from Margaret,” she said quietly. “To Mama.”

She cleared her throat and continued.

 “I cannot tell you how strange it is to be so happy and yet so afraid. This child stirs within me, and I already love it more than I ever thought possible. Wentworth is beside himself with joy. He kisses my belly each morning and speaks to the child as if it can hear every word. He has begun compiling names in a little notebook. You would laugh to see how serious he is about it.”

Kitty leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Wentworth. That must be her husband”

Mary nodded, turning the page with care.

“If it is a girl, I am partial to Catherine. It was Grandmama’s name, and it has such a regal sound. Wentworth likes the name Lillian, though I told him it sounded too much like a flower girl. If it is a boy, he insists on Edmund—after his uncle—but I rather like Thomas. Not for my brother, of course, but because it seems both strong and kind.”

Mary’s voice faltered as she reached the end.

 “No matter who this little soul turns out to be, I only pray that it may know love, not secrecy. I know my brother does not approve. I know he may never forgive me. But I do not regret marrying Wentworth. I regret only that I cannot share this happiness with you and the girls  more openly. Tell Lizzy and Jane I think of them often, and that Mary misses playing. Perhaps, someday, they may meet their cousins and not even know it.”

Mary lowered the letter slowly. “Cousins…” she whispered, her gaze flicking to her sister.

Kitty stared back. “She… she named me.”

Mary nodded, stunned. “Or intended to. If this was before you were born… at is without and envelope, we do not have a date”

Kitty reached for another letter and began to read aloud, her voice soft.

 “My darling Margaret…”

 “I have read your last letter a dozen times. Each time I do, I am torn between joy and sorrow. I cannot believe your brother has sent you away, that he has disowned you for following your heart. Fanny is too frightened to speak up, and Thomas is utterly indifferent as usual. Only I seem to care, to explain the reasons behind my choice. But I tried and now I'm leaving Wrotham Park for good, and embarking on my journey to the continent to meet my future.”

 “You know, being here alone, I can help but  remember the summer we all stayed at Aunt Elizabeth’s when William and Thomas introduced us for the first time…the long walks, the orchard behind the barn, the way you used to sing when you thought no one was listening. You were always the brave one. I was the quiet one. And now that time is lost to us and I do not know how to bring it back.”

 “If you ever need a place to escape to, if something were to happen to William. Maggie, I beg you, come to me. My  future husband would welcome you. I would keep you safe. For the meantime, i’m saddened to hear that you would not be able to attend my wedding as the journey is to dangerous in your state but i'm sure my brother is to give  me all the gifts you send without problem”

"Forever your sister, Anne….”

Mary’s brow furrowed. “Anne? That must have been  her sister in law. But what is her relationship with Papa?” 

She reached to try to read another one, yet it was impossible, they were damaged by water and the text in the was a mess.

Kitty sat back, cradling the toy horse in her hands. “Why would he hide all of this? Why hide Margaret’s belongings—and pretend she never existed?”

Mary looked toward the portrait again, the lines of Margaret’s face still haunting in their resemblance to her own. “Because he must have hated what she represented,” she said softly. “Freedom. Disobedience. Love.”

She sifted through the rest of the letters and paused at a brittle, older document. It was a copy of a birth registry—not official, but hand-copied. Mary read aloud.

“Catherine Lillian Wentworth, born April 12th, in the year of our Lord…1796”

She stopped. Her hands shook.

“Kitty… that’s your birthday.”

Kitty stared at her in disbelief. “But I… I always thought… they never celebrated it like the others…”

Mary bit her lip, the weight of realization pressing on her chest. “Because they never wanted to acknowledge it. Or perhaps… it was too painful for him.”

Kitty looked at the tiny name written in faded ink. “Catherine Lillian,” she murmured. “He didn’t even change it that much. ”

Another letter sat at the bottom of the stack, wrapped in faded blue ribbon. The handwriting was more rushed—less elegant.

If anyone finds this—please, tell my daughters I loved them. Tell them I never wanted to leave. The illness came too swiftly. Wentworth is away—I could not write. The midwife says the baby will come too early. I am afraid. My body is too weak.

Mary—if you read this one day, know that you were the light of my life. You used to press your cheek to my belly and whisper to your sister. You said she was going to be named Butterfly. I told you her name would be Catherine, and you laughed and told me that was too long a name for a butterfly. You were only two, but you were already clever.

 If I do not survive this, if you grow up not knowing me—know this: I loved your father. And I loved you both. More than my own life.

 With all my heart,

 Margaret Wentworth née Bennet.

The candle sputtered as the last words were spoken, and a breath of wind through the cracked window snuffed it out. Darkness cloaked the room, but neither Mary nor Kitty moved. They sat together, hearts pounding in the silence.

The pieces of their lives—scattered and rewritten by their uncle—had begun to come together. They were daughters, not nieces. Daughters of a woman who had loved fiercely and suffered alone.

“I remember the toy,” Mary whispered at last. “And… I think I remember her voice. Only a little. But I do.”

Kitty’s hand found hers in the dark. “I wish I could remember her too.”

Mary squeezed her fingers. “I will find a way.”

Mary had long fallen asleep while Kitty sat on the floor by the bed, cradling the portrait they had found. It was worn smooth, but the paint still showed hints of the original colours.

"You loved me…" she whispered.

She reached under her pillow and pulled out one of the letters they'd taken. Her eyes scanned the name again: Margaret Wentworth.

Kitty glanced toward the door, then held the painting thighter, like a lifeline.

"Mama."

Mr. Bennet descended into the basement late at night after his wife had succumbed to Morpheus, lantern in hand. He had not come down here in years, but something gnawed at him when he saw those two rats cleaning the place. 

He opened the trunk hidden beneath the floorboards. It was empty.

He stood still for a long moment, then cursed under his breath.

"So the little mice have begun to nibble."

He ascended the stairs more slowly than before, thinking of what else they might have seen.

Chapter Text

The shadows in Longbourn had grown heavier in recent days, not for the waning light of early spring evenings, but for the way Mr. Bennet’s eyes lingered too long, too knowingly, on the sisters.

Mary first noticed it when his eyes no longer looked at them with general contempt or boredom, but rather with a cold, calculating awareness. How a smirk would twist his lips when he caught them whispering, and each time Mary caught his gaze, it was as if he was daring her to try something.

“He knows,” she whispered one night, lying stiff beside Kitty on their shared bed in the attic. “He knows we found the trunk. That we know the truth.”

Kitty didn’t respond at first, just clutched her knees to her chest and stared at the rafters overhead. But when Mary touched her hand, she whispered back, “He’s been more cruel. Says things like ‘you’ve always been strays under my roof.’ And this morning, he told me I had the same useless eyes of a traitor.”

That sealed it.

They waited for confirmation, and it came two days later in the form of whispered schemes. Kitty, moving down the hallway with a tray of tea, overheard Mrs. Bennet gossiping to Mr. Bennet in the drawing room.

“You know Collins wrote again,” Fanny chattered. “He says he shall arrive by the end of the month. We could solve two problems at once, you know. Marry him to Mary…oh, you know he won’t care that she’s plain and quiet, only that she’s obedient…and then we’ll be rid of her. If she refuses, we’ll call her ungrateful and force her hand anyway, and the man of God will think us the saints.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled. “A perfect match. And with that dullard Collins on our side, who will argue when I say she is mad and fit only for charity if she declines?”

Kitty had dropped the tray. The sound of porcelain shattering didn’t even hide her sob. She ran.

That night, bruises still fresh on Kitty’s back for her “clumsiness,” they made the decision. There would be no third chance.

They would escape.

They pulled out what little they had left—Mr Bennet made sure to destroy almost all their belongings since the last time they tried to run away—Kitty’s tattered shawl, Mary’s old boots with the soles barely attached, a cloth pouch to carry the letters they’d salvaged, the ones that have parts that are somewhat still readable, and their mother’s ring. Mary had also wrapped up the tiny wooden toy from the trunk in the basement.

Their plan was simple, as it was the first time. They would leave in the middle of the night, when the house was silent and Mr. Bennet, who now took laudanum to sleep, would be in too deep a stupor to wake. They would follow the back trail to the road leading to Meryton, then head on foot toward London. Once there, they would find work—anything, really—and try to reach the coast. America, the continent, anywhere but England. Anywhere but Longbourn.

They dared not hope for rescue.

Their mother’s letters only mentioned their father’s name once—William Wentworth—and hinted that he had been there in her last moments, as he was out of the country for a wedding.  No matter how hard they wanted to find him, they had nothing to start with. No address, no clue. They assumed he was long dead, and the mysterious “Anne” mentioned in some letters was just too far away to do something. So there was no one to come for them. Only themselves.

The appointed night arrived with a moon hidden behind thick clouds. A chill wind rustled the hedges. As quietly as possible, the girls dressed in layers of old clothes and waited for the clock to strike two. The creaking house gave no sign of life. Mr. Bennet’s room remained dark. Fanny’s nasal snores echoed from across the hall.

They crept to the Main stairs, not wanting to risk going through the back this time.

Mary clutched Kitty’s hand as they descended, each step agonizing for their battered feet, but adrenaline dulled the worst of it. At the base of the stairs, they paused before the back door.

Then it opened.

Both girls froze.

Mrs. Hill stood there, her old shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, a small candle flickering in her hand. Her face was pale. She looked at the girls, then at the satchel in Mary’s hand. Understanding lit her eyes.

“You’re leaving,” she whispered.

Mary opened her mouth to deny it, but Kitty stepped forward, trembling. “Please don’t stop us.”

Mrs. Hill’s face twisted, not in anger, but in grief. “Stop you?” She reached into the folds of her apron and withdrew a small purse. “Take this.”

Mary shook her head furiously. “We couldn’t. You need it…your mother…”

“My mother is already gone,” she said softly. “Weeks ago. I kept working because it’s all I know, but I’m tired. And I’m sorry. I’ve known for a long time that things weren’t right in this house. But I…I was afraid. And I let you both suffer for my silence.”

Tears welled in Kitty’s eyes.

“We don’t blame you,” she said.

Mrs. Hill pressed the purse into Mary’s hand. “Don’t argue. Take it. It’s not much, but it’ll get you through a few nights, maybe onto a coach if you’re lucky. Don’t… look… back.”

Then she did something neither of them expected—she kissed both girls on the forehead and whispered, “Go. Before I lose my nerve.”

They ran.

Through the fields, past the silent grove, along the deer trail that edged the estate wall. Their lungs burned, and their feet screamed in protest, but they ran. Tears streaked their cheeks, and breath came in pained sobs, but they did not stop.

Eventually, Longbourn was nothing but a speck behind them.

The horizon stretched ahead, endless and dark.

Kitty staggered first, clutching her side. Mary caught her just in time, and they sat by the roadside, gasping. Kitty’s foot was bleeding again, the half-healed welts from their last punishment reopening under the strain.

“We can rest here,” Mary said, voice tight. “Just for a few minutes.”

Kitty looked up at the starless sky.

“We’re doing it.”

Mary reached into her pocket and pulled out the wooden horse. She ran her thumb over the smooth surface.

“We are.”

They didn’t notice the storm clouds gathering in the distance.

They didn’t see the faint glow of lanterns returning to life in the Longbourn kitchen.

They didn’t know that their absence had already been discovered.

But for now, they were free.

The first drops of rain fell softly, almost politely—an English rain that began with mist before growing in purpose. The woods they had entered for shelter now loomed dark and dripping. Branches tangled above them, filtering what little moonlight the clouds allowed through. The wet leaves glistened like silver blades in the shadows.

Mary helped Kitty to her feet after their short rest, her own legs shaking, the soles of her boots barely holding together. The earlier adrenaline was fading fast. Pain settled in its place.

“We have to keep moving,” Kitty murmured, her voice hoarse. “The road should curve left soon. If we follow it, we’ll reach Meryton by morning.”

Mary nodded, but something in her gut turned with dread. The night felt watchful. The trees seemed to whisper with voices not their own. And the soft thuds of their footsteps were too loud in the stillness.

Then the rain grew heavier.

The ground softened into mud. Every step became a struggle, the wet soil dragging at their skirts, clinging to their shoes. They climbed a shallow slope lined with moss and roots, and it was there that it happened.

Mary’s foot slipped.

The world tilted violently. She went down hard, her side striking a jagged stone hidden beneath the mud. Pain erupted through her leg. A sharp cry escaped her lips.

“Mary!” Kitty dropped beside her, frantic. “Are you hurt? Let me see…”

Mary pushed her sister’s hands away. “No, no, don’t stop…we have to keep going.”

Kitty tried to help her up, but when Mary put weight on her right foot, she gasped and fell back with a groan. The gash along her calf was deep and already oozing blood through her stocking.

“I’ll bind it,” Kitty said quickly, tearing at her petticoat. “Just give me…”

A sound interrupted her.

Voices.

Not far behind them, too many for safety. Men’s voices. Slurred speech. Laughter that had nothing kind in it.

Kitty paled. “They’re coming. We can’t…”

Mary grabbed her arm, squeezing hard.

“Go.”

“What?”

“Go, Kitty. You can still run. I’ll hide. I just need time.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to!” Mary hissed. “If they catch us both, it’s over. You’re faster. You’re quieter. Get to Meryton. Get to Aunt Phillips.”

Tears welled in Kitty’s eyes, but she nodded, fingers trembling. “Promise you’ll follow. Promise me.”

“I’ll find you,” Mary whispered, pressing the little wooden horse into Kitty’s palm. “You go first. I’ll be just behind.”

Kitty held the toy to her chest for one heartbeat, then leaned down and kissed her sister’s forehead.

Then she ran.

Mary pulled herself across the muddy earth with gritted teeth, dragging her body behind a thick clump of bushes and wet bracken. The forest floor was soaked and freezing. Her dress clung to her skin. She bit down on her shawl to keep from crying out.

She heard them then—two men, perhaps three. The clatter of boots on the slippery trail. Their laughter turned into confused murmurs when they found no one. Mary prayed they hadn’t seen Kitty’s direction. She curled into the foliage, clutching her injured leg, every breath shallow, her body shivering.

One voice rose above the others, jeering and impatient. “Thought I saw someone run through here.”

“Nothing but shadows, mate. Let’s get back...there’ll be more drink in town.”

Their voices grew fainter, cursed against the rain, and eventually vanished into the night.

Mary did not move.

Her blood seeped into the soil. Her limbs grew numb. But she held onto one thing—Kitty was away. Kitty was still free.

And somehow, some way, she would follow.

Kitty’s legs buckled beneath her again. She had been walking for what felt like hours, limping, dragging, forcing each breath through clenched teeth. Her feet were long past bleeding; the skin had split in places, raw and weeping, mud crusted around her ankles. She had lost one shoe in the woods and discarded the other not long after—it did more harm than good. Her hands were scraped and swollen, her skirts soaked through, tangled with burrs and brambles.

Still, she pressed on.

Rain had been falling steadily for hours, cold needles slicing down through the trees and hammering into the muddy road. The woods had given way to open fields, and she could see the outline of a crumbling barn in the distance—tilted, skeletal, forgotten.

She collapsed near its entrance, crawling on her hands and knees inside.

The air within was damp and thick with the smell of mildew and rotting straw. Broken beams leaned like drunks in the dark. A rusted pitchfork was buried in a pile of hay that hadn’t been touched in years. She curled into a nest of old straw in the corner, hugging her torn cloak around herself, shivering so violently her teeth rattled.

Her mind swirled with fear and exhaustion—Mary bleeding alone in the woods, Mr. Bennet’s twisted smile, the feel of Mrs. Hill’s coin purse pressed into her palm. Her lips moved in prayerless mutterings. She didn’t notice the world spinning toward her until sleep dragged her under like a black tide.

She awoke to voices.

Low, slurred male voices—laughing.

She barely had time to push herself upright before shadows filled the barn’s entrance. Three men stepped in, water dripping from their coats, their boots squelching in the mud. Their red uniforms glistened, but these weren’t proud soldiers. These were drunken jackals—smelling of cheap gin, tobacco, and filth.

“Well, well,” said the one in the center, swaying a little as he squinted. “Looks like we’ve found ourselves a stray kitten.”

Kitty scrambled backward until her back hit the wall. “Please…please go. I’m just resting. I’ll leave…”

“Leave?” one of the others echoed with a grin. “Sweetheart, you're lucky we found you. It’s dangerous out here for a girl like you.”

“I…I have family nearby,” she lied, clutching her cloak tight. “They’ll be looking for me.”

Another laugh. “Don’t think so. No carriage tracks on the road, no lantern light. And you’re not dressed for travel. You’re dressed for…” He crouched, grabbing a handful of her skirt, “something else entirely.”

She screamed and kicked, catching him in the leg. He snarled and slapped her—hard, across the face. Her head snapped to the side and hit the wooden beam behind her.

Tears blurred her vision. Her lip was bleeding.

“Now that wasn’t very ladylike,” the first one hissed. He was tall, lean, with a rotten-toothed smile and bloodshot eyes. He bent over her, reeking of vomit and sweat. “You’re not from Meryton, are you? Wait…I’ve seen you. You’re one of old Bennet’s girls. The quiet one.”

"Quiet or not, she’s a sight better than the tavern girls," slurred another, grinning.

“Let’s see how quiet she stays,” the third growled, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head.

“Think she’ll scream if we pull her skirts up?" the third asked with a laugh.

Kitty screamed again, bucking and flailing, but her limbs were too weak. Her dress tore at the shoulder. A cold hand snaked around her thigh and yanked.

She choked back a sob and tried to stand, but her leg buckled beneath her. One of the officers lunged forward and grabbed her by the cloak, yanking her into the straw. She screamed, kicking out wildly as hands grabbed at her, 

“NO!” she sobbed, trying to bite the hand closest to her. “Help! Someone—HELP!”

Another slap silenced her. Her cheek stung, and the sting turned quickly into a bloom of fire.

“She’ll like it after a while,” one of them chuckled, now kneeling between her legs. “They always do.”

Crack.

The door slammed open like a cannon.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?”

A man’s voice—furious, deep, familiar.

The soldiers turned, startled, their faces lit by the glow of a swinging lantern. Thomas stood in the doorway, soaked to the skin, mud splattered to his knees. He took in the scene in a breath—a girl sprawled on the floor, torn and weeping, blood on her face—and saw red.

“Get your hands OFF her!” he roared.

“She’s no business of yours,” one of the officers snarled, drawing himself up.

“Back off,” sneered the other soldier. “You’ve no idea who you’re talking to...”

Thomas didn’t wait. He dropped the lantern and punched the man square in the face. Bone cracked beneath his fist. The soldier dropped like a stone.

The other two lunged forward. Thomas ducked one blow and rammed his shoulder into the attacker’s stomach, sending him crashing into the side wall. The last hesitated—then turned and ran into the night.

“You want more?” Thomas shouted. “She’s a child! You filth!”

“Cowards!” Thomas roared after them. “You touch her again and I’ll kill you.” The first officer groaned but didn’t move. 

Kitty whimpered in the straw, curled into herself. Her hands clutched her cloak as if it were the only thing tethering her to the earth.

Thomas turned back to her, kneeling. “Kitty. Miss Catherine. It’s me...Thomas.”

Her eyes were wild, unfocused. She tried to sit up, but her body gave out. 

“I’m taking you to safety,” he said, carefully lifting her into his arms. “You’re safe now.”

She flinched at his touch, but he held her like glass—gently, protectively. Her head lolled against his shoulder as her consciousness slipped away. Her lip was split, her cheek swelling. Her legs were scraped raw, and her dress was stained with blood and mud.

“Stay with me, Miss... Just a little longer!”

Thomas walked faster than he ever had in his life, navigating the mucked roads back toward town. His teeth were clenched, his jaw tight with rage and shame. The storm had slowed to a drizzle, and dawn was beginning to gray the sky.

He should have arrived earlier.

He should have stopped them before they ever laid a hand on her.

By the time he reached Mrs. Phillips’s door, Kitty was a ghost in his arms.

He kicked the door, hard.

It opened within seconds.

“Who...?" Mrs. Phillips gasped at the sight of him, then of Kitty. “Dear heavens…what…?”

“She needs help,” Thomas said hoarsely. “I found her outside a barn...some of your redcoats tried to…” His throat closed. “I stopped them. But she’s not waking.”

Mrs. Phillips ushered them in, calling for her husband. Mr. Phillips descended in a rush, already shouting for hot water and blankets.

They laid Kitty on the settee. Mrs. Phillips hissed softly at the bruises on her arms and the dark smear down her leg.

Thomas stood back, soaked and shaking.

“I have to return to Netherfield,” he said. “A mare’s foaling, and it’s bad. But I’ll come back. I swear. I’ll explain more then.”

“She’ll be safe here,” Mrs. Phillips said quietly, brushing a damp curl from Kitty’s forehead. “Go.”

And he did—but only after making sure someone had lit a fire, warmed blankets, and begun preparing a tonic for pain. He stepped into the night, fists clenched, gaze hard. He would never forget the look on Kitty’s face when he found her.

And he would never forgive the men who put it there.

Alone now with her niece, Mrs. Phillips sat beside the girl and took her hand, blinking back tears. She whispered softly, “You’re safe now, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

The household was in chaos.

It had been hours since the escape was discovered. Mr. Bennet’s fury burned through Longbourn like wildfire. Doors slammed, voices shouted, orders barked. Servants were roused from their beds and sent into the woods with lanterns and sticks, combing the underbrush for any sign of the girls. The rain had not yet ceased, turning the paths into mire and flooding the streams, but the master of the house would not be gainsaid. In their injured state, he reasoned, they could not have gone far. He would bring them back—and he would make them regret it.

Near dawn, one of the boys from the stable stumbled upon a figure crumpled beneath a hedge, cloaked in wet moss and thorns. It was Mary.

Her lips were pale blue. Her face scratched and cold. She had collapsed from fever and pain, and when they shook her gently, she muttered a single name—"Kitty"—before falling unconscious.

They carried her back to Longbourn like a broken doll. She did not stir.

Mr. Bennet stood at the top of the stairs as they brought her in, his expression unreadable. He did not shout. He only nodded and gestured toward the east wing.

"Put her in the attic."

The men hesitated. "Sir, she’s ill…she needs rest…"

"Now."

They obeyed.

Kitty was nowhere to be found. The search was called off before the sun had risen.

Mary awoke to the sound of her own breath—short, ragged, and echoing.

The attic was dark, save for one flickering lantern on the far wall. The beams groaned in the wind above. She was hanging— suspended upside down, her wrists tied to a beam behind her knees, the rope digging deep into her flesh. Her head pounded from the blood pooling behind her eyes. Her dress clung to her skin, heavy with rain and filth.

Then she heard the door open.

Mr. Bennet climbed the steps slowly, as if savoring each creak of the wood.

"You ungrateful little whore," he said softly.

Mary tried to speak, but her throat was too dry. Her lips trembled.

"You ran. Again." His voice remained calm, almost curious. "And you took her with you. Again."

He paced beneath her like a wolf beneath a trapped bird.

"You were meant to be clever. Studious. Dutiful. But you’re no better than your mother. No better than that foreign tramp Wentworth dragged into our lives."

He unbuckled his belt.

The first strike came down on her thighs.

She cried out, high and hoarse, her voice cracking like dry wood.

Another strike. And another.

Then he changed the angle—aiming for her back, her shoulders, her calves. Each lash split skin, drew blood, painted her shift in streaks of crimson. The attic echoed with the sound of leather on flesh, of choking sobs, of muffled rage.

He did not stop. He did not speak.

Only when she had fallen near-silent—her screams reduced to thin, breathless gasps—did he pause to wipe the sweat from his brow and lift her chin with two fingers.

"You were supposed to be the quiet one," he whispered. "You were supposed to be mine… my reparations ."

He left her hanging there, blood dripping onto the attic floorboards.

Below, the rest of the house had heard.

Mrs. Hill wept behind the kitchen door. The footmen stood frozen on the back stairs. Lydia, Jane and Lizzy, white as sheets, clung to each other in silence. For years, they'd dismissed the whispers about Mr. Bennet's cruelty as exaggeration, childish hysteria, or feminine weakness.

But now they had heard it —not through walls, not through rumor, but raw and immediate. The screaming had risen through the beams of the house like smoke. It could not be denied.

Fanny Bennet sat on the drawing-room settee, her shawl clutched tightly around her shoulders, her gaze unfocused.

She remembered a time—long ago, before all this—when Margaret had come to her in tears. The younger woman had been so radiant then, her belly round with Kitty, her eyes full of hope.

“He hates me,” Margaret had said. “Not because I married William…but because he couldn’t have Anne. She rejected him, and so did her father. He wanted power, and they wouldn’t give it to him. He only married you because it was arranged. Because he was told to.”

Fanny had not believed it then. She had refused to believe it.

But now—now the screams of her niece echoed in her bones, and the years of coldness, of quiet bitterness, came crashing down.

She hated him.

But instead of turning that hate where it belonged, she had twisted it inward, turned it on Mary and Kitty—the two children who reminded her too much of Margaret. Of love that defied duty. Of choices she had never been brave enough to make.

She hated them, because they had ruined her illusion.

And now one of them might be dying in the attic.

It was Jane who broke the silence.

The house had quieted again—Mr. Bennet gone, the servants paralyzed by fear.

Jane crept up the stairs, barefoot, ignoring the chill in the air. She opened the attic door, heart thundering, and stopped at the threshold.

Mary hung like a butchered lamb.

Blood streaked her shift. Her hands were limp, fingers swollen and purple. Her head lolled to the side, a line of dried blood running from her mouth.

Jane ran to her, trembling, and began cutting the rope with a carving knife she’d taken from the kitchen. Her hands slipped on the wet hemp, but she kept going. The knot gave. Mary dropped into her arms like a dead weight.

“No, no, no, please...Mary....”

Mary moaned faintly.

Jane held her, crying openly now, wiping the blood from her sister’s face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to believe...”

She stayed with her for hours, tending her wounds with torn linen and stolen spirits. She wrapped her in a wool cloak and whispered apologies into her hair.

When she finally went to tell Elizabeth, shaking and pale, Lizzy refused to hear it.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Lizzy said, voice stiff. “You’re overreacting. Mary probably fell. She always was melodramatic.”

“She’s bleeding!” Jane shouted. “Her skin was…her back…”

“You don’t know what happened.” Lizzy folded her arms. “He wouldn’t hurt us unless we deserved it.”

Jane stared at her.

Something had broken in Lizzy since their time at Netherfield—some jagged splinter lodged in her pride. She refused to believe her father could be anything but right.

Jane turned and left without another word.

She would not waste her breath on someone who chose blindness over truth.

Not while Mary lay broken in the attic, barely breathing.

The rain had stopped by the time Mr. Gardiner arrived in Meryton. Dawn was just beginning to warm the horizon, washing the muddy roadways in cold gold. His carriage pulled up outside the modest home of his sister, Mrs. Phillips, who stood wringing her hands on the doorstep, her face pale with worry.

“She’s inside,” she said as soon as he descended. “We found her just before morning. Thomas brought her.”

“Kitty?” Edward Gardiner’s voice sharpened. “What condition is she in?”

Mrs. Phillips hesitated, her eyes darting past him, as if afraid the walls themselves might overhear. “Unconscious still. Feverish. Clothes torn. But not…” She faltered. “She wasn’t fully…That is, the stableboy got there just in time.”

His face turned to stone. “Take me to her.”

He entered the dim parlour, where Kitty lay nestled on a small sofa, wrapped in blankets. Her skin was gray, lips cracked, hair still damp from the rain and clinging to her temples. She didn’t stir when he knelt beside her. Her breath rattled faintly in her throat.

“How long has she been like this?”

“Nearly three hours,” said Mr. Phillips, stepping into the room with a brandy glass in hand. “We’ve done what we could. Thomas, the one that found her, left after carrying her in…claimed he had an errand to complete…but promised to return.”

“She needs a physician.”

“I was about to send for one.”

Gardiner stood. His hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw ticking. “And what of Mary?”

“We haven’t heard,” Mrs. Phillips whispered. “Kitty was alone. And… and we fear what that may mean.”

He turned toward his sister, eyes sharp with unspoken accusation. “What exactly is going on in that house?”

There was a long pause. Then Mr. Phillips, uncharacteristically sober, said, “We’ve wondered for years. The rumors have grown darker, especially among the servants. No one dared speak of it openly, not with Mr. Bennet’s reach. But… I’ve heard things. About what he does to those girls.”

Mrs. Phillips gripped the edge of a chair for support. “There are some who think… they are not truly Fanny’s. That they're Bennet’s natural children… Bastards.”

Gardiner stared at her. “What are you saying?”

“You know how close he and Lady Anne were,” Mr. Phillips said. “Too close. She married in haste, and then vanished. Rumor has it, she died giving birth to the second girl. Bennet took them in shortly after. Claimed they were our sister’s. But… the way both treat them—never like the others. More like property than daughters.”

Mrs. Phillips added in a hush, “It’s as if their very existence is a punishment.”

Gardiner sat heavily in the armchair near Kitty’s still form. His mind raced. Lady Anne had left Hertfordshire in haste—that part was true. But Edward had always believed she had rejected Bennet attentions, often preferring the company of his sister Margaret instead. He remembered she said once that her dear friend Anne did not want to hurt her brother, but she didn’t feel the same admiration for him.

His mind came back to the present time, focusing on the hurt girl that was now in their care. If what his sister said was true—if that stable boy had not arrived in time—

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

Thomas entered, soaked to the bone and weary-eyed, a smear of dried blood across his knuckles.

“Ma’am” he said quickly, bowing low, “I’ve come back.”

Gardiner stood and approached him. “You’re the one who found Kitty?”

“Yes, sir. By the road, near an old barn... I…I heard shouting, voices, and when I saw what was happening…” His throat tightened. “She was surrounded by soldiers. Drunk. Laughing. One of them hit her. Tore her dress. I don’t know what might’ve happened if I hadn’t…”

Gardiner laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “You did well.”

Thomas looked down. “I didn’t tell Mrs. Phillips everything. About how I found her. I didn’t want to shame her. She’s… she’s just a girl.”

“She’ll be protected,” Gardiner said grimly. “Now tell me what else you know. About the household.”

Thomas’s mouth thinned. He hesitated. Then he nodded.

“I’ve worked at Netherfield for four years, but I used to live a Longbourn…when my mother was the housekeeper. I’ve seen the Bennet girls come and go, but those two…Miss Mary and Miss Kitty…they were always different. Quieter. Kept to themselves. Never dressed as finely. Always walking alone.”

He shifted. “After the Netherfield Ball, Mr. Bennet ordered his carriage for the family, but the younger two were sent back on foot. In the dark. Miss Mary was limping then, too. Some of us tried to speak to the Bennet footman, asked why. He wouldn’t say.”

“And you noticed nothing else?”

“There were whispers. From the kitchen staff. About screaming at night. Punishments. Once, one of the maids found Miss Kitty locked in the larder. Barefoot. Bruised.” He looked up, his eyes hardening. “We tried to help in little ways…sneaking food, slipping medecine in. But none of us could challenge him. Not outright. He holds too much power.”

Gardiner was silent for a long moment. Then he turned to his sister. “Send for the doctor. Now. Tell him to come discreetly. No word must get back to Longbourn.”

Mrs. Phillips nodded and vanished down the hallway.

Thomas shifted, uncertain. “Sir… what will you do?”

Edward Gardiner looked down at Kitty, then toward the window, where the trees of Longbourn loomed in the distance like watchful sentinels.

“I will go to Longbourn,” he said at last. “And I will speak to Mr. Bennet myself.”

He paused. “But first—I must know if Mary is still alive.”

Chapter Text

Longbourn was eerily quiet the next morning. Jane tiptoed around the house with a nervous flutter in her stomach. Elizabeth kept her head down, pretending that her world had not been shaken by the echoes of Mary’s screams the night before. Mrs. Bennet had locked herself in her dressing room, weeping—or perhaps pretending to. And Mr. Bennet had taken to the library, drinking more heavily than usual, as though his rage had tired even himself.

However, Lydia, untouched by the truth and forever unbothered by subtle cues of suffering, had only one thought on her mind that day: the militia .

She had overheard Hill muttering about a small new detachment—assing to Colonel Forster—being stationed outside of Meryton for drills, and that was enough. Within an hour, Lydia was dressed in her most flattering gown, with her curls arranged coquettishly beneath her bonnet. She told no one where she was going, and no one seemed to care enough to stop her.

It was midmorning when she arrived at the green just beyond Meryton. The soldiers were taking rest, their red coats striking against the wet grass, laughter and teasing bouncing freely in the air. Lydia’s cheeks flushed with excitement. So many uniforms. So many possibilities.

She walked boldly up to the nearest group of men, fluttering her lashes. “Good sirs,” she giggled. “I am so terribly lost. Might any of you point me to the Meryton bakery?”

One of the soldiers chuckled and tipped his hat. “Straight down the road, miss. Past the smithy.”

“Oh, how dreadful,” she said with exaggerated relief. “I had feared I might die of hunger before finding it.”

The men laughed again, but one voice cut through them, smothered, lower, like velvet pulled tight over steel.

“She won’t find what she’s truly hungry for at a bakery, I suspect.”

The others parted instinctively, and Lydia turned to see him: a man with black hair, sharp cheekbones, and a glint in his hazel eyes that made her breath catch. He was tall, lean, his smile too charming to be safe.

He bowed low. “Lieutenant Wickham, at your service.”

Lydia’s grin widened as she curtsied. “Miss Lydia Bennet.”

“A Bennet,” he repeated, as if the name were a fine wine he was tasting. “Of Longbourn?”

“Indeed.” She tilted her chin. “And who might you be, besides a soldier with excellent manners?”

His lips quirked into a smirk. “A man recently assigned to your very village. And very lucky, it seems.”

The other soldiers drifted away, sensing the kind of dance Wickham enjoyed best—intimate, subtle, manipulative. Lydia, for all her boldness, was terribly young. And he read that instantly.

“You have the look of a London rose,” he said, moving beside her as she strolled along the edge of the green. “But I see you are a country girl through and through.”

“I have many looks, Lieutenant Wickham.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He asked her about her family, and she answered freely, even carelessly—mentioning Bingley’s visit, Jane’s beauty, how Mary was dull and Kitty odd, and how their father was “so very cross these days.” Wickham listened intently, storing every word. When she asked about him in return, he spun a masterfully rehearsed tale: the orphan son of a steward, cruelly mistreated by a proud man named Darcy, denied his rightful fortune, left to make his way in the world with nothing but charm and wits.

Lydia was enchanted.

“Darcy?” she repeated, eyes wide. “You do not mean Mr. Darcy of Pemberley?”

“The very same,” Wickham said smoothly. “We were raised like brothers once. A cruel twist of fate. He inherits it all, against his father’s wishes, and I… nothing. But let us not spoil the day with such bitterness.”

“Oh, I do so detest him already,” She said quickly, hoping to impress him.

He chuckled and reached out to lightly touch a curl peeking beneath her bonnet. “I find I like you very much, Miss Lydia .”

Lydia blushed furiously, her mind already leaping toward wild, romantic futures.

“Will I see you again?” she asked.

Wickham’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, I do not doubt it, but if you don’t see me ask for my friend…Denny”

As he took his leave, he bowed again—but this time, his gaze lingered at her lips a beat too long.

Lydia watched him go, unaware that she had just become the next pawn in a long game—and that for the second time in days, a Bennet girl was walking straight into danger.

The morning sun cast sharp lines across Jane’s pale face as she rode silently toward Netherfield, her hands tight around the reins. The bruises on Mary’s back haunted her, the sound of her father’s lash echoing like a cannon across the quiet corridors of their home. And Elizabeth-oh-oh-oh, Elizabeth-how could she have turned her eyes away? How could she pretend it was not happening, that Mary’s agony was deserved?

Jane had no such illusions anymore.

She had made her choice in the dark of night. If she stayed silent, she would be complicit. And if she begged help from her own family, it might never come. So she took her courage—and a small, leather-bound volume wrapped carefully in linen—and rode to Netherfield.

Darcy and Bingley were finishing their breakfast when Jane arrived, cheeks flushed with cold and nerves. They rose at once, surprised by her unannounced appearance.

“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said stiffly, though there was concern beneath his formality.

“Miss Jane,” Bingley said, rushing forward. “Are you well?”

“I need your help,” she said in a shaking voice, holding the book to her chest. “Both of you. Please.”

The men exchanged glances, then led her into the drawing room, where the fire had already been lit against the chill. Jane sat without waiting to be offered a seat.

“You must think me mad,” she said, forcing a brittle smile. “But I know you care about what is right. And I…I do not know who else I can trust.”

Darcy folded his arms. “Go on.”

Jane hesitated. Then, with a breath, she handed the book to Darcy. “You gave this to Mary, did you not? A gift. She hid it under her mattress, Mr. Darcy. She treasures it. That is the only reason I knew where to find it.”

Darcy took the book slowly, recognizing it instantly: Juvenile Songs & Lessons , bound in worn blue leather. He opened the cover and saw his handwriting. His throat tightened.

“What has happened?” he asked, voice low.

Jane’s composure cracked. “She is being hurt, he is hurting her. My father. He has…he has been hurting both Mary and Kitty for years, and I…I was blind. But now I know. I saw it. I pulled her down myself, after he left her hanging upside down in the attic, covered in blood.”

Bingley paled. “Good God.”

“She tried to run away,” Jane whispered. “They both did. Kitty escaped, but Mary was caught. Father… he nearly killed her. And now Kitty is gone, alone and mayhaps hurt, and I do not know what he will do next if he catches her too.”

Darcy set the book gently down.

“I am so sorry to come to you,” Jane continued. “But who else do I have? My mother has always resented them. Elizabeth refuses to believe me—she says it must be a misunderstanding. I think she cannot bear to admit that the father she worships is capable of such cruelty.”

“And you believe he might pursue Kitty?” Darcy asked.

“I do,” she said. “He hates them. He truly hates them. And I…” Her voice broke. “I was a coward. I never helped. I saw the signs and did nothing. But I am done being quiet.”

Darcy straightened. “Then we will help you.”

Jane’s head snapped up. “You will?”

“I swore to protect Miss Mary Bennet from the moment I understood the danger she was in. This only confirms what I suspected. If she is still at Longbourn, we will get her out…today.”

“And Kitty?” Bingley asked gently.

Jane turned to him, eyes wide with hope. “She might be in Meryton. She might be nowhere. I do not know. But she is only sixteen, Mr. Bingley. And she is alone.”

“Then we will find her,” Bingley said, without hesitation.

They began to plan at once.

Darcy would ride toward Longbourn under the pretense of a visit and attempt to remove Mary directly while bribing the servants. Bingley would go to Meryton and inquire discreetly, through shopkeepers, grooms, and even the militia, about a lost girl traveling alone and maybe get them on their side to save the sisters. Jane would remain at Longbourn to distract its inhabitants from Darcy’s actions.

“Are you certain you’re willing to cross your father?” Bingley asked gently as they rose.

“I crossed him the moment I opened my mouth,” Jane said.

Darcy retook the book, held it momentarily, then tucked it into his coat.

“We’ll bring her to safety,” he said.

The heavy tick of the parlor clock was the only sound in the room as Mr. Gardiner paced with quiet agitation, his brow furrowed deep with worry. Beside him, Mrs. Phillips wrung her hands in her apron, seated stiffly in the corner chair. Her husband sat silent, for once without a single foolish thing to say.

Upstairs, Kitty lay motionless in the guest room, wrapped tightly in clean linens, her hair damp with sweat. The doctor had arrived an hour ago, a gray-haired man with hard eyes and steady hands. He had said little as he worked—merely asked for water, clean cloths, brandy, thread. And silence.

Now, at last, the creak of the stairs announced his descent. Mr. Gardiner was at the foot before the man reached the landing.

“Well?” he asked, too quickly.

The physician glanced at him and slowly removed his gloves. “She is alive. But only just.”

Mrs. Phillips let out a stifled gasp and stood.

“She is a hardy girl, but she has been pushed beyond what a body should be asked to endure. Exposure, exhaustion, hunger. Her feet are in the worst state…blistered to the bone, and half-infected. Had I not lanced and cleaned them when I did, she might have lost them. Or worse.”

“She could have died?” Mr. Gardiner asked, stunned.

“Yes. The infection had already begun to set in. Another twelve hours…perhaps even less…and it would have reached her blood. Fever. Seizures. Death.”

Mrs. Phillips covered her mouth with her hand.

“She must remain in bed,” the doctor continued firmly. “She cannot walk, and even sitting for long will strain her. She is also bruised about the shoulders and arms…there are defensive wounds. I will not speculate what caused them, but she has been struck. Recently. Perhaps… deliberately.”

At that, Mr. Gardiner’s jaw clenched. “What about a head injury? Her consciousness…she still has not woken.”

“There is swelling, but it seems mild. I believe it is the trauma…emotional and physical…that has kept her unconscious. She will wake when her body permits it. The best thing you can do is ensure she is safe, warm, and given broth when she can take it. And do not let her be moved. Not for days or longer.”

Mr. Gardiner nodded slowly. His voice, when it came, was low and shaking. “Thank you, doctor. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

The physician gave a short bow. “I will return tomorrow to check her feet. Do not touch the bandages unless you see fresh bleeding. And if her fever returns…send for me at once.”

When he was gone, silence filled the room again. Mrs. Phillips sat heavily, her face drawn with guilt and sorrow.

“I never knew,” she whispered. “Dear God…I never knew it was this bad.”

Mr. Phillips was quiet for a long time before he said, with surprising solemnity, “We all saw, Fanny especially… but none of us wanted to be the one to say it aloud.”

Mr. Gardiner, still standing, stared blankly at the closed parlor door. “Because to speak it would have meant doing something. And doing something meant risking your place in his house, your income, your security…. You are but a solicitor, and he is an influential gentleman in the community.”

He wasn’t shouting—his voice was deadly calm—but his words struck like lashes.

Mrs. Phillips bowed her head. “Edward, I never thought he’d go this far.”

“You saw them when you visited, didn’t you?” he asked, quieter now. “Thin. Pale. Covered in bruises more often than not. And no one asked why.”

She began to sob softly, and he didn’t interrupt her. He couldn’t bear to look at her. His eyes went to the staircase instead, toward the room where Kitty lay still as death.

“She’s just a child,” he whispered.

No one answered.

After several moments, Mr. Gardiner moved to the writing desk. “I will send an express to London. Madeleine’s physician assisted her in her last pregnancy. A discreet man, and better trained than anyone out here.”

He began scribbling a note in a tight, urgent hand.

“Kitty will remain here, under our care. I’ll pay whatever is necessary. And I will do what I must to bring Mary out of that house.”

Mrs. Phillips lifted her eyes, red-rimmed but burning now. “Then I’ll stand with you.”

He looked at her, at last.

“I was afraid before. But not anymore,” she said. “No child deserves what we’ve allowed.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

Then he folded the letter, sealed it with wax, and pressed it into Mr. Phillips’ hand.

“Get a boy to ride to town. Wake whoever you need. This goes out tonight .”

Mr. Phillips rose and hurried out into the still-burning sun of the morning

Mr. Gardiner remained at the desk for a long moment. Then he turned toward the staircase once more.

“I failed fanny by allowing Father to orchestrate her marriage,” he murmured under his breath. “I will not fail these girls.”

And with that, he climbed the stairs to sit by Kitty’s bedside, keeping silent vigil before it was time for him to go to the Bennet Household.

Jane returned to Longbourn by mid-morning, just as the sun was climbing the eastern sky. Her cheeks were still flushed from her visit to Netherfield, her heart full of cautious hope. Mr. Darcy had listened intently, Mr. Bingley even more so, and both had promised action. She had finally told someone—and had been believed.

As she stepped through the front doors of Longbourn, she was greeted not by the usual silence but the low murmur of voices coming from the drawing room. Mrs. Hill, her eyes wary, stepped forward from the hall.

“Miss Jane...your uncle is here. Mr. Gardiner.”

Jane blinked. “Uncle Edward?”

Mrs. Hill gave a slight nod and whispered, “He’s speaking with your mama.”

Jane’s stomach twisted. She moved quietly toward the drawing room, just close enough to hear without being seen.

Mrs. Bennet’s shrill voice floated toward her. “You’re imagining things, Edward! Mary and Kitty are difficult, that’s all. Their father is strict, but a firm hand is necessary. Especially for girls like them.”

“You haven’t answered me, Fanny,” came her uncle’s calm voice. “ And where are Mary and Kitty?”

“Oh, Kitty has always had a flair for dramatics. I’m sure she went wandering off to sulk. And Mary is recovering from an illness. The rain gave her a fever, poor thing.”

Jane’s throat went dry. Lies. All of it.

Mr. Gardiner’s voice sharpened. “And what of the bruises? Grace said they’re always covered in them.”

“I won’t sit here and be accused of anything, Edward! I am not their mother. Why should I care for them?... What do you want from me?”

“Truth,” he snapped. “I want the truth, Fanny.”

Jane backed away before they could sense her presence. Her heart raced. Her uncle suspected—but he did not yet know . And if he left without confirmation, the window to help might close forever.

She took a deep breath and waited at the base of the stairs. Within moments, her uncle emerged from the room, his face tight with frustration.

She stepped forward quickly. “Uncle,” she said softly, “might I speak with you before you go?”

But Mr. Gardiner shook his head. “Not yet, my dear. I’ve asked to speak with your father. Alone.”

Jane’s eyes widened, but she only nodded. “Then please, be careful… He’s been drinking all morning.”

He offered a ghost of a smile and continued down the corridor toward Mr. Bennet’s study.

The door was shut behind him.

Inside the study, Edward Gardiner stood still for a moment, examining the bookshelves, the mahogany desk, and the window that overlooked the grounds. Mr. Bennet remained seated, spectacles perched low on his nose, his pen scratching lazily across the page of a ledger.

“I assume you’re here to lecture me,” Bennet said without looking up.

“I had hoped for a conversation,” Gardiner replied evenly. “But I see your pen has more of your attention than your children.”

Bennet’s head rose slowly. “My children are quite well. Thank you.”

“Kitty is nowhere to be found. Mary is locked away, fevered, or so my sister says. I find that hard to classify as well.”

“And yet you come into my house, Edward,” Bennet said, setting his pen down with a firm click , “to pass judgment like a preacher on Sunday.”

Gardiner crossed the room. “I’m not here to judge. I’m here because I love those girls. And I believe something has gone very, very wrong in this house.”

Bennet smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Then perhaps you should ask yourself if you are the one who abandoned them.”

That landed like a slap.

Gardiner stiffened. “What are you implying?”

“I’m implying, dear brother-in-law, that you never looked too closely at where Mary and Kitty came from, did you?”

Gardiner’s jaw tightened. “Are you saying you... ”

“I’m saying,” Bennet interrupted, rising now, his voice cool and heavy, “that you may find more than you bargained for. And if I were you, I’d be careful which stones I turned over. Some truths are best left buried.”

Gardiner stared at him, horrified. “You’re hurting them.”

“Am I?” Bennet shrugged. “Or am I raising them? Teaching them their place. Keeping them from the ruin  their predecessor nearly brought upon herself when she went against my wishes.”

Gardiner stepped forward. “If you touch them again…”

“You’ll what?” Bennet’s eyes flashed. “Call the magistrate? Accuse me without proof? Take in two girls who are not of your blood at all, and bear the scandal it would bring to your name?”

The room was silent but for the creaking of the floorboards under Gardiner’s clenched fists.

“I will find a way,” he said finally, voice low and controlled. “I will not leave them here.”

“You’ll leave,” Bennet said. “You’ll have to. And you’ll watch what you say—or you’ll find yourself quite alone in this matter.”

Edward didn’t reply. He turned sharply on his heel and strode from the study.

Mr. Gardiner stepped out of Longbourn with a stiffness in his posture that betrayed the fury simmering just beneath his calm exterior. The door closed behind him with a deliberate thud, and the wind stirred his coat as he descended the steps toward his carriage. His thoughts raced, each one darker than the last—what kind of man could so easily dismiss the pain of a child? Of two children?

But just as he reached the footpath, a quiet voice stopped him.

“Uncle.”

He turned. Jane had followed him outside, her bonnet tilted back, her expression taut with urgency and fear.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered quickly, glancing back at the house to ensure they were still unobserved. “I couldn’t speak in front of them, but there’s more you need to know.”

She stepped close and pressed a folded note into his palm, her hand trembling slightly.

“Read this when you’re safe,” she murmured. “I didn’t know who else I could trust. But I think you’ll find allies if you go to Netherfield. For dinner. Please.”

Mr. Gardiner studied her face for a heartbeat, then closed his fingers tightly around the note. He didn’t speak—just gave her a curt nod, his jaw clenched with new resolve, and continued on his way.

The ride back to Meryton was quiet, the only sound the rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels and the dull throb of indignation that grew with each passing mile. When he finally arrived at the Phillips household, he was greeted by concern and tension. Mr. Phillips opened the door with furrowed brows, Mrs. Phillips waiting behind him with folded hands and wide eyes. Kitty still lay unconscious upstairs, a physician summoned again to monitor her fever.

Only once Mr. Gardiner was shown to the sitting room and left momentarily alone did he retrieve the note from his coat.

He unfolded it slowly, Jane’s elegant script carefully written, but hurried.

Uncle,
Mary is in the attic—locked and wounded. He keeps her there when she resists. The fever was worse, but I brought her some broth this morning.
If you truly mean to help, visit Netherfield. I’ve told them everything. They believe me.

I trust no one else.

Jane

The note trembled in his hands as he read it twice, three times. Then, folding it with great care, he tucked it back into his pocket like a secret weapon and rose to his feet.

He would go to Netherfield before the day was over.

And this time, he would not leave without setting things in motion.

The candle on Jane’s writing desk burned low, casting long shadows across the neat expanse of paper laid before her. She had locked herself in the least-used room of the house— the old nursery. So no one would question what she was doing. Her hands trembled slightly as she dipped the quill into the inkwell, blinking away tears that had no time to fall. She had just returned from a nuncheon she could hardly eat, beneath a roof that felt colder with each passing hour.

Her uncle’s visit had been fruitless in appearance, but she had seen his eyes as he left, the tight set of his jaw, the way his hand clenched as he walked. He suspected. He believed her. And now he had to be included, for whatever came next.

She drew in a breath and began to write, the scratch of her pen the only sound in the dim room.

To Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley,
Netherfield Park

Dear Sirs,

I write with both gratitude and urgency. You have offered your trust and assistance in the most delicate and dangerous of matters, and I do not take your compassion lightly. But a new development must be considered.

My uncle, Mr. Edward Gardiner of Gracechurch Street, arrived today and attempted to speak with my father. While the exchange ended poorly, I was able to pass him a message before his departure. He is now aware of the truth. I believe he may prove a powerful ally in this affair.

Therefore, I humbly ask that we postpone our efforts to remove Mary from Longbourn by one more day. I have urged my uncle to visit Netherfield before the day ends. Please hear him out. I trust him with the whole of my heart.

Mary remains under watch, but I believe she has not been harmed further since dawn. I will ensure she is fed again tonight.

Please forgive this delay, but I believe that with my uncle’s aid, our chances of success—and Mary’s and Kitty’s safety—may be greatly improved.

With sincere gratitude,
Jane Bennet

Jane sealed the letter with shaking fingers, pressing the wax hard enough to leave a deep impression. She rang for a servant quietly, requesting that the note be delivered to Netherfield with all haste, and not read by anyone else.

As the letter left her hands, she whispered a small prayer into the silence of her room.

“Just one more day,” she murmured. “Stay strong, Mary. Just one more day.”

Chapter Text

The quiet hush of the drawing room at Mrs. Phillips’ modest home was broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of the floorboards as someone moved about upstairs. Mr. Gardiner sat at the edge of the settee, Jane’s note spread across his lap, its contents still fresh in his mind, though he had already read it thrice. A knot had tightened in his chest since returning from Longbourn, where civility had barely concealed the filth rotting beneath. Mr. Bennet’s cordiality, the pristine parlor, the forced laughter—none had convinced him that things were well in that house.

Upstairs, Kitty stirred.

When he entered the dim room, she was propped against the headboard, eyes sunken but open, fully conscious at last. She turned her head at his arrival and clutched the blanket closer.

“Uncle,” she rasped. “Is Mary…?”

Mr. Gardiner approached quickly, kneeling beside the bed. “She is still there. But not for long, if I have any say.”

Kitty shook her head slowly, her voice rasping but clear. “No… Mary needs help. Please, Uncle Edward.” Her gaze lifted to him with a desperation that made his gut twist.“He’s hurting her. Worse than before....”

He approached her slowly. “You ought to calm down, acting carelessly would only make things worse…let me handle this.”

Kitty blinked tears from her pale lashes. “Yo..you believe us?”

“I saw enough to know something is very wrong. And with Jane’s… Forget it, you shouldn’t worry about that. But I need to know everything.” His voice dropped. “I could only learned so much without arousing suspicion.”

Kitty nodded weakly. “We found… First in the cell…ar a little portrait.. no name. Then more portraits. Letters. In the basement….It’s not just that Pap…Mr. Bennet…hurts us. He lied about everything. Our mother… was not who he said she was. Mary and I…we are not his daughters. Not really...”

Mr. Gardiner drew in a sharp breath and stilled. “What are you saying? That can be true, you may not be Fanny’s daughters but certainly must be Thomas’.”

“No!.... It’s true..Our mother was Margaret Bennet. She died giving birth to me….And our father…he was someone else…Some… someone from London, maybe nobility. I don’t remember all the names, but Mary read them…” Kitty continued. “There were letters… love letters… a marriage certificate. He lied. He lied to all of us. Mary and I…we’re not illegitimate. We were stolen.”

Edward sat back, stunned into silence. All at once, so many oddities made sense—the bitterness, the secrecy, the way Mr. Bennet had always kept the girls apart from the rest of society. But even with that knowledge, the priority remained unchanged.

“We will deal with the truth of it later,” he said at last, his tone grim. “What you’ve endured cannot continue. I’ll need every detail you can give me. No one else is to go back into that house. No one but me.”

“Right now we have to focus…we get Mary out,” his thoughts reeling. “ She’s been locked in the attic.”

Kitty’s voice was barely audible but frantic. “Then please… get her out. Save her.”

“I’ll get her out,” he promised. “I swear it to you, child.”

She nodded, swallowing thickly. “The attic…there are three rooms. The one closest to the stairs was ours. The farthest is the one he probably locked Mary in. The middle one… the floor’s too damaged to use. It creaks terribly. No one ever goes in there. If you must move through, do it quickly and quietly.”

Mr. Gardiner took this in carefully, committing it to memory. “When is the best time?”

“Late morning,” she said. “He leaves the house to walk the grounds and visit the tenants. No one is watching them, not even the maids. They keep their heads down.”

He squeezed her hand. “You must rest,” he said, though his voice held little conviction. “You’ve endured far more than any child should…you’ve been very brave.”

Kitty slumped back against the pillows with a whisper of gratitude, her eyes fluttering shut.

That night, in the quiet study at Netherfield, four men sat with tankards untouched and expressions grave. The golden candlelight caught on polished oak and the crisp edge of Darcy’s waistcoat, but none of them noticed the warmth or comfort of the setting. Outside, the rest of the guests chattered in ignorance, whispering theories about the well-dressed gentleman who had arrived unannounced—some cousins of Mr. Darcy, Caroline assumed, or perhaps old friends connected to his estate. The sisters speculated with idle delight, never imagining that the stranger in Bingley's study was planning the rescue of a girl they had scarcely noticed.

“Who do you suppose they are”? Louisa asked, peering through the curtain.

“Someone related to Mr. Darcy, no doubt,” Caroline mused, her smile sharp with intrigue. “It must be a family matter. Why else meet in Charles’s study and not the drawing room?”

Behind the study door, the air was tense with quiet resolve. Mr. Gardiner stood beside Mr. Bingley, while Mr. Darcy leaned over a large desk, a map of Meryton and the surrounding estates spread before them. Mr. Phillips sat in the corner, quieter than usual, but alert— he was there to support his brother-in-law.

Darcy was the first to break the silence. “We must act before Sunday. If she is left another week…”

“She will not survive another week or mayhaps days locked,” Mr. Gardiner finished. “Not in that attic… So we must act quickly. Whatever plan you had before must change. Now, tell me what it was.”

Reluctantly, Darcy explained. It had been crude but fueled by urgency: he would ride to Longbourn under the guise of calling on Jane or Elizabeth, then seek out Mary while Bingley distracted the others. It relied on timing and Mary’s cooperation, but it presumed Mr. Bennet would not be suspicious of their joint presence.

“This plan of yours,” Gardiner said, glancing between the two younger men, “was riddled with flaws. You meant to bribe the housekeeper to let Mary escape through a side entrance? With half the village loitering around Longbourn? And no proper identification or reason for her removal?”

Bingley flushed slightly. “We hadn’t...”

“You hadn’t thought it through,” Gardiner interrupted, though without malice. “I don’t blame you. You’re young. And new to this sort of thing. But we’re dealing with a man who already believes himself untouchable, and a village that has lived under his thumb for decades. Do you trust the maidservants? The tenants? The butcher? The vicar?”

Silence. Darcy’s expression darkened further. “No. We do not.”

“Then it must be done with precision. With secrecy. And with very few hands….I must say,” He said, “your initial plan was bold, but rather... optimistic.”

Darcy folded his arms. “I am not without experience in subtle affairs…”

“But not in homes guarded by a man like Bennet,” Gardiner cut in. “This is not a matter of discretion but of cunning and speed. You needed a local. You needed us.”

“And we’re grateful,” Mr. Bingley frowned. “Then what about a direct intervention, bringing in the constable from Meryton...”

“ Again, the same problem,” Gardiner interrupted. “The town would take Bennet’s word over yours. Or worse, they’d see it as a scandal and shield him for the sake of Longbourn’s reputation. You know how small communities protect their own.”

Darcy nodded. “Then we agree: discretion is paramount.” Moving to the sideboard, and poured a drink for himself, his jaw taut with the restrained need to act. “What do you propose?”

His voice grew quieter. “A ruse. I’ll pose as a physician…someone from London. I’ll bring papers forged by Mr. Philips’ connections in town. A call for Mary’s transfer to a quiet recovery home. You, Mr. Darcy, will see to the transportation. I’ll need a closed coach…It must wait at the edge of the woods by the western trail…close enough for a quick escape but hidden from the road. and a place on the outskirts of Meryton. Someplace discreet, but safe.”

Darcy gave a curt nod. “A friend of my late father has an unused hunting cottage along the lane to Oakham, south of Hertfordshire. It will do. I’ll ensure the housekeeper is paid handsomely for her silence.”

Bingley set his glass down. “And me?”

“You,” Gardiner said with a faint smile, “are the distraction. You will call at Longbourn with flowers for Miss Bennet and a great show of interest…..Arrive in the early morning, just as he’s likely to prepare for his rounds. Your presence will irritate him enough to send him away, which is precisely what we want…Flatter my sister... Stay for tea. Make it impossible for anyone to notice my arrival at the back of the estate.”

Bingley gave a curt nod.

Darcy tilted his head slightly. “And what of Mary’s condition? If she is too weak to walk…”

“She’ll need help, no doubt. But Kitty has already described to us a full layout of the attic. Three rooms…one of which is unused due to water damage, the other is their usual chambers, and the last one is Mary’s prison. They’ve been kept there before as punishment.”

Mr. Phillips finally spoke. “And I?”

Edward turned to him. “You’ll remain here, with Kitty. I trust no one else to watch her. If Bennet suspects anything, he may try to retrieve her. You must ensure that does not happen.”

He straightened. “Consider it done.”

“And the extraction?” Darcy asked.“ The staff knows you…”

Gardiner held up a small sheaf of papers. “With the help of My sister,  I will go in disguise—nothing elaborate, just enough to pass as a physician’s assistant sent to escort her, as I said.”

He handed Darcy a sealed envelope. “If things go poorly, this letter will provide you authority to claim her on medical grounds, should you need to present it publicly. But God willing, we won’t need it.”

The men fell into a contemplative silence.

Then Bingley exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t like lying to Miss Bennet.”

“Nor do I,” Darcy murmured. “But we have no choice. The fewer who know the details, the better. For everyone’s safety.”

Gardiner nodded. “We act tomorrow.”

And thus, as night fell over Netherfield and the lamps were extinguished one by one, the plan moved from theory into motion. Each man would play his part, and for some of them, their work started that same night. However, it was the recollection of Kitty’s haunted eyes and the battered state of the girl still imprisoned that lent them the fire to see it through.

The carriage rolled to a dusty halt before the gates of Longbourn, its glossy black frame catching the early afternoon sun. Charles Bingley, freshly shaved and nervously adjusting his cravat for the third time, stepped down with a bouquet of late-spring roses and the softest expression he could manage.

Mrs. Bennet squealed before the butler had even opened the door.

“Mr. Bingley! Flowers! Oh, dear heavens, what a delightful surprise. Oh, Jane, Jane, come quickly!” she called, bustling forward with all the delicate grace of a hen storming her coop.

Bingley smiled amiably as he offered the bouquet to a blushing Jane, whose expression, though warm, was touched with uncertainty. Elizabeth, descending the stairs with measured steps, met Bingley’s eyes, keen and questioning. She said nothing, but he felt her scrutiny like a draft through the seams of his well-crafted plan.

Fanny clutched at Bingley’s sleeve. “You are here to ask a question, are you not? I always said you and Jane were destined for each other.”

Before he could answer, Mr. Bennet’s dry voice interrupted from behind the paper he was pretending to read. “If this is about a question, then I am a turnip farmer in disguise. But please, continue the farce. It amuses me.”

Still holding the bouquet, Jane stepped forward with gentle tact. “Would you join us for tea, Mr. Bingley? I am certain my mother has much to say,”

“I would be honoured to make your company,” Bingley replied, bowing.

Mr. Bennet lowered his paper just enough to raise a brow. “Flowers, and now tea? I feel the sudden urge to visit the tenants, the field must have some news. Perhaps I’ll find more honest company there.”

He rose with a sigh and collected his hat. “Don’t burn down the house while I’m gone,” he muttered, and with a final glance at Bingley, departed through the front door. The sound of his steps retreating down the gravel path brought a subtle shift in the room, as though the light itself dared to brighten.

The tea tray arrived with a nervous clatter, nearly upsetting the cream jug, as a footman—new, clearly not trained for the chaos of Mrs. Bennet’s theatrics—set it down between the assembled company. Mrs. Bennet fluttered about like a songbird who’d found herself trapped in a much too splendid cage.

“Oh, what a delightful morning,” she trilled, forcing Bingley into the seat nearest the fire. “It warms my heart, Mr. Bingley, to see you here again—after so long! So long! You must know, Jane never stopped thinking of you. Never!”

“Mama,” Jane murmured, her cheeks blooming red.

Bingley smiled, polite but strained, and accepted the teacup Jane handed him. “It has been some time since my last visit, but I wanted to give Miss Bennet time to fully recover after her last time at Netherfield,” he said softly, glancing toward her. “Even so, I… regret that my absence has hurt you.”

Elizabeth sat on the edge of a settee across from them, fingers tight around her saucer. Her gaze moved between her mother’s overzealous glee and Bingley’s carefully composed face. She said nothing, but she did not smile.

“Let the past be past,” Mrs. Bennet waved airily. “You are here now! And what fine timing, too, what with Jane in such delicate spirits. Why, the very sight of you has improved her colour already!”

“Jane’s colour was never in doubt,” Elizabeth said lightly, but her tone had an edge. “It’s only the weather that makes her pale.”

Jane offered a small smile, trying to bring levity. “And Mama’s fussing,” she added gently. “That, too.”

“Fussing?” Mrs. Bennet turned on her eldest. “How can you say such a thing when I have your future to think of?”

Bingley cleared his throat. “Mrs. Bennet… if I may. I came not only for Jane’s sake, though she is very much in my thoughts. I also wanted to… mend fences, and get to know her family more. It would please me greatly to be welcomed as a friend of this house.”

The line was careful. Elizabeth caught it. So did Jane.

Mrs. Bennet, however, heard only what she wished. She all but squealed. “Oh! Of course, you are welcome! Always welcome!”

“I had hoped,” Bingley added with just enough artful hesitation, “that Jane might accompany me for a walk around the grounds. I remembered she said how fond she was of the orchard path in spring. I know it’s only the start of the season, but I would like to see it again. And perhaps Miss Elizabeth might join us, as chaperone, naturally.”

Elizabeth lifted a brow. “Naturally.”

Jane nodded softly. “I would like that very much.”

Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands. “Yes, yes, of course! Go, go, while the good weather lasts! And who knows,” she added in a stage whisper, “perhaps this time next week, we shall have a very different announcement to share.”

Elizabeth was already rising. “Let us hope, Mama, that the weather holds. For the announcement’s sake.”

As the three stood to go, Bingley hesitated. His eyes swept the room for a moment before landing on the mantel, where a family portrait once hung. It had been removed. A subtle detail. One he noted carefully.

Jane placed her hand lightly on his arm as they exited into the hall.

“I remember that tea set,” she said quietly. “It belonged to our grandmother. Mama only brings it out for the most important guests.”

Bingley chuckled. “I am honoured.”

But Elizabeth, walking a step behind, muttered under her breath, “More likely terrified you’ll slip away again before a banns is called.”

The air outside was gentler than the drawing room, a soft breeze stirring the branches above, where pink blossoms fluttered down like confetti on the first warm wedding day of spring. A few bees drifted lazily between blooms, and the path through the orchard, though muddy in patches, still held the charm that Jane remembered from girlhood.

She and Bingley walked slowly, arm in arm. Elizabeth trailed several paces behind, her bonnet tilted low as she cast an occasional glance back toward the house—or toward the fields that edged the property, where the outline of a distant rider might mean more than idle curiosity. 

“Thank you,” Jane said softly, just loud enough for Bingley to hear. “For coming today. And for your… discretion.”

Bingley’s brow furrowed. “Discretion?”

She gave a faint smile. “I know your intentions are not as clear as my mother assumes them to be.”

He winced. “Ah. Yes, well, she does have a way of… accelerating matters.”

“She wants security,” Jane said, gently defending her mother as she always did. “She worries for us, especially now.”

Bingley nodded. “And you? What do you want, Miss Bennet?”

She hesitated. “I want my sisters to be safe. And free.”

A silence fell between them as their shoes crunched over the gravel path, birdsong in the branches above. After a few more steps, Jane sighed. “Do you remember the last time you walked this orchard?”

Bingley smiled wistfully. “Me…I can only recall you, Miss Bennet. You wore a blue shawl and asked if the apple blossoms always bloomed so early.”

She laughed lightly. “I was trying to prolong the conversation.”

“You didn’t need to try.”

Behind them, Elizabeth let out a loud, affected cough, reminding them she was still there.

Jane turned slightly. “Lizzy, do you remember when we used to climb that old tree?” She pointed toward the far edge of the orchard where a gnarled ash still leaned crookedly.

Elizabeth lifted her head. “And fall out of it? Yes. I remember our bruises more clearly than the tree itself.”

Bingley chuckled. “You climbed trees?”

“Of course we did,” Elizabeth said, catching up to walk beside them. “Jane was always the careful one, though. She’d sit and read while I dared gravity.”

Jane smiled, but her gaze had gone distant, drawn to some unspoken memory. She slowed. “There was a lady once,” she said softly. 

Elizabeth blinked. “A visitor? I don’t remember.”

“You were only four and I was five.” Her expression turned inward. “She gave me a brooch, but Mama took it away the next day and told me not to mention her again.”

“Do you remember her name?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

Jane shook her head. “ I remember her because she wore the most beautiful gown—French silk, I think. Pale lilac, with silver thread in the hem. I only saw her once. I remember asking Mama who she was, but she changed the subject.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, trying to reach for that distant recollection, but nothing came.

“Do you think…” Jane faltered. “Could she have been a relative?”

“Or Papa’s friend,” Elizabeth added, though her voice was heavy with doubt. “There are so many things we were never told.”

Bingley had gone silent beside them, his face carefully unreadable.

“I always thought it strange,” Jane said. “Because she looked as if she belonged here.”

Elizabeth stopped walking entirely. “If she were someone Mama disapproved of, that would explain the secrecy. And why we never saw her again.”

The silence that followed wasn’t easy. It thickened with the weight of memory and all the things they were only beginning to suspect.

But far behind them, the faint sound of hooves—Darcy’s timing, perhaps—and the distant murmur of wind through the apple trees reminded them why they were out here in the first place.

“Shall we walk just a little further?” Jane asked, quietly determined. “The longer we are gone, the better.”

Bingley offered her his arm again. “As long as you wish.”

Elizabeth followed, thoughtful and guarded. Somewhere, out of sight, their sister’s life was in motion. But the echoes of the past stirred, too, and refused to be buried.

After a moment, Charles glanced between the sisters, puzzled, but wisely said nothing. The distraction was working.

Meanwhile, in the shadows behind Longbourn, two figures emerged from the trees—Darcy, cloaked in a charcoal overcoat, and Thomas, the stableman from Netherfield. They followed the narrow footpath Mr. Gardiner had described, one known to servants and gamekeepers, which led to the rear stables and the crumbling storage sheds.

“I’ve ridden these lands before,” Thomas whispered. “But never this close to the house. Are you certain, Mr. Gardiner said to wait here?”

“He should already be inside,” Darcy replied, his jaw set. “He’ll signal once it is time.”

A moment passed before Thomas motioned toward the side hedge. “There. The old stone wall leads to the back gate. If we keep to the trees, no one in the kitchens will see us.”

At that very moment, Edward Gardiner, in the plain garb of a country doctor—wig slightly askew, cheeks shadowed with charcoal dust to age his features—approached the servants’ entrance. He carried a small physician’s bag, filled not with instruments, but with forged letters and careful lies.

Mrs. Hill, stiff and weather-worn, opened the door and blinked at him.

“Dr. Barlow,” he said in a gruff voice, producing the letter. “Summoned for observation. The young woman upstairs. Delicate health, so I was told.”

She took the letter but did not glance at it. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re no doctor. That coat’s too clean, and your shoes say you were never trained in mud or birthblood.”

Edward’s stomach twisted, but he kept calm. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and offered a small pouch of coins.

“Please,” he said. “This is for your trouble. We have only hours. You know what he’s doing to her.”

Mrs. Hill stared at the coins for a long moment, then shut the door with a hard thump. He nearly turned away in panic—until it creaked open once more, and she slipped outside, her hands folded tightly in her apron.

“If I let you in,” she whispered, voice low and hoarse, “can you promise me—swear on your honour—that she will never be returned to him?”

Edward straightened. “I swear it. By God and by my sister’s memory, I will see her safe.”

Mrs. Hill gave a long, trembling sigh. “Then you’ll need to go through the kitchen. I’ll show you the attic stairs. Be quick, and be silent.”

And with that, she stepped aside.

It was worse than he had feared.

Mr. Gardiner had imagined many things on the ride to Longbourn. Bruises, perhaps. A fading strength in Mary’s voice, the same quiet, sturdy girl he remembered from summers in Hertfordshire. But the shape he found curled upon the rotten cot in the attic room was not Mary Bennet as he had known her. It was a trembling shadow, a fevered wisp of a girl left to rot in silence.

The room was stifling, heavy with the scent of sweat, unwashed cloth, and something deeper—sweet and sickening—like meat left too long in the sun. His boots stuck slightly to the warped floorboards as he stepped inside. One of the attic windows had been nailed shut; the only source of light came from the broken slats above, where dust fell like ash in the still air.

Mary lay unmoving on the cot, her wrists loosely bound in torn muslin. Her eyes were closed. Her face, once round with the soft innocence of youth, was hollowed by fever and neglect. Blisters speckled her skin, rising red and angry over ribs that jutted too sharply. The thin chemise she wore was torn at the collar and barely reached her knees. No child at all should ever have been left like this.

“God in Heaven,” he whispered, choking on the sight.

He dropped to his knees beside her and reached out, his hand faltering before it touched her shoulder. Her skin was hot, far too hot, and damp with sweat. When she stirred—just slightly—he heard a rasp of breath and a broken whimper, like a trapped animal too tired to flee.

“Mary,” he said gently, tears prickling at his eyes. “Mary, it’s Uncle Edward. You’re safe. I’ve come.”

No answer. Only the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Something inside him fractured. His hands moved quickly, now fueled by fury. He took off his coat and wrapped it around her slender body. It nearly swallowed her whole, and still, he wanted more fabric, more warmth, more dignity to offer her.

She barely stirred as he lifted her into his arms.

A cry escaped him, unbidden. He had held his children like this, after fevers and nightmares. But Mary weighed far too little for her years, and her head lolled against his shoulder with dangerous limpness.

He turned to leave, pressing her to his chest, and nearly stumbled on the threshold—because there, at the stairwell, stood a girl.

One of the younger maids. She could not have been more than fourteen, with mousy hair and wide eyes. A bucket hung from one of her hands, the other clutched the stair rail as if frozen mid-step.

Her eyes locked on Mary. On the bruises. On the blood that had soaked into the hem of her shift.

For a moment, everything teetered.

Then she stepped aside. Silent. And gave a single, deliberate nod.

Mr. Gardiner’s throat tightened as he passed her.

He would remember that girl’s face for the rest of his life.

The call came as planned—a sharp whistle, followed by two clipped knocks against the stable post.

Thomas was ready. He’d had the horses tacked and warmed in the grove beyond the back field. The carriage itself was a plain, dark vehicle—no crest, no insignia. Unmarked, anonymous.

Darcy sat within already, dressed plainly and grim-faced, armed with nothing but a pistol beneath his coat and an expression carved from marble. His gaze locked with Thomas’s as the stableman climbed into the box.

“Is it time?” Thomas asked.

Darcy gave a single nod. “Let’s pray we’re not too late.”

The carriage rocked as Mr. Gardiner emerged from the forest trail, cradling the limp figure of Mary against his chest. He didn’t pause. Just opened the door and stepped inside.

Darcy moved to make room, but as Mary was laid across the seat opposite, his breath caught sharply.

She looked nothing like the girl he remembered from the Netherfield drawing room, her cheeks flushed with quiet determination as she played the pianoforte with trembling hands.

This Mary was pale and waxen, her lips cracked, a sheen of fever glistening on her brow. Her hair clung to her temples in damp curls. One of her arms slipped from beneath Gardiner’s coat, revealing deep purple bruises along the wrist.

Darcy reached out instinctively to cover her again—and paused.

There was blood. Dried and cracking at her temple. A fresh welt along her ribs. He felt the bile rise in his throat.

“This was not discipline,” he said, voice low and hard. “This was… torment.”

Gardiner said nothing for a moment. The carriage began to move, wheels creaking softly over the loam as they turned from the property and into the cover of the woods.

“I thought I was prepared,” the older man finally murmured. “I thought…I thought perhaps she had been neglected. Starved. But this?... I wanted to believe that maybe Jane was exaggerating.”

He looked down at Mary, his fingers adjusting the coat to tuck it tighter about her legs. “My God, Darcy. That man is her guardian.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “That may be if he were a man, but he is not at all… He’s nothing more than a monster.”

A silence followed, filled only by the rhythm of the horses and the rustling of leaves outside.

Then he said, “We’re heading to Wrotham Park. Or rather, to a small hunting cottage just beyond the east boundary. It belongs to the Earl of Stafford.”

 Mr. Gardiner blinked. “Lord Wentworth?”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “He lent it to my father once, years ago. Told us  we could use it if I ever needed a place to fish or think.”

Edward's brows lowered. “You trust him?”

“More than anyone,” he said simply.

Darcy turned his gaze toward Mary once more, surprise briefly flickering in his expression. He would ask more—but not now.

Now was for escape. For shelter. For getting the girl wrapped in his coat safely away from the hell she had endured.

Later would come the reckoning.

The cottage was stone and wood, half-lost in the folds of Wrotham Park’s forest, where the air tasted of moss and the trees stretched thick and ancient toward the sky. Though modest, the structure held a certain elegance—one that spoke of quiet wealth, of a retreat once meant for hunting stags and hosting gentlemen in autumn. But today it would serve another purpose: refuge.

Mary was carried through the door just past dawn, as they had a slow journey to prevent her discomfort in a moving carriage. The air inside was warm, the hearth already lit. A large bed had been prepared in the main room, its linens fresh and crisp, pillows fluffed high. Darcy had seen to it himself the night before, pacing the wooden floor, ensuring the room was private, clean, and quiet.

He followed Gardiner into the room, eyes never leaving the frail figure bundled in his coat. Every movement Mary made—every twitch, every unconscious sigh—struck him like a blow to the chest.

The physician rose from the chair beside the bed. An older man with a trimmed grey beard and a face lined by years of discretion, he said nothing as he took Mary from Mr. Gardiner’s arms. He had been paid handsomely by Darcy, not only for his skill, but for his silence. No questions. No records.

As the doctor set to work, Darcy stepped back, his gloves still damp from the cold. He stood by the window, hands clenched at his sides, his mouth drawn in a hard line. Mr. Gardiner remained nearby, ready to assist as the doctor cleaned the wounds, reset a swollen wrist, and pressed cool cloths to her burning skin.

It was not quick. It was not easy.

When the worst of it was done, and Mary lay wrapped in a soft cotton gown, tucked under heavy blankets, the room exhaled. Quiet returned.

Darcy watched her sleep, noting every shadow beneath her eyes, every bruise half-hidden by the collar. Guilt twisted in his gut—not because he had failed her, but because he had not seen enough, soon enough. She had sat in his drawing room, brave behind a book, and he had not truly looked .

But someone had. And done this.

Kitty arrived near midday.

She was half-carried from the carriage, her feet still bandaged and sore from her escape, but the moment she entered the cottage and heard that her sister lived, she surged forward with a strength no one expected.

“Mary?” she cried.

Mr. Gardiner held her back gently. “Let her sleep, kitten—”

But Kitty had already broken free, rushing toward the bed.

She stopped dead at the sight. Her hands flew to her mouth.

Mary was pale, too still. The bruises, though less raw now, were vivid against the whiteness of her gown. An herbal poultice had been applied to her ribs, and her wrists were wrapped. The scent of fever balm lingered in the air.

“Mary…” Kitty fell to her knees beside the bed. Her tears came fast, sharp, shuddering sobs that racked her thin shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, clutching her sister’s hand. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know it was that bad. I thought—I thought we’d be safe…”

Darcy stood just inside the door, silent.

It was a tableau he would not forget: the sisters reunited, broken but alive, their hands intertwined beneath the flickering firelight. No nobleman, no grand estate, no courtly dance could reach the raw truth of what he saw there.

He should have done more. Should have suspected sooner. Should have fought harder.

“I will never let anyone harm them again,” he thought.

That evening, as the sky dimmed beyond the pines, Mr. Gardiner stepped out onto the porch beside Darcy. The two men stood without speaking for a long while, the wind rustling through the high branches.

“She’s stable,” Gardiner said at last. “The fever’s breaking.”

Darcy gave a quiet nod. “And  Miss Kitty?”

“Sleeping beside her sister. I think… being near her has eased the worst of the fear.”

The older man turned, his gaze heavy with gratitude—and something harder. “You’ve done more than I expected. More than I had any right to ask.”

Darcy did not answer immediately. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed.

“I should have seen it,” he said softly. “The signs were there. In Mary’s eyes. In how she stood.”

“We all missed it,” Gardiner replied. Then, after a pause, “But make no mistake, Mr. Darcy. This is far from over.”

Darcy looked up.

“Thomas Bennet may believe he’s untouchable. But what he did…” Gardiner’s voice roughened. “He will not walk away from this without consequence.”

There was fire in his words, controlled, but burning. Darcy inclined his head.

“Agreed.”

“We’ll need proof,” Gardiner continued. “Witnesses. And protection. If he realizes where they are…what we’ve uncovered…he won’t stop until he’s ruined them both.”

Darcy turned to face the dark woods beyond the clearing.

“Then let us ensure he never gets the chance.”

Their shared resolve settled into the cold air like iron.

And inside the little cottage, Mary Bennet stirred faintly in her sleep, her sister’s hand still clasped in hers, while the fire burned on—steady and bright.

Longbourn was a house of shadows. The rooms were too quiet. Conversations stopped abruptly when certain names arose. Servants walked softly, eyes lowered, hands busy with nothing at all. And through it all, Elizabeth watched.

She noticed things. Small things. Jane taking longer walks in the morning, always returning with pink cheeks and slightly wet lashes. The way Mr. Gardiner’s carriage came and went more frequently than usual—sometimes in the dead of night—and how the man himself would appear pale and curt when he next arrived, speaking little to Fanny and nothing to Mr. Bennet.

Then there were the silences.

At first, Elizabeth attributed them to the usual rhythms of the house—its occasional tempers and humors. But now… Now, she felt something shifting. Something hidden.

Jane, ever serene, fumbled with her needlework. She flinched when spoken to too quickly, and her voice carried tremors it never had before.

“Is something the matter?” Elizabeth asked one morning.

Jane smiled, but her fingers twisted the hem of her handkerchief. “Nothing at all. I didn’t sleep well.”

Elizabeth frowned. “You say that often now.”

Jane looked away, the smile still fixed. “There is much to think about.”

That was not a lie. But it was not the truth either.

Fanny Bennet, meanwhile, had retreated into a world of her own making.

She said nothing outright, but her glances, her jumpy laughter, the way her eyes darted toward closed doors told their own story. She had started taking wine before noon and rarely stopped until supper. Her speech slurred softly in the afternoons. She would wave away any mention of Mary with a trembling hand and a muttered, “Silly girl. Always hiding somewhere with her books.”

She did not ask why the household was quieter. She did not ask why the laundry maids were sent away or why the stablehands had not been seen in days. She only drank and looked out the window with haunted, unfocused eyes.

Mr. Bennet’s rage, however, arrived like thunder. 

Three days after Mary vanished, he burst into the drawing room with a fury none had seen in years. His eyes were bloodshot, his collar misbuttoned, and a riding crop dangled loosely from one hand.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

The question met stunned silence.

“Do not play the innocent!” he roared, turning on the maids, the footmen, even Mrs. Hill. “You’ve hidden her, haven’t you? You know where she’s gone. Did she leave with that sullen brat from the stables? Did one of you sneak her out under my nose?”

He interrogated each servant personally, one by one, in the study. Yelling, pacing, threatening. Mrs. Hill kept her face neutral, even as sweat gathered at her temples. She said only what was necessary. The other girls were frightened, stammering. One began to cry.

And yet—none confessed.

Mr. Bennet grew more paranoid with each hour. His rage shifted from servants to family. He began watching Jane more closely.

“Why so pale, my dear?” he asked her one evening, his voice too calm to be comforting. “You’ve seemed unwell since your sister ran off.”

“I am only worried for her,” Jane whispered.

“Worried?” he repeated. “Strange—when the rest of us can barely bring her name to mind. It is almost as though you knew she would vanish.”

Jane dropped her spoon. Her hands trembled as she bent to retrieve it.

“Leave her alone,” Elizabeth said sharply, placing herself between them. “This is absurd.”

Mr. Bennet scoffed, but he retreated. Pride still blinded him. Pride, and the deep-seated belief that Mary—dull, silent Mary—could not possibly have warranted rescue. And what could she need rescuing from ?

No. Mary had run off in a fit of dramatics. She would come crawling back, and when she did, he would teach her the meaning of obedience.

That was the story he told himself. The only one he could stomach.

Elizabeth was less certain.

There were too many silences. Too many secrets. Mary’s absence—once a mild curiosity—had begun to feel deliberate . The way the others flinched when her name was spoken. How even Lydia’s sharp tongue never uttered a word about her.

And Lydia herself…

Lydia was never home until supper now. She rose late, disappeared, and returned just before the table was laid, cheeks flushed, smelling faintly of perfume that was not her own. Her clothes were wrinkled, her gloves mismatched. No one asked where she went, least of all Lydia herself.

And small things were disappearing. A brooch. A candlestick. A few coins. Jewelry from drawers that were rarely opened.

Fanny noticed, of course. She fretted, pouted, and accused the maids—but never Lydia. Never her “dearest baby.”

Elizabeth said nothing. Not yet.

She only watched the house continue to crumble, room by room, behind its pretty façade.

And she began to wonder just how far the rot had spread—and who, in the end, would survive it.

The cottage at Wrotham was silent but for the rhythmic tick of the old hunting clock and the low crackle of fire in the hearth. Rain had begun to pour again that morning.

Inside, the shadows danced gently across the floorboards.

Mary had not stirred in days.

The physician had done what he could, he began giving her laudanum to keep the pain at bay. The fever had broken and returned twice, and though she no longer thrashed or muttered in hallucination, she remained unconscious, locked in her mind.

Darcy had scarcely left her side. He sat by her bed with a book open in his lap, unread. Barely blinking when she stirred.

Her fingers, frail and trembling, moved atop the coverlet. Her lashes fluttered, and she made a low sound—half-breath, half-cry.

“Mary,” he said softly, leaning closer.

Her eyes opened, but they were glassy and unfocused, rimmed with fever and pain. She looked up at him as if from a dream. Her lips parted, dry and cracked.

He reached for the water glass.

But her fingers found his hand first.

She held it weakly — barely a grasp, more a plea than a grip — and whispered one hoarse, broken word:

“… My guardian…”

His chest tightened.

The sound of it — that single word — cut deeper than all the rest. Her voice, frail and thready, filled the space between them with something unspoken and immense.

Not "sir." Not "Mr. Darcy." Not even "friend."

Guardian.

He looked down at her hand, impossibly small against his own. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his other hand over hers and bowed his head.

“I am here,” he whispered. “You are safe now.”

But she was already gone again, her breath slowing, her body sinking back into exhausted stillness.

He did not let go.

Kitty entered the room a short while later with the help of a maid and found them that way — Mary asleep again, her hand in Darcy’s, his gaze dark and unreadable.

“She woke?” Kitty asked, her voice barely audible.

He nodded once.

“What did she say?”

Darcy hesitated. “…Something I will not forget.”

Kitty came forward, eyes glassy with relief, and sat on the other side of the bed. She tucked the blanket closer around Mary’s shoulders and gently stroked her sister’s hair.

They did not speak for a long time. The fire cracked softly, and the storm outside deepened.

Later, as twilight settled over the forest and lanterns were lit in the windows, Mr. Gardiner found Darcy alone in the library. He’d poured himself a drink and had not touched it.

“She woke,” Darcy said, not looking up.

Gardiner exhaled in quiet relief. “Thank God.”

“She spoke a word. Just one.”

“Did she  mention Bennet?”

“No.” Darcy’s eyes were distant. “She called me her guardian.”

Gardiner nodded once, solemn. “That she could say anything at all… is a miracle.”

Darcy looked down at the untouched glass. “I should have seen it sooner.”

“You did see it,” Gardiner said. “In time to save her.”

“Not before he—” Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Not before he broke her.”

“We’ve bought them time, not freedom. He’ll come looking. My niece wrote, and it seems that he already suspects something.”

“Then we’ll be ready.”

Gardiner stood. “I hope so.”

He paused at the door.

“And Mr. Darcy?” he added without turning.

“Yes?”

“Be careful what you let yourself feel.”

Darcy raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

Gardiner finally turned, his expression a strange mix of gratitude and warning. “You’ve seen her at her most broken. That kind of connection… can confuse even the strongest men.”

Darcy said nothing. Not then.

He only turned back to the window and watched the rain fall.

Chapter Text

Wrotham Park stood in dignified silence beneath the pallid winter sun, its ancient stones basking in the muted light. Lord William Wentworth strode through the west hall, his boots echoing softly against the marble floors. Servants stepped aside without needing to be told — their master had a look about him today, the kind that meant business would be concluded swiftly and without distraction.

He was freshly returned from Yorkshire, having left Wentworth Castle three days prior. Affairs at Wrotham required attention, tenants to see, accounts to balance, and repairs to approve before the blooming spring arrived. He welcomed the distraction. The solitude of the north had grown heavier with each passing year.

At the far end of the corridor, a footman bowed and presented a sealed letter. “Urgent, my lord. From Mr. Darcy of Pemberley.”

“Darcy?...George’s son?” Lord Wentworth’s brows lifted with mild surprise. He broke the seal as he continued walking, unfolding the page with fingers made stiff by age but still deft. His eyes skimmed the contents — and then stopped.

He read it again, slower.

Then once more.

By the time he lowered the page, his lips were pressed into a pale, grim line.

“Have the hunting cottage prepared immediately,” he said to the footman without looking up. “Stock it with food, clean linens, and summon Dr. Aldrich from town. Quietly. And tell Stephens I want no mention of this outside our walls.”

“Yes, my lord.” The footman bowed and hurried away.

Lord Wentworth turned toward the long windows overlooking the rear grounds. The gardens were asleep now, the hedges and fountains dusted with frost, but he could still imagine the color — the laughter — that once filled these paths.

Margaret.

She used to chase their daughter along that hedge maze in the spring, her laughter brighter than the birdsong. He remembered how she glowed in her final weeks, before their last goodbye. He remembered the sound of her voice echoing through the halls. The child had barely begun to speak, just enough to call him Papa and giggle when he carried her on his shoulders. His little Mary.

But when Margaret died... when he was told the children had died as well...

He pressed a hand against the windowpane. Cold. Distant. Just like the silence that had filled his life since.

And now, Darcy wrote to him with grave and careful wording, mentioning his stay at Meryton between the lines, requesting the same hunting cottage where Margaret once sketched wildflowers and Mary once played with her toy horse in the grass.

“Why now? Why does God insist on fueling his pain?”   his heart asked.

But another part of him, the one that had been waiting, silently, desperately, already knew the answer.

“I was not there,” he murmured to no one.

His breath misted faintly on the glass.

Then he straightened, turned on his heel, and summoned the steward with renewed authority.

“Perhaps there is a reason for all this anguish,” he said to himself as he walked, “as the past has returned to my doorstep.”

And this time, he would not hide away.

It was a crisp, cloudless morning when Jane and Elizabeth walked beside Lydia through the Meryton square. They had been sent for ribbon and starch, though the true purpose—unstated by their mother—was to display themselves in public again after too long a silence at Longbourn.

Elizabeth did not miss the glances. The sideways murmurs. Kitty’s absence was not easily explained and nor was Mary’s.

Lydia, oblivious or uncaring of them, marched ahead like a banner girl in a parade.

Just as they passed the smithy, a familiar voice called out.

“Miss Bennet! Miss Elizabeth! Miss Lydia!”

Lieutenant Denny appeared from the far end of the lane, his red coat bright as ever, though he looked tired—older, somehow, since the Netherfield Ball.

He bowed. “What a fine morning, ladies. May I introduce a comrade of mine? Lieutenant George Wickham, newly stationed with us here in Meryton.”

A tall man stepped forward. He was striking—dark hair, clear eyes, a confidence that did not wait for approval. Elizabeth felt herself go still. Not because of his charm, which was considerable, but because of the way he scanned each of them. Calculating. As if sorting through treasures.

“An honour,” Wickham said. “The renowned Bennet sisters, I presume?”

Jane offered a quiet smile and a curtsy. “Yes, sir. We are pleased to meet you.”

Wickham’s eyes lingered on Lydia. “And you must be the youngest.”

Lydia blushed furiously. “I may be, but that doesn't mean I'm charming.”

He laughed easily, offering his hand as if they were old friends. “A tragedy, then, to have missed meeting you sooner.”

Elizabeth’s unease sharpened. She turned to Denny. “Were you recently in town?”

“Only just returned,” Denny said. “We’ve been posted along the southern roads—escort and discipline drills.”

“You must be tired of the countryside,” Elizabeth said lightly.

Wickham smiled at her now. “On the contrary, Miss Elizabeth. The country is never dull when the company is so charming.”

It was gallant. Perfectly spoken. But his gaze, though smooth, was too knowing. Elizabeth saw the way Lydia preened. The way Jane folded her hands tightly.

Denny changed the subject. “You’ll join us at the assembly next week, of course? All of you?”

“We will,” Jane answered with a practiced smile. “Provided our father agrees.”

“Then I’ll count the hours,” Wickham said, bowing again.

As they walked away, Lydia hummed under her breath.

“He’s so handsome,” she whispered. “And clever.”

“He’s something,” Elizabeth said.

Back at the small hunting cottage, the house nestled deep within the woods was blanketed in hush from the rain, reminiscing of the last days of winter. Wind stirred the branches above, but inside, the world had shrunk to the steady crackle of fire and the rhythmic creak of floorboards under quiet, pacing feet.

Mary had been feverish for nearly five hours now, but the physician, a discreet man, well-compensated and well-practiced in silence, declared her condition finally beginning to stabilize. The festering wounds on her back and legs had started to close, though her skin still burned with heat. Her sleep was uneasy, full of murmurs and tremors, but it was sleep nonetheless.

“She is past the worst,” the doctor said at last, wiping his brow. “But the damage is deep. Physically, she may heal in time — emotionally…” He left the thought unfinished, his eyes heavy with pity.

Darcy stood near the bed, his arms folded tightly, gaze fixed on the girl swaddled in soft linen sheets. Mary looked heartbreakingly small, her cheeks flushed with fever, strands of damp hair plastered to her temple. His jaw clenched at the memory of how she'd been found — barely clothed, broken, and half-conscious in the arms of Mr. Gardiner.

Kitty sat on the rug near the hearth, her legs drawn up beneath her, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She was still pale, but her eyes were clearer now. She looked older, not just in pain, but in knowing.

“I want to tell you,” she whispered. “All of it.”

Darcy turned, and the others gathered: Mr. Gardiner, Thomas the stableman, and Mrs. Phillips, who had arrived that morning under the guise of visiting an ill friend.

Kitty took a steadying breath. “I never understood everything, as my fever was clouding my mind. But I remember the portrait we found while cleaning, it was well hidden… A beautiful woman. We thought she looked like us, so we started to suspect something was off, but as it didn’t have a name, we forgot about it”

She looked to Mr. Gardiner, who nodded and reached into a leather satchel. From it, he withdrew the items he had risked so much to recover.

First, the portrait — small, the edges ripped with age. The woman in the painting had soft hazel eyes and a quiet, regal beauty. She looked startlingly like Mary.

Then came a bundle of folded letters, tied with a faded ribbon. Kitty glanced away as Darcy gently undid the knot. The first page was in a feminine hand, the writing delicate but firm.

“Margaret Bennet,” Mrs. Phillips read aloud, stunned. “But that’s… that’s Mr. Bennet’s sister. She died years ago.”

“She married,” Kitty whispered. “She married someone else. Not the man Mr. Bennet wanted for her, or so we believed. That’s why he hated her… and us.”

She reached for a small velvet pouch and withdrew a gold band. Margaret’s wedding ring. Darcy turned it over in his hand, reading the worn engraving inside: To my dearest Margaret — W.W.

He froze.

The letters, the ring, and the portrait. All began to stitch together in his mind like pieces of a long-abandoned puzzle.

“W.W.,” he murmured. “ Perhaps Wentworth.”

The others stared.

Darcy straightened slowly, his voice quiet but steady. “This cottage…this estate… it belongs to the Earl of Stafford. William Wentworth.”

Mrs. Phillips gasped. “The Earl? But surely…”

Thomas spoke next, his voice hesitant. “I remember them, I think. I was just a boy, but… There was a lady once. Pregnant. She came to Longbourn with a little girl. They both were dressed finer than any lady I’d ever seen. My mother still worked on the property then. She said she was a relation of the master. They stayed only a short while. Then one day, they were gone.”

He paused, looking at the portrait. “That… that could be her.”

Silence fell. Even the fire seemed to burn quieter.

Mrs. Phillips sat heavily in the armchair, shaking her head. “All these years… We thought they were his by some servant girl he wouldn’t name. But he took them from their real father?” 

Darcy spoke again, this time solemnly. “The resemblance, the timing, the secrecy… it all aligns. I will investigate further. But I must ask for your silence.”

Kitty’s eyes widened. “You… you believe us?”

“I do,” Darcy said without hesitation. “But the truth is a blade that cuts both ways. If we are not careful, it could undo all we’ve risked.”

The room was still.

Then, one by one, they nodded.

“I’ll not let them be dragged back,” Mr. Gardiner said firmly.

“No soul could call that man a father,” Mrs. Phillips added with a shudder.

Thomas, who had remained mostly quiet, simply said, “He’ll not have them. Not again.”

Darcy looked around the room — at these unlikely allies bound by pain and outrage — and nodded once. “Then we protect them. Until I can bring proof.”

For now, the truth would remain buried beneath the surface. But its echo filled every breath, every glance, every quiet word.

They knew. And there was no going back.

The cottage was steeped in the hush of twilight, the only sound the faint crackle of a hearth and the rustle of pages turning. Darcy stepped silently down the narrow hallway, intending to check on Mary’s condition. The doctor had said her fever might break tonight.

He paused as he reached the doorway.

Within the small chamber, lit by the flickering orange glow of a lantern, Thomas sat beside the bed, his tall frame hunched and still. Kitty was curled in a chair near Mary’s head, her voice low as she read softly from a book of poetry. Mary stirred faintly, shifting under the blankets. One of her hands, pale and weak, was held in her sister’s. The other lay beside her, fingers twitching as if reaching for something lost in a dream.

Darcy remained unseen in the shadow of the door.

Thomas wasn’t watching Kitty. His eyes were on Mary, not with longing or desire, but something more complex. Grief. Guilt. A haunting sorrow that tugged at the corners of his mouth and drew deep lines between his brows.

When Kitty’s voice faltered, he reached out and gently turned the page for her. The gesture was instinctive, practiced. Not a stranger’s courtesy — but something deeper, older.

Darcy narrowed his eyes.

Something is missing from this story, he thought.

The light in the room was dim, dusky with late afternoon shadows. The rain still tapped at the windows like a gentle visitor too timid to enter.

Kitty sat in a chair pulled close to Mary’s bedside. Thomas left some time ago, the fire was kept low to conserve fuel. Mary’s face was pale, her lips still dry from fever and blood loss, but her eyes fluttered faintly in sleep now. Her chest rose and fell with soft effort.

In her lap, Kitty held a book— The Mysteries of Udolpho , the one Mary had read aloud to her when they were children and dared to imagine themselves as heroines in far-off castles. It had taken some coaxing to find it again, buried in the cottage library. She had chosen it because she remembered how her sister’s voice had always been strong and clear when she read it, how the rhythm of the words could lift the weight from her shoulders.

She tried to recreate that memory now, her voice steady but quiet.

“She had wandered into the deep recesses of the woods, uncertain of her path, her heart thudding like thunder…” She stopped.

The word thudding lodged in her chest.

Kitty glanced down at Mary, whose brow twitched in some half-formed dream, and slowly closed the book.

Her fingers trembled around the worn cover. She realized, then, that her hands hadn’t stopped shaking since the barn.

The words blurred before her eyes—not from tears, not yet—but from something heavier.

A rotting sensation was growing in her belly, thick and hot like bile.

It was the silence.

Mary was safe now. The others had found her. There were no more screaming hooves in the dark, no slick mud, no staggering through fields barefoot, bleeding and cold. No more hands clawing at her dress. No more drunken laughter.

And with that stillness, the numbness had finally worn off.

Which meant the thoughts had returned.

“They were going to do it. You know that, don’t you?”  She clenched the book tighter. “ If Thomas hadn’t found you…If he had been moments later… You wouldn’t have been reading by the fire today. You wouldn’t be here at all. You’d be…”

She doubled over slightly, swallowing a dry sob.

Mary murmured in her sleep, perhaps sensing her tension.

Kitty straightened again, biting her lip so hard it bled.

She had barely escaped. She had almost died. Worse than that—she had almost been ruined, broken, like something ripped apart from the inside.

“And what would they have said if you had been? The voice in her head whispered. What would your father have done? Would he have said you deserved it, like Mr Bennet always does? Would your other sisters have pitied you? Would Darcy and Bingley have looked away? Would the Gardiners and Phillips have cast you out in shame?” She dug her nails into her palm.

She hated that part of herself— the part that wanted to forget.

But forgetting was impossible now.

She had seen the faces of those men. Smelled the ale on their breath. Heard the tearing fabric of her gown. And now, she was clean, yes. Bathed and fed. Her wounds were dressed. But she didn’t feel clean. She didn’t feel safe. She didn’t feel whole.

She felt hollow. Filthy. Small.

Her gaze fell on Mary, who lay unmoving, her hand limp on the blanket.

“Mary,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I was so scared.”

No reply.

Kitty wiped her eyes quickly. She didn’t want to wake her sister. But her chest was caving in, and there was nowhere left to put the pain.

“I…I was so close to losing everything. To being... to being nothing.” She choked on the words. “And I still feel like I don’t deserve to be here. Like I’ll never deserve anything again.”

Her voice cracked, and this time the tears came, hot and silent, streaking down her cheeks like ink bleeding from a page.

“But you’re safe now,” she said, taking Mary’s hand in hers. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

She leaned forward and kissed Mary’s knuckles, like a prayer, like penance.

And then she opened the book again and began to read.

Later that night, after the others had retired and Kitty had finally fallen asleep beside Mary, Darcy cornered Thomas in the corridor near the kitchen. The man was stacking firewood with mechanical precision, his hands darkened with ash.

“I’ve a question for you,” Darcy said without preamble.

Thomas did not look up. “I reckon you’ve many.”

“You’ve risked much…too much… for girls you barely knew. What truly ties you to this?”

Thomas said nothing at first. Then, with forced calm, he dropped the last log into the basket and straightened. “Not all debts are bought in coin, sir.”

“That may be,” Darcy replied, eyes narrowing, “but even the noblest acts have a root. I don’t think you helped because it was the right thing to do. Not only. You knew they needed help. But you also knew something else.”

Thomas turned to go.

Darcy stepped into his path. “What are you hiding?”

He was met with silence. 

“Tell me,” Darcy pressed, “why you stayed. Why did you risk everything?”

Thomas’s voice was low. “Because someone had to.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ll give you,” Thomas said. His jaw tightened. “You may be a gentleman, Mr. Darcy, but you are not entitled to every man’s truth. Some of us have scars best left to the soul.”

Darcy’s frown deepened. “You’ll forgive me if I find your evasions alarming… for the girls' sake.”

“You do not need to trust me,” Thomas replied. “You only need to trust them.”

He walked away, leaving Darcy in the flickering hallway, unsettled and unsatisfied.

Darcy kept watching him. He was careful not to make it obvious, but he saw how Thomas checked on Kitty first every morning. His gaze always drifted to Mary when she made the slightest noise. He kept to himself, yes, but his eyes were never idle.

The tension grew.

On the evening of the second day, after supper, Darcy found Thomas outside again, seated alone by the edge of the trees, smoking a pipe with a furrowed brow.

Darcy approached without pretense. “You owe me nothing,” he said, voice low. “But you owe them honesty.”

Thomas didn’t look at him at first. Then he said, “I used to believe silence protected the people you loved.”

Darcy said nothing.

Thomas exhaled slowly, then began.

“I was born in Longbourn.”

Darcy blinked. “What?”

“My mother was a maid. Her name was Clara. She was seventeen when he got her with child. Mr. Bennet.”

Darcy froze, expression unreadable.

“She wasn’t supposed to keep me. He ordered her beaten. Had her lashed for ‘disobedience’, just like he did with Miss Mary, even though she was near the end of her term. She died a few days later from the fever.”

Thomas’s voice was flat, detached, as though he had long since buried the emotions behind these words.

“My grandfather… Mr. Bennet’s father…was still alive then. A cruel man, but proud of the family line. When he found out, he was furious. He sent his son away to town under the pretense of schooling. And me?” A bitter smile touched his lips. “He gave me to the housekeeper. Said the bastard may be filth, but it was Bennet blood. And Bennet's blood doesn’t rot in the gutter.” He looked away.

“I had a name… not Bennet, never that…but they raised me kindly. My ‘mother’ loved me. She taught me to read, gave me a place to sleep. For a time, it was enough.” His voice darkened.

“But when the old man died, Mr. Bennet came back with his new wife. Fanny. And resentment sharper than steel. He saw me… a reminder of his humiliation, of a girl he killed with his shame. And he turned us out after some time. No warning. No money. Nothing.”

Thomas’s hand curled into a fist. “I’ve lived half my life in stables and on the road. But I never forgot. I watched him from a distance. I saw how he treated the girls. Especially Mary and Kitty. And I knew.”

Darcy’s throat was tight. “Knew what?”

“That they weren’t his. Not really. I didn’t know the whole tale, not until now. But I knew he didn’t make them. He only broke them.”

Thomas stood, the moonlight drawing harsh angles on his face. “So when I saw Kitty in that barn, barefoot and bleeding, I knew I couldn’t turn away. Because I’ve already lost one mother. I won’t let him destroy what’s left of theirs.”

He turned to go, then paused.

“That’s why I’m here. That’s the truth.”

Darcy didn’t stop him.

He remained in the cold, wind stirring the trees overhead, as the revelation settled in his bones like frost.

Not all monsters wore cloaks or wielded knives. Some wrote sermons. Some quoted books. Some ruled a house with silence and shame. But the worst of them left their blood to rot — and called it virtue.

The afternoon sun shimmered above Meryton’s dusty roads as Elizabeth and Jane strolled beside the garden wall outside their Aunt Phillips’ modest home. Their mother had insisted they pay a visit, though both daughters knew it was pointless—Mrs. Phillips had been “indisposed” since Kitty and Mary vanished two weeks ago<, tending to something no one spoke of directly.

What neither sister expected, as they approached the lane behind the house, was to find Lydia.

She stood beneath a large oak, leaning against the wall, her laughter shrill and too loud in the stillness. Opposite her stood Mr. Wickham, his stance relaxed, his expression almost tender. He twirled a coin between his fingers and leaned down to whisper something in Lydia’s ear. She blushed and swatted at his arm playfully. His eyes followed her movements—too intently, too possessively.

Elizabeth stopped. “Do you see that?”

“Yes.” Jane’s face was pale. 

The moment dragged on too long. Wickham brushed Lydia’s sleeve. She giggled again and bent her head as if he’d said something wicked. Her hand moved briefly to his chest.

 “We shouldn’t be here.” Jane tugged Elizabeth’s sleeve.

But Lizzy squared her shoulders. “No, we should.” She stepped forward deliberately. “Mr. Wickham.”

Wickham looked up, startled. For just a heartbeat, something in his eyes turned calculating—but then he smiled, all easy charm and grace.

“Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth.” He bowed. “How fortunate to meet you on such a fine day.”

“We were sent to visit our aunt,” Jane said, her voice a little high. “Though she wasn’t home.”

Wickham’s gaze didn’t leave Lydia. “Ah, pity. Still, the outing seems to have done Miss Lydia good.”

Lydia stepped forward with a defiant toss of her head. “We were only talking, Lizzy.”

“Of course,” she said coolly. “Though your talk looked rather… animated.”

Wickham chuckled. “You wound me, Miss Elizabeth. I assure you, I was merely entertaining your sister with tales of my youth in the north.”

“Hmm,” Elizabeth said, unconvinced. She glanced at Lydia. “Perhaps you’ll walk back with us?”

Lydia pouted but nodded. Wickham bowed again and tipped an imaginary hat. “Ladies.”

As they walked away, Elizabeth whispered, “He’s twice her age. And far too interested.”

“I know,” Jane murmured. “And Mama insists on sending her out alone.”

“She’s not ready for a man like him,” Elizabeth said. “I’m not sure any girl would be.”

When they arrived back at Longbourn and relayed the lack of success at Aunt Phillips’, Fanny merely waved her hand from the settee, a wine glass in the other.

“Well, at least you got some sun,” she said with a lazy smile. “Lydia went out to fetch sugar. She’s such a helpful girl, always bustling about.”

Elizabeth glanced at Jane. Neither of them spoke. The air in the house felt wrong again—stale, sour, like something dying slowly in the walls.

Three days later, Lydia was gone.

At first, no one noticed. Fanny was still in bed well past noon, nursing a self-induced illness and demanding cold cloths and burnt toast. The servants moved quietly, sullen under unpaid wages. Jane and Elizabeth found themselves doing most of the chores.

But it was Elizabeth who noticed first—Lydia’s bed untouched, her favorite slippers missing. Her hairbrush is gone. The sash from her best gown lay discarded near the hearth like she’d changed in a hurry.

Worse still, one of their father’s lockboxes was open. Not forced—unlocked.

Elizabeth found Jane folding linens in the front parlor.

“She’s not here,” Elizabeth said.

“What?”

“Lydia. I think she’s run.”

Jane stared, then dropped the sheet in her hands. “No. She wouldn’t…”

“She would,” Elizabeth said. “With him.”

They ran through the house, searching every room. No note. No trace. Only a small hollow space in the cellar behind a broken board. Inside: a few candles, brandy, bread, and coins. A man's cravat. Jewelry that their mother hadn’t yet noticed missing.

A chill sank into Elizabeth’s chest. She thought again of that conversation behind Aunt Phillips’ house. The way Lydia leaned into him. The way Wickham had smiled.

“She’s eloped,” she whispered. “She’s taken everything she could.”

Jane looked stricken. “What do we do?”

“There’s only one person who can stop her before it’s too late.”

The study was dim, dust-laced beams cutting through the slats of the shutters. Mr. Bennet sat slouched in a worn chair, nursing a glass of brandy and flipping through a book without reading a word.

Elizabeth entered, breath tight in her throat.

“She’s gone,” she said.

“Who”

“Lydia, your daughter”

He did not look up.

“She’s gone with Wickham. She’s taken money. Jewelry. You must go after her.”

Still, nothing.

“I know you know she’s gone!” she cried. “Please. She’s too young—she doesn’t understand what she’s done…”

Mr. Bennet looked up. His face was unreadable, his eyes red-veined and empty.

“She’s a whore,” he said.

“A what?” Elizabeth froze.

“You heard me,” he said flatly. “Just like her mother.”

The words hit her like a slap. She stumbled back a step. “You cannot mean that…”

“I do. She’s always been a little tart. You think I haven’t seen her, prancing around this house like she’s at a damned fairground? Opening her legs for whatever uniform looks twice?”

“Stop it!” Elizabeth shouted.

He rose slowly, brandy sloshing from his glass. “They all do it. Every woman in this house. Your mother. You. Lydia. Stupid, empty-headed cows. Not a thought among you.”

“I am nothing like her!”

“You are exactly like her.” His face twisted. “Do you think I don’t see it? The pride. The judgment. You walk around like you're above this place, but you’re just another whimpering girl waiting to spread your legs.”

Jane appeared in the doorway, breathless. “Papa!”

He turned toward her with a sneer. “And you. Little angel Jane. Tell me, has anyone knocked you up yet? Or are you still holding out for a title like your aunt did?”

He lifted his hand, as if to gesture—but it lingered too long. His fingers curled. Elizabeth didn’t flinch this time.

Jane stepped forward and placed herself between them. “Touch her, and I swear…”

But Mr. Bennet only laughed. Low. Bitter. The sound of a man who has begun to unravel and knows it.

“I should have drowned the lot of you at birth,” he muttered, collapsing back into his chair. “Just like the cats.”

Elizabeth couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

She took Jane’s hand, and they left him there, muttering to himself, the brandy dripping onto the rug.

Upstairs, behind a locked door, Elizabeth sat shaking.

“Something is wrong with him,” Jane whispered. “Truly wrong.”

“He’s losing his mind.” She nodded. 

She wanted to cry; surely her father was losing his mind. There was no other explanation for his actions. Because he loves them all, even if he does not show it, he does.

The cart rattled along a narrow country road, worn wheels grumbling over frost-hardened ruts. Mist clung to the surrounding fields like a second skin, blurring the lines between land and sky. The driver—a half-asleep boy no older than Lydia herself—paid them little mind as he urged the mule forward.

Inside the cart, Lydia chattered without rest.

“I think a green gown would be best for my trousseau, don’t you? With ribbons along the sleeves. You said you liked green. Or maybe white? But not too plain. Mama would say… well, Mama would say I’m ruined, but you said it doesn’t matter, not when we’re in love.”

Wickham nodded without listening. “Of course, my dear. Anything you like.”

His arm was around her shoulders, and she leaned into him with all the unguarded devotion of a child. She was humming softly now, plucking at the hem of her cloak, smiling to herself.

He watched her with the detachment of a butcher observing a lamb.

Wickham’s eyes flicked to the road ahead. They were perhaps an hour from the village of Aston—a forgettable hamlet nestled on the border of Hertfordshire. It was far enough to vanish, but not so far as to draw attention. He’d planned it well, they would stay a day or two before going north.

The girl beside him would never see it coming. thinking they were going to Gretna Green.

He thought about leaving her in some filthy inn, pockets emptied, dignity shredded. It would be so easy. One stiff drink, a touch of laudanum in her tea, and she’d sleep through the worst of it. He had done it before.

But something more elegant now tickled at the edges of his mind.

Lydia Bennet. Of all the spoiled country brats in Hertfordshire, she had the fortune—or misfortune-to be tied to Fitzwilliam Darcy.

And Darcy... Darcy had taken everything from him. His prospects. His freedom. His name.

Wickham’s mouth twisted into a slow, venomous smile.

What if, this time, he gave Darcy something?

A scandal.

A ruined girl who would swear she was stolen away by Mr. Darcy’s very hand.

And not just any girl. A Bennet girl. From Longbourn, where Darcy had been seen, where his name had been spoken. All he needed was one forged note, written in Darcy’s unmistakable hand—a skill Wickham had long ago perfected during a summer of petty pranks and pocketed debts.

And Lydia? She would believe anything.

She would tell anyone what he told her if he played it sweet enough.

Perhaps she could be delivered to one of the finer houses in London—no longer as a guest, but as inventory. He knew the sort of men who paid well for untamed country girls. Her family would never find her, and by then it would be Darcy’s name dripping from every whispered tale.

He leaned in and kissed her temple.

“You must be tired,” he murmured. “Rest a little. We’re nearly there.”

Lydia blinked up at him, sleepy and trusting. “Will you marry me soon?”

“Of course,” he lied.

She curled beneath his arm with a sigh.

Wickham stared at the mist-covered road, the gears of his mind turning faster now.

He would destroy Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Not with a pistol or blade—but with ink, lies, and a girl too naïve to know she’d already been ruined.

And this time, no one would suspect the snake in the grass.

The fire in the hearth hissed and cracked, heavy with damp from the rain that had not ceased for three days. The hunting lodge, nestled deep in the woods of Lord Wentworth’s estate, stood firm against the storm without. But within its stone walls, the storm was already well underway.

Darcy stood before the hearth, his eyes fixed on the flames, though he saw none of it. In his hand, he held a letter, creased, mud-spattered, hastily delivered by a courier who had nearly collapsed upon arrival. Thomas hovered nearby, pale with unease. Mr. Gardiner stood at the window, arms crossed, while Mr. Phillips sat grimly at the long oak table.

Darcy spoke at last, his voice low and clipped.

Lydia and Wickham were gone.

No trace. No destination. Just absence and silence.

His jaw tightened.

He rose and crossed the room to where Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Phillips were in uneasy quiet, the remains of their interrupted supper cooling on the table. Neither man needed to ask. The look on Darcy’s face said enough.

“She’s vanished?” Mr. Phillips rasped, paling. “With a man ?”

Gasps and exclamations followed, but Darcy raised a hand to silence them.

“She left in the night. Jane’s letter says they left no note, only that some of Lydia’s things are missing. Coins, jewelry, stockings, small items—planned, but hasty.”

Phillips exhaled a string of curses under his breath. Gardiner turned from the window.

Darcy nodded once again. “She and Mr. Bingley are turning over every stone between Meryton and London. But if that man is the one that have taken her... it may already be too late.”

“Do you think he’s taken her to Gretna Green?” Thomas asked, his voice almost hopeful. Fearing what may come of the little Miss.

Darcy’s eyes flashed. “I think Wickham is capable of much worse.”

He stepped away from the hearth, the letter crushed now in his hand. His tone grew sharper, more guttural—rage dressed in civility.

Mr. Phillips muttered something about damnable scoundrels, but it was Gardiner who asked, “Darcy… do you know this man?”

Darcy’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Unfortunately, I know Wickham better than I ever wished.”

He stepped closer to the hearth, the heat doing nothing to thaw the sharp chill in his chest.

“He was my father's godson. Raised on the Pemberley estate. I knew him from boyhood. We were... companions of a sort. Until I discovered his true nature.”

Gardiner leaned forward. “What nature is that?”

Darcy looked at the fire.

“Wickham is not simply a scoundrel. He’s a predator. I know this because I nearly lost my sister to him.”

Thomas and Phillips turned sharply. Gardiner stiffened.

“A year ago, he insinuated himself into her trust. He nearly eloped with her. I arrived in Ramsgate two days before the marriage was to occur. He wanted her fortune—thirty thousand pounds. She was fifteen.”

Mr. Phillips’s face flushed a deeper red. “Good God. ”

Darcy continued, his voice faltering for the first time. “She has never been the same. She tries—but she carries it, always.”

His voice was low, heavy with disgust. “He has a habit of charming the vulnerable. Flattering the unguarded. And then using what he learns to ruin them.”

“Does Lydia know?”

“I doubt she even knows the man’s full name,” Darcy said bitterly. “And if she does, I doubt she understands the danger.”

Gardiner stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room, one hand tugging at the buttons of his coat, his face tight with worry and calculation.

“This is no longer just a scandal,” he said. “It’s a fuse.”

Darcy crossed his arms. “If Lydia’s absence is discovered, tongues will wag. If Wickham’s name is tied to it…if anyone recalls his prior connection to Pemberley…”

“And if anyone starts asking why you’re here,” Gardiner finished grimly, “or why Mary and Kitty are here, under assumed names, with a nobleman’s staff caring for them in secret... it will all unravel.”

Mr. Phillips sank into the nearest chair, his hands shaking. “My wife said it once…‘truth waits for no invitation.’ I thought she meant gossip. But now I see it’s prophecy.”

Darcy turned away. His throat burned with unspoken guilt. He stared into the dancing flames.

““I should have ended him then. I should have made it impossible for him to walk freely among decent people. But I was…ashamed,” he said quietly.  “I handled it privately. I paid him off. I kept my sister’s name from the scandal sheets, and in doing so, I let him go. Now Lydia pays the price for my silence.”

Edward looked up.

“I should’ve had him arrested…or dragged through every court in England if it meant preventing this.”

Gardiner crossed the room and placed a firm hand on Darcy’s shoulder.

“No one could have foreseen…”

Darcy said nothing for a long moment, then pulled away, going to the writing desk in the corner.

“I could have,” he snapped. “He joined the militia. I knew. I said nothing.”

He raked a hand through his hair, eyes hard with self-loathing. “And now another girl is lost. Or worse.” Silence fell.

Then Darcy moved with renewed purpose, opening the drawer of the desk and withdrawing ink, paper, and sealing wax.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Phillips asked.

“I’m writing to my cousin. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. He’s currently stationed in London, but if anyone can track Wickham across counties and silence this before it spreads, it’s him.”

He began writing swiftly, the scratch of the quill harsh against the paper.

Come to the cottage my father brought us in Wrotham Park. At once. We are facing a crisis tied to George Wickham. His past crimes may soon find root again—and the consequences this time may be irreversible. Tell no one, but your father. Travel alone if possible.

He paused, then added,

This involves a girl, I will explain everything upon your arrival.

He folded the letter, sealed it, and handed it to a footman with instructions for the fastest relay to London.

Outside, the rain thickened.

Inside the hunting lodge, men who had once lived in the shadows of other people’s choices began preparing for war—with the past, with the lies, and with the ruin Wickham might yet unleash.

Gardiner stared into the fire. His voice was quiet but unflinching.

“The past is burning through the walls of that house.”

Darcy’s reply was just as steady.

“Then we must make sure it doesn’t consume what’s left of the future.”

Ashes stirred in the hearth, glowing red. A storm was coming, and it bore his name.

Chapter Text

The rain had reached even London, tapping softly against the tall windows of the Matlock townhouse in Mayfair. The afternoon tea was laid out in quiet elegance: fine china, lemon cakes, and the muted hum of polite conversation. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam sat with his parents, the Earl and Countess of Matlock, discussing spring hunts and Parliamentary rumors when a footman entered with a letter bearing Darcy’s seal.

Richard opened it. His easy posture stiffened.

He read it once. Then again.

Without a word, he rose from the table.

His mother frowned. “Richard?”

He offered a tight bow. “Pardon me. I must speak to Father. Privately.”

Within minutes, the two men stood in the Earl’s study, its walls lined with military maps and hunting trophies. Richard handed over the letter without preamble. The Earl, silver-haired and steely-eyed, read it slowly.

“So, Wickham has struck again."

Richard nodded grimly. “He’s taken a girl…Fitz believes it’s serious, beyond scandalous. Dangerous.”

The Earl lowered the letter. “Is she...?”

“She’s young. Barely more than a child, if we consider his previous victims.” He hesitated. “Darcy asks me to come quietly. So Georgiana must  come north with you  to Derbyshire while we handle the matter.”

The Earl exhaled through his nose. “Yes, quite right. We cannot risk her exposure again. Not with this.”

Neither man noticed the door behind them, left ajar by an inattentive maid. Nor did they hear the soft footfalls of Georgiana Fitzwilliam, who had descended the stairs to return a forgotten embroidery needle—and paused at the sound of her name.

She listened to every word.

Her throat tightened. Her hands trembled around the letter she still carried in her pocket—her brother’s last, sent only a week ago. She had not understood then why his tone was so weary. So final.

But she understood now.

She opened the door wider.

“Uncle,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “You will not send me away.”

The men turned. Her pale dress stood in contrast to the dark-paneled room, her golden hair still plaited neatly down her back. She held the letter in both hands, like a shield.

“I know what this is about. I may not know every detail, but I know him …and I know my brother. His words... he was asking for help. And not just yours. Mine.”

The Earl opened his mouth. Colonel Fitzwilliam took a step toward her.

“Georgiana, this is no place…”

“I was the girl once,” she interrupted. “The frightened, foolish girl he nearly ruined. I will not hide while another suffers.”

Her eyes were bright now, not with tears, but resolve.

“You may be my guardians, but you are not my brother. And he needs me.”

Silence. A heartbeat.

The Earl looked at her with something like awe. He had not seen her like this since before Ramsgate—before her spirit had been dimmed by shame and silence. This was the girl they thought they had lost. And now, she burned.

He turned to Richard.

“She goes with you.”

Richard blinked. “But…”

“Guard her reputation with your life. But take her.”

She nodded once. No triumph. No drama. Just certainty.

Before nightfall, she had changed into her traveling attire—a dark pelisse and bonnet suitable for the roads. As Richard gave instructions to the coachman, she emerged from the front steps, the rain still falling in a drizzle.

At the carriage door, she paused.

“I will not hide,” she said quietly, “while another girl suffers because of him.”

She climbed inside without another word.

The carriage pulled away from Grosvenor Square, swallowed quickly by the shadows and wet streets of London. And Georgiana Darcy, once broken, rode toward the storm with her chin high.

It had taken three punishing days through rain and swollen roads to reach the small cottage. The carriage wheels had often sunk in mud, and their horses, though sturdy, arrived with foaming mouths and heaving chests. The spring storms showed no mercy. Cold water leaked in through the corners of the hood, soaking Georgiana’s cloak and the Colonel’s greatcoat alike.

Still, the sight of the chimney smoke curling from the modest rooftop felt like a beacon. A sign that they were not too late.

Richard helped his cousin down from the carriage, her gloved fingers tight on his wrist. She had barely spoken since they passed Meryton that morning, her silence a wall against fear. But as they approached the front door, her eyes lifted — and behind the veil of exhaustion, there was purpose.

Mr. Gardiner opened the door before they could knock. His face, though drawn, lit with restrained relief as he took them in.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam… and I assumed you must be Miss Darcy,” he greeted quickly, ushering them inside. “We’d begun to fear the roads had swallowed you.”

Richard nodded curtly, shaking rain from his coat. “We lost half a day near Hatfield to a fallen tree. I apologize for the delay.”

“You are just in time,” Mrs. Phillips added gently, emerging from the sitting room with a cloth still in her hands. “Mary has come down from fever, and Kitty is… recovering, though not without difficulty.”

Georgiana blinked against the warmth of the room, then met Mrs. Phillips’s eyes. “Please…take me to them, I want to meet them.”

“In a moment, my dear,” Gardiner interjected kindly. “You should have something warm or speak to your brother first. The girls are still asleep.”

Reluctantly, Georgiana allowed herself to be guided toward the fire.

Richard, meanwhile, remained near the door, surveying the small, overfull cottage with a soldier’s wariness. His gaze passed over the modest furnishings, the washcloths left to dry on the hearth… and then landed on a figure through the rain-blurred window.

Out in the kitchen garden, a man was bent slightly over a barrel, lifting it with muscular ease despite the slick ground. His sleeves were rolled high on forearms freckled and strong, hair dark with damp. His profile turned toward the house briefly—high cheekbones, a handsome, tired mouth, a smudge of dirt on the line of his throat.

Something sharp and unwelcome stirred in Richard.

He looked away at once.

Don’t be a fool.
Not now. Not ever again.

That way led to ruin — he had always known it. It was one of the reasons he'd joined the army so young, after all. Better to be among men in a place where admiration could be disguised as discipline. Where everything noble and clean was bound to honor and duty.

He swallowed once, forcibly.

Mrs. Phillips noticed the direction of his gaze and followed it with a knowing sort of hum. “That’s Mr. Brown… though he prefers to be called Thomas,” she said. “He is a stableman in Netherlfield. Not often indoors when there’s work to be done, no matter how many times I scold him.”

“Thomas,” Richard repeated slowly.

“Yes,” Mr. Gardiner added. “The very one who helped us fetch the girls out … he hasn't stopped moving since. He’s a difficult man to read, but what he’s done for those girls these past weeks cannot be overstated.”

Richard murmured something vague, nodding. But the air in his lungs had shifted. It was dangerous, how that single glimpse had struck something tender beneath all the storm-forged armor.

He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back.

This is no time for distraction. And certainly no time for foolish longings.

Yet the image of a fine man, covered in rain and mud, carrying the weight of the world without complaint, stayed with him, like a name carved faintly into the inside of his chest.

 Mr. Gardiner beckoned. “Come. We’ll discuss the next steps over something hot. Darcy will want you rested before you ride out again.”

Richard finally nodded and followed him, though not before glancing once more toward the window. Mr. Brown had disappeared back inside — but the lingering sensation of something unspoken remained.

And Richard could not help but feel it had only just begun.

The rain had not ceased for days, pooling in the hollows of the forest path and streaking the windows in slow, mournful trails. The fire in the hearth hissed as damp logs smoked and smoldered.

Mary awoke to it—not the warmth, but the cold it failed to conquer.

Her limbs were leaden beneath the quilt. Her breath, shallow and uneven. The edges of her fever had receded, but what remained was worse: awareness. And with awareness, the terrible, heavy return of memory.

Kitty sat curled in the corner chair with a book in her lap, her eyes tired but vigilant. Her voice was soft, threading verses from the Psalms into the hush of the room. But her sister, who once could recite chapter and line from memory, barely blinked at the words.

Mary tried to speak, but her throat rasped. She raised a trembling hand, palm upward, a plea without voice.

Kitty was at her side in a moment. “You’re awake again,” she whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from her sister’s brow. “I’ve been reading. You-you’ve been very ill, but it’s over now.”

Mary’s eyes darted to the spinet tucked in the corner of the room, half-covered by a shawl. Her gaze clung to it. Slowly, she tried to sit up. Kitty reached to steady her, but Mary pushed her hand aside with a faint shake of the head.

She turned toward the instrument, each movement stiff and brittle. Her fingers stretched out, hovered above the keys, then descended softly, cautiously.

A single note. Then a second. Then silence.

Her hand fell to her lap.

“I can’t,” she croaked.

Kitty’s mouth parted, but no words came.

“I can’t remember,” Mary whispered, eyes wide with dread. “I had all of it…every chord, every line, every word. They lived in me.”

Tears welled, but did not fall.

“They’re gone.”

Kitty sank to her knees before her, heart breaking at the sight of Mary’s vacant stare. “No, they’re not. They’re just resting. You’ll find them again.”

Mary shook her head slowly. “There’s something wrong with me. Inside. I feel…” Her hands curled into fists. “Rotten. Hollow.”

She began to weep then, not in gasps, but in silence. Her body trembled violently as though the storm outside had passed through her, leaving ruin.

At the door was Georgina, after having a long conversation, more likely a scolding session,  with her brother. She decided to introduce herself to the sisters, but finding them like that stirred her heart as never before, so she didn’t pause for greetings or courtesy. She dropped her still-wet cloak in the hall and entered the room.

Kitty turned in alarm. “She’s not ready for vis…”

But Georgiana was already moving, her eyes locked on Mary.

She crossed the room without hesitation, knelt before the trembling girl, and took her hand.

Mary flinched. But Georgiana held fast, firm and warm.

“I know what it feels like,” she said softly. “To be broken where no one sees. To forget who you were.”

Mary’s lips trembled.

“I lost my music too,” Georgiana whispered. “And I was certain it would never return. But it did. Piece by piece. So will yours.”

Mary looked at her through tears. “I don’t even know who I am now.”

Georgiana’s fingers tightened around hers. “You are still you. And you are not alone.”

The wind howled again outside, but in the small room, the storm had found no hold.

Only healing.

The carriage wheels slogged through mud thick as treacle, then halted before a squat, timbered house hunkered beneath a sagging sign — the paint peeling, the letters faded: The Swan & Crown. A lantern swung outside the door, its flame flickering like a dying eye. There was no welcome, no glow of hearthlight from within — only the low sound of laughter that scraped against the walls like fingernails.

Lydia peered through the rain-slicked window, her brow furrowed. “This is the inn?”

Wickham smiled — that smile that always seemed to part his lips too easily. “Aye. Finest this side of Leicester, I’m told. We can’t be too choosy, darling. Not with half the bloody countryside out to stop us tying the knot.”

He stepped out and offered her his hand. She hesitated only a second before taking it.

Inside, the air hit her like a slap. Warm, yes — but rank. Sweat, sour wine, cheap perfume, and something coppery beneath it all, like blood that had dried and never been cleaned. The low-ceilinged room was cloaked in red velvet and dim candlelight, but not even the dimness could hide the stains in the rug or the cracked mirrors.

Women moved like ghosts through the haze — painted faces, kohl eyes, rouged lips pulled into fixed smiles. Some were barely older than herself. One limped. Another had bruises along her neck like smudged fingerprints.

Lydia’s smile faltered. “Wickham…”

He slipped an arm about her waist, pulling her closer. “Don’t be such a goose. This place’s a treasure. They rent rooms by the hour, which means no one’s asking names. We’ll be safe.”

“But the locks,” she whispered. Every door they passed had multiple bolts on the outside — and worse, on the inside . Some ajar ones revealed rooms not unlike hers back home… except for the ropes looped through bedposts, the discarded corsets, the glint of metal restraints beside the pillows.

Wickham chuckled. “You’ve got the imagination of a bloody priest. Come on. We’ll sleep, leave at first light. Gretna Green’s a stone’s throw now.”

She tried to hold onto that — Gretna Green . Rings. Vows. She’d be Mrs. George Wickham, married before Jane, before Lizzy, before anyone. She’d win. She always won.

Still…

As they ascended the staircase, one of the girls passed them — a thin redhead in a threadbare chemise, a garter slipping down one thigh. She stopped at the top step. Her makeup was smeared. Her lip was split.

Her eyes met Lydia’s.

Pity. There it was, cold and unmistakable.

Lydia blinked, momentarily stunned. The girl opened her mouth — perhaps to warn her. But Wickham’s grip tightened on Lydia’s waist, possessive, firm. He murmured, “Keep walking,” low enough for only Lydia to hear, though the threat was unmistakable.

The girl turned away.

In their room —  the bed pushed against a mildewed wall — he closed the door and locked it behind them with a heavy click . Lydia stood trembling as he lit a single candle, its wax running like tears down the holder.

She tried to speak. “Georgie...I mean, do you think my father will...”

“Forget your father,” Wickham growled, turning. His eyes were sharp now, and his smile vanished. “He’s a cockroach in a cravat. He doesn’t give a damn about you.”

“But my father...”

“He’ll thank me for getting rid of you,” he snapped, yanking off his cravat. “Besides, we’re already halfway there. You want to be my wife, don’t you?”

“I… I do.”

“Then stop asking questions.”

He kissed her then — hard, cruel, nothing like the gentler press of lips he had used to win her over in Hertfordshire. There was no affection in it now — only possession, like claiming territory.

Somewhere beneath them, a woman screamed.

Not in pleasure.

Lydia’s breath caught. Wickham pulled her slowly toward the bed.

And outside the room, the girl with the pitying eyes whispered to no one, 
“She doesn’t know yet. But she will.”

Lydia followed him, hesitant. The strange scent of perfume, candle wax, and something else—sweat and rot—clung to the walls. The bed was too wide, the sheets too rumpled. She'd seen inns before. This was not an inn.

“Why… why are there bars on the windows?” she asked, her voice small.

Wickham smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “To keep out thieves. We’ve only a few hours before we move on.  The trip to Gretna Green isn’t that long from here, love.”

Her stomach clenched. “But the girls downstairs… they didn’t look like travelers.”

“They’re servants,” he lied smoothly. “Housemaids and the like. You think we’re the only ones running from something?”

She tried to believe him. She wanted to believe him. But her fingers clutched the edge of her shawl, and her feet shifted backward.

Then his smile changed.

It was no longer charming.

It was dark.

He stepped toward her.

And Lydia, for all her pride and petulance and daring, felt real fear for the first time.

“You said we were going to marry,” she whispered.

“Oh, we will,” he murmured. “In spirit.”

He reached for her. She tried to twist away. He caught her wrist.

“No one’s going to come for you,” he said against her ear. “No one will even know your name here.”

She struggled, but she was fourteen and small and tired. The rain had soaked through her shoes. Her voice caught in her throat. She cried out, and no one came. No one was meant to.

And in those moments that followed—frantic and awful—her mind snapped sideways.

It was as if she left her body. The ceiling cracked and peeled above her. The voices became muffled and distant. She was floating somewhere cold, far from the ache and the shame and the pain.

“I want my mama,” she whispered at some point, she wasn’t sure when. Maybe it was after. Maybe it was before.

She wasn’t sure when it stopped.

Only that the weight lifted.

And the door opened.

The older woman who ran the house came in first, her face unreadable but tight with fury. Two of the other women followed her. One clutched a cloth. The other carried water.

Lydia lay curled on the edge of the bed, trembling, silent.

“Dear God,” one of the girls said.

“She’s a child,” another murmured, rage boiling beneath her voice. “He said she was sixteen at least.”

Lydia didn’t answer.

She didn’t move until they touched her. Then she flinched, hard, as if struck.

The matron knelt slowly. “No one will hurt you again tonight, dove. You’re safe here…for now, but you ought to get used to it.”

A pause.

“What’s your name?”

Lydia’s lips moved.

“Lydia,” she whispered, voice broken, "Lydia Bennet. I’m… fourteen. I’ll be fifteen in May.”

The room went still. Even the dripping of rain outside seemed to pause.

The matron stood up slowly, eyes shadowed with something fierce.

“Get her clean,” she said. 

They nodded, and the door closed again.

And Lydia—Lydia Bennet, once the loudest girl in the parlour—stared at the flickering candlelight and said nothing at all.

The storm had gentled, but the sky remained a lid of grey, heavy and unmoved. In the parlour of the hunting lodge, the air was tight with something unsaid—until Mr. Gardiner and Mrs. Phillips entered, both grave.

Mary sat on the settee, swaddled in blankets, her pale hands folded tightly in her lap, coaxed downstairs by her sister. She hadn’t spoken since coming down the stairs. Beside her, Kitty sat tense, her fingers tangled together, her eyes flicking between the clock and the door as if something dreadful might burst through at any moment.

Mr. Gardiner stood by the fireplace, his mouth drawn in a grim line. Mrs. Phillips hovered nearby, her face pale and drawn, eyes flickering constantly toward the girls. Georgiana sat across from them with her brother by her side, straight-backed, her wet hair braided neatly down her shoulder. Fitzwilliam remained in the hallway, as though guarding the threshold.

Gardiner cleared his throat once, then again.

“We’ve received news,” he said finally. His voice was gentle, but edged with iron. “It concerns Lydia.”

Kitty blinked. “What sort of news?”

Mrs. Phillips stepped forward. Her voice trembled. “She’s gone, dear. Eloped.”

A thick pause.

Mary’s brows drew together in confusion, but Kitty’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “Gone? With whom?”

“With a man,” Gardiner said, glancing down at the hearth. “A militia officer.”

Kitty went very still. “What man?”

Mrs. Phillips wrung her hands. “A Lieutenant George Wickham.”

The name hit like a blow.

Kitty froze. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Wickham?” Kitty whispered. The name left her lips like a poison.

Mary whispered, “Kitty?”

The world tilted. The breath caught in Kitty’s lungs like a snare pulled tight. Wickham. Her mind yanked her backward—weeks back into the nightmarish dark of the barn the nig of their escape, the stink of ale and filth, the laughter, the grip on her wrist. She wasn’t sure, but that name was similar to something the soldiers said after Thomas arrived, but surely she should be mistaken.

“Wickham,” she echoed again. “What does he look like?”

Gardiner hesitated, but Georgiana spoke up, her voice like frost. “Tall. Well-featured. Dark blond hair. Smiles too easily.”

“And his eyes,” Kitty whispered. “Grey?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice like a blade.

Kitty took two trembling steps back. Her face drained of all colour.

“No,” she whispered. “No, it wasn’t…it can’t…”

Her hands went to her temples. “No, no, no, no…”

She let out a strangled cry and staggered sideways, knocking over a table. The teacups shattered on the floor.

Mary reached for her. “Kitty!”

But Kitty didn’t hear her. She was somewhere else—trapped.

“It was him,” she sobbed. “It was him! That night… with the soldiers…he dragged me…he tried!

Her scream was jagged, piercing.

Everyone in the room froze.

Georgiana stood at once, her face pale but steady. Mrs. Phillips gasped and covered her mouth.

Her knees gave way, and she crumpled to the floor. Her sobs came in great, heaving gasps, animal and raw. She clawed at her sleeves as if trying to rip the memory off her skin. “I didn’t…I didn’t know…it was him…he smiled…he laughed…he pressed me down into the mud…he…he…”

She couldn’t finish.

“I thought I could forget,” she choked. “I thought I was dirty, disgusting…thought it was my fault…I never told..I never said… to make things difficult.”

Mary was crying now, crawling toward her sister on shaking limbs, trying to reach her.

Gardiner turned away, visibly shaken. They suspected what had happened that night, still no one wanted to bring it up with the girl, fearing her reaction. But now everything was out.

Georgiana knelt slowly beside Kitty and placed her hands firmly on her shoulders.

“You are not dirty,” she said. Her voice didn’t tremble. “You are not to blame. That man is a predator. You survived him, Kitty. You survived.”

Kitty sobbed harder, clutching her arms. “He’s with Lydia. Oh God…he’s with Lydia…”

“Yes,” Georgiana whispered. “But we will find her. We will stop him.”

Kitty’s sobs slowed slightly, still wracked with deep, shuddering gasps. Mary reached out and wrapped an arm around her from behind, holding on as though anchoring them both to something real.

Georgiana shifted, now kneeling between them, pressing her hands gently over theirs. “As I said before…you are not alone. Not now. Not ever again.”

For a long moment, the room held only the sound of weeping and rain.

Then Fitzwilliam stepped inside. Quiet. Solid.

Darcy turned, his jaw clenched. “We hunt him down. We´ll start tomorrow.”

Kitty lifted her head slowly from Georgiana’s lap. Her face was blotchy, her hair a mess of tangles. But her eyes held something now—rage, and a flicker of hope.

“Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise me he’ll never do it again.”

Georgiana took her hand. “On my life.”

The house was quieter now, though the wind howled around the eaves like a beast in mourning.  Colonel Fitzwilliam shook the rain from his gloves as he stepped inside after taking a walk to calm himself, his uniform dark with damp yet again, his jaw tight with urgency.

Darcy was already there waiting for him, his tall frame silhouetted against the fire. The flames sputtered — slow to catch on the wet logs, but persistent, smoldering at the core. He had not changed out of his riding clothes, nor touched the tea that sat cooling beside him. His hand rested on the mantelpiece as if he were holding himself up by force of will alone.

Georgiana appeared behind them in the hallway, her hem dark with water, her hands red from drying them by the stove after helping Kitty to bed. Her eyes were wide and dry now — she had wept enough in the past, and there was no time for more. She looked between the two men and quietly approached.

Darcy turned at the sound of her footsteps and immediately softened. “You should rest,” he said. “You’ve had a day’s ride through hell.”

She shook her head. “I will stay with the girls. They need someone to listen to their pain.”

“Aye! They need you, Georgiana,” Fitzwilliam said softly, glancing toward the hallway. “And I am glad to know you’ll be here while we’re away.”

Georgiana nodded, folding her arms tightly against herself as if to keep something broken from spilling out. “Kitty woke screaming again. Mary barely speaks without crying. If they are to heal, they must not be left alone with their thoughts.”

Darcy stepped closer, his boots leaving damp tracks on the wooden floor. He placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “I will send word the moment we know more.”

She looked up at him with unwavering eyes. “Find her, William. Bring Lydia back… if she can be brought back at all.”

He nodded once, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

Richard moved to the table and unrolled a large, rain-spotted map. “He’ll travel northwest. By old coaching roads or smugglers’ trails. He knows we’ll follow, so he’ll take the back ways. We’ll start with the crossroads near Oakmere. If he’s trying to reach Scotland, he’ll have to pass there or risk the mountains. We could maybe rest for a few days in London, and ask around, He owes some money to people there. ”

Darcy joined him at the table. His hands, still gloved, smoothed the parchment.

“He’s done hiding,” Darcy said lowly. “He flaunts his sins now. That makes him reckless.”

“That makes him dangerous,” the Colonel replied grimly.

For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the struggling fire. Then, Darcy turned back to the hearth. The flames had begun to grow, fed not by dry timber but by the relentless persistence of heat and fury. Smoke curled upward like a warning.

His voice was low, but it carried through the stone chamber with quiet power.

“The fire of our past has caught flame,” he said. “We must burn it out — before it takes everything.”

Richard watched his cousin carefully — the hard set of his eyes, the way he did not tremble despite the storm behind the walls. He had never seen Darcy like this before: not cold, not unreadable — but forged, transformed. A blade newly sharpened.

The Colonel reached for his coat and sword. “Then let’s finish what he started, Fitz.”

The wind howled outside the hunting lodge, rattling the shutters like the ghosts of things unsaid. Darcy sat at the writing desk near the hearth, where the fire had dwindled to embers. The hour was edging toward midnight. Colonel and Georgie had long since retired, leaving Darcy alone with the weight of his thoughts and the letter he could no longer delay writing.

He uncapped the inkwell with measured hands, but they trembled slightly, betraying the storm within.

Lydia’s disappearance had shattered the fragile sequence they’d clung to. She was a child, gone into the jaws of the same predator who had almost destroyed Georgiana. Wickham had made this personal — again. Darcy had hoped to gather more information, to be methodical, to protect Mary and Kitty from further distress until they were stronger. He and Gardiner had agreed: the girls needed time, healing, certainty.

But time was no longer a luxury they possessed.

Lord William Wentworth, Earl of Stafford

Wortham Park, Hertfordshire

My Lord,

You will, I fear, find this letter both unexpected and uncomfortably urgent. Permit me to speak plainly, for the matter I must put before you admits no delicacy, and I must rely upon the discretion and honor you are well reputed for.

We have, as now I know, a common past rooted in the village of Meryton, and more precisely, in the household of Mr. Thomas Bennet of Longbourn. I have no doubt you severed ties with that place long ago, as did I intend to do, for reasons perhaps not dissimilar in their essence if not in circumstance. Yet it is precisely that old connection that brings me to write you now.

There are matters — personal, complex, and involving the welfare of several young women — that I believe pertain directly to you. I cannot speak further of them in this letter, not because they are unimportant, but because I deem it wrong to reduce their reality to words on paper. I would rather you hear of them in person, with the full weight of truth, and with all the dignity they are owed.

Until very recently, Mr. Edward Gardiner and I believed it best to withhold such revelations, preferring to wait until the young ladies in question had recovered their strength and we had gathered complete evidence. That was, perhaps, a mistake born of caution — for events have since shifted beyond our control.

A girl — one who has suffered now at the hands of the same man who once wronged my own sister — has gone missing. We fear the worst. In light of this new outrage, we can no longer proceed quietly.

I am asking for your presence at  the hunting lodge you so graciously had lend me, I might not be present once you arrive but i beg you had an open mind. I have no intention of coercion or drama, only truth and the hope of resolution. What you choose to do with what I must tell you will remain your decision.

But I believe it is time you came home.

Yours in urgency,
Fitzwilliam Darcy

Darcy folded the parchment with precision and sealed it with his signet. The wax hardened like cooling blood.

He stood, letter in hand, and walked it to the servant waiting outside the room. “Take this to the courier at first light. Spare no speed.”

The man nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

Darcy returned to the fire and stared into the coals. The truth was coming for them all now, and he had chosen to open the door.

He dipped the quill. Now there was no going back.

The rain had stopped at last, though the world outside still shimmered with its remnants — silvered puddles along the muddy lane, mist curling low around the pines that bordered the lodge. The morning was grey, the kind of light that made the heart feel fragile. Inside the small hunting lodge, Darcy moved quietly down the hall, boots muffled against the worn rugs. He stopped before the door to the smaller room where Mary had been resting.

He hesitated.

Part of him wanted to leave without disturbing her, to spare her the strain. But another, far louder part — the one that had watched her fever break and her fingers tremble when she reached for the clavier — could not leave without seeing her once more.

He knocked gently.

"Come in," came a voice — quieter than her usual tone, but lucid.

He stepped inside.

Mary was seated, wrapped in a shawl, while a book lay unopened in her lap, the same one he had given her back at Netherfield, she couldn’t read as her spectacles were broken beyond repair. Her cheeks were still too pale, but the bruises under her eyes had softened. She looked up when she saw him, and for a moment something passed between them — a stillness that hovered in the air like a held breath.

"You’re leaving," she said. It was not a question.

He gave a small nod. "Yes. We cannot afford to wait longer. Every hour matters now."

Mary’s gaze dropped to her hands. They were clenched together in her lap. Even if a part of her resented the girls for how she acted as if she was above everyone else, she knew deep down that Lydia was but a girl and that maybe she was trying to find in men the attention she was lacking. 

“And you will be the one to find her,” She mumbled.

Darcy swallowed. "Yes, I will try…We believe she is still within reach. But that is not all."

Her eyes lifted, searching his.

He stepped closer. "This... man. Wickham. He has left ruin in his wake wherever he goes. I should have stopped him long ago. Georgiana nearly..." He paused, jaw tightening. "I will not let another girl suffer from my failure."

Mary looked down again. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and she whispered, “You are not to blame for what others choose to do, even God in the scripture said so.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” He looked down, then up again, eyes dark and full of a strange, naked ache, “but I will not accept it. Not this time…I cannot bear to fail another girl. Especially not yours.”

There was a silence. The kind that pressed at the edges of a room.

Mary blinked. “Mine?”

“She’s still your sister in a way.”

The word sat between them — a reminder of pain and blood and secrets not yet spoken aloud.

Mary looked down at her lap. Her voice dropped, almost imperceptible. “You do not owe me anything.”

His head tilted. “I disagree.”

She hesitated, lips parting, “You pity me. That is all.”

He looked as if she had struck him.

“Is that what you believe?”

“I was weak. Injured. A burden. Of course, you were kind. What man of honour would not be?”

Darcy crossed the room slowly, deliberately. He knelt in front of her, not out of formality, but necessity. His hands rested on the armrest near hers. He did not touch her.

“Mary,” he said, voice raw. “You think I stayed because of duty. But I was afraid to go.”

Her brows knit, confused.

He breathed slowly. “When I first saw you in that carriage, I thought... she is going to die, and I will never forgive myself . But you lived. And every day since, I have woken up terrified that my care for you is more obvious than yours is welcome.”

Mary’s mouth parted in stunned silence.

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping. “I do not pity you. I admire you. Your mind, your resolve. Even your silences. But if what you want is distance... say the word.”

She opened her mouth — and then closed it.

Her throat tightened. “You speak as if I should believe any of that. But you... You are a gentleman. And I was thrown away.”

Darcy’s hands closed into fists against the settee.

“You are not something broken I mean to repair,” he said tightly. “You are someone I fear to deserve.”

The words hung heavy in the room. Her lips trembled.

“I don’t know how to believe that.”

“Then let me prove it... over time .”

She exhaled, shaky, as if something inside her cracked just a little. “What if it’s only gratitude? What if that’s all either of us feels?”

He went still.

That question haunts me,” he admitted. “But when I dream of you, it is not as someone I saved. It is as if someone I fear I will never be good enough for.”

Mary’s eyes filled, but no tears fell. Not yet.

And slowly she reached for his hand. Her fingers barely brushed his. Then curled inward.

He took them gently.

For one suspended moment, they sat like that — hand to hand, breath to breath, hearts racing behind ribs that ached with things unsaid.

“I will pray for your safety,” Mary murmured.

He moved a little closer. "And I will carry your prayers with me."

Her eyes met his again, shining now, unguarded. "I wish you didn’t have to go."

He allowed himself a breath, sharp and quiet. He reached forward then, almost without thought, and took her hand. Just one. His fingers brushed her wrist, lingered. Her skin was warm, trembling.

Their hands stayed joined longer than necessary.

His thumb gently traced over the small bones of her knuckles, and she did not pull away. She leaned forward a little, or perhaps he did, but the space between them had grown dangerously thin.

His voice dropped. “Mary…”

She looked up, startled by the way he said her name. “Yes?”

He leaned down, slowly, and their foreheads nearly touched — when suddenly—

Crash. Thud. Swearing.

The door burst open with an unceremonious bang.

Colonel Fitzwilliam stumbled into the entryway, cursing under his breath and flailing slightly as his boot caught the edge of the hall carpet. He very nearly fell flat on his face.

Darcy and Mary jerked apart like startled birds.

“Bloody carpets,” Fitzwilliam muttered, catching himself on the bannister. “I swear that thing moved…. I apologize! I thought this room was empty.”

He froze mid-sentence, blinking rapidly. His eyes were not on them, but on the window.

Through it, Thomas Brown— sleeves rolled, shirt damp from the stables — crossed the courtyard with a halter in one hand and a saddle blanket over his shoulder. His brow was furrowed, focused, and intent as he directed a stableboy to check the horses’ hooves.

Richard stared.

For far too long.

Then, catching himself, he coughed hard. “Right. Yes. The…horses. Ready. Good. Very good.”

He turned and fumbled back out of the hallway.

Darcy looked after him with an expression of amused disbelief.

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Did he just…?”

“I believe he did,” Darcy said dryly.

She stifled a smile.

He turned back to her, more serious now. “I must go. I will write if it takes us more time. And when I return…”

“When you return,” she echoed softly, “we shall speak properly.”

He bowed his head. "Be well, Mary."

As he turned and left, Mary touched her hand where his fingers had been and tried not to tremble from the echo of what might have been.

After some more planning, the cousins left before dawn, riding into a rain that did not relent — the storm behind them, and the greater one ahead.

Chapter Text

The wind stirred with uncommon violence, rustling the thinning trees that lined the edge of the wood surrounding the cottage. It had begun as an ordinary spring morning—grey, soft, with the promise of light—but by midday, the weather had turned. Clouds bunched like fists above the hills. The scent of rain lingered, sharp and bruised.

The carriage that arrived at the gate bore no crest, no escort, and little fanfare. The driver had been pressed into the task with haste and a promise of coin. He barely had time to dismount before the door opened, and a tall man in a long dark coat descended, his features drawn tight with the effort of long travel and restrained emotion.

Lord William Wentworth had not planned to visit this place again. Once, he had hunted these woods with his brother-in-law, laughing in a time so distant it felt borrowed. That had been before Margaret. Before everything.

Darcy’s letter had come late—too late, he thought—with few details but a single, jarring thread: a matter of importance tied to Meryton and Longbourn that required discretion and haste. The name Bennet leapt from the page like a buried weapon, slicing open old wounds. The mention of Margaret had not been there, but something in Darcy’s careful penmanship—so unlike his usual blunt reserve—told Wentworth the unthinkable might have reemerged from the ashes of the past.

He had ridden at dawn, refusing attendants, hungry only for answers.

Inside the lodge, the midday peace was shattered when a knock came at the door—three sharp, precise strikes.

Mr. Gardiner stood nearest and moved first, brows drawn. Mrs. Phillips, who had just stepped into the hallway from the parlour with a fresh tray of tea, paused mid-step, porcelain rattling softly in her hands.

The door opened, and Gardiner’s eyes widened.

“My Lord,” he said, stiffening with the instinct of a man who had once done business with gentry but never expected to greet them in borrowed homes.

Lord Wentworth gave a single nod, eyes scanning the threshold like a soldier clearing a battlefield. “Mr. Gardiner,” he said curtly. “I recall your dealings in Leeds. You managed your uncle’s shipping contracts.”

“And you refused to hire them,” Gardiner replied with a strained civility. “You said they lacked the proper weight for Northern stone.”

That broke something, perhaps civility, perhaps memory. Wentworth stepped inside uninvited.

“I received a letter. From Fitzwilliam Darcy,” he said. “I’ve reason to believe there is a matter here concerning the Bennet family. I want answers.”

Mrs. Phillips, who had set down the tray with shaking hands, paled. Gardiner did not explain, only turned to her. “Take the girls upstairs,” he said. “Quietly.”

“Now?” she whispered. “We were just...”

“Now.”

She vanished toward the stairs, skirts gathered, nearly tripping on the landing as she called for Mary and Kitty. The sisters, halfway through buttered toast and a rare moment of peace, stood without protest at the urgency in her voice.

In the parlour, Wentworth remained standing, his hands folded behind him like a judge in his court.

“You are keeping something from me,” he said, voice a low warning. “Darcy’s letter named no names but hinted at scandal. You brought me here with silence and secrecy. Why?”

“Because it is not my secret to tell,” Gardiner replied. “But it is one I have come to share, and one I think you have long deserved to know.”

Wentworth’s expression did not soften. His face was worn, the lines more like etchings now than creases. “I lost my wife sixteen years ago,” he said. “Margaret. And my daughter, and my other child, was stillborn...”

“That is not the truth.”

The room pulsed with silence.

Before Gardiner could say more, the kitchen door creaked open. Thomas Brown entered the room, wiping his hands on a towel, unaware of the tension until he looked up and froze.

Wentworth’s breath caught. His eyes locked onto the young man, and all colour drained from his face.

For a moment, he did not see Thomas. He saw Thomas Bennet, the man he had once loathed, the man who had been forbidden from marrying his sister, the man who had stood in a rain-soaked street in London and dared to offer condolences with wine on his breath and guilt in his eyes.

“You,” Wentworth said, nearly stumbling back. “You look...God in heaven...”

Gardiner stepped forward quickly, steadying him. “That is not Bennet,” he said gently. “That is Thomas Brown. A groom. You are safe here, my Lord.”

But the image had stirred something volatile. Wentworth pushed away from Gardiner’s hand.

“What is this?” he demanded, voice rising. “Is this a farce? A staged play to torment me? I buried my wife. I buried her. Do not toy with a man’s grief.”

Gardiner exchanged a glance with Mr. Phillips, who stood awkwardly in the corner, now realizing his resemblance had caused damage.

“You did not bury your family,” Gardiner said quietly. “You buried what Mr. Bennet allowed you to bury. Your wife died, but both of your children are still alive.”

Wentworth stared.

“Your daughters, my lord. Mary and Catherine.”

Silence dropped like a blade.

Gardiner pulled a thorn portrait from his coat and handed it to him.

It was small, well-worn. But he could recognize it from memory; it was Margaret, younger than she had been when she died, but unmistakably her.

Wentworth’s knees buckled.

They caught him before he hit the ground.

The light had shifted by the time he stirred again—softer now, bleeding gold into the folds of the heavy drapes. Rain had come and gone, quiet as breath against the windows, and the fire burned low but steady in the hearth.

Lord Wentworth lay in the guest bed, still as stone beneath fine sheets that had not been touched in months. His cravat had been loosened, boots removed, coat shrugged off with the reverence of tending to a wounded man. His skin was pale, and his temples were damp with sweat. The physician summoned from the estate had yet to arrive, but Georgiana and Mrs. Phillips had taken swift control, coaxing him back from the brink with smelling salts and warm compresses. No one spoke of the tears he had shed as they eased him into bed. No one dared.

He had not spoken since collapsing.

Now, as his eyes fluttered open, his gaze fixed on the flickering fire. For a long while, he said nothing.

“She had my eyes, even if not the colour.”

Georgiana, seated at his bedside, looked up sharply. “Sir?”

“My daughter,” he murmured. “She had my eyes.”

A silence followed. Mrs. Phillips, folding linens near the wardrobe, gave a small, wordless sigh—relief, perhaps, that he had found his voice.

“They are not far,” Georgiana said gently. “They’re being kept upstairs until you are ready. Mary and Kitty.” She hesitated. “Miss Mary bears the stronger resemblance. To your wife, and you.”

He closed his eyes again, not in sleep but in pain. “She was supposed to be safe,” he whispered. “She promised me she would be safe.”

Downstairs, Mr. Gardiner stood at the window of the drawing room, arms crossed tightly over his chest, watching the last drops of rain bead against the glass. The storm had passed, but the house remained hushed, as if waiting for a final verdict.

Mr. Phillips entered with two glasses of brandy and passed one over. Neither man drank immediately.

“I’m still trying to understand how he kept the lie so long,” Phillips said after a pause. “Why did no one question it? How did  we not question it?”

“Because it was Thomas Bennet,” Gardiner replied grimly. “And who would suspect such deceit from a man with no ambition, no title, and no obvious gain? He played the part of the disappointed recluse so well that we all took it for truth.”

“You believe it was jealousy then? Not madness?”

Gardiner considered that. “A kind of madness, perhaps, but rooted in envy. He could not have Lady Anne, so he married below himself. He despised Lord Wentworth for taking Margaret without his permission, and I suspect he never forgave her for it. So, in punishing Wentworth, he made victims of them all.”

Phillips drank slowly. “And those girls…?”

“They were hidden in plain sight,” Gardiner said, “raised as his daughters. Marginalized, starved of affection. Mary was taught to be invisible. Kitty...” He stopped. His jaw tightened. “Kitty is still only sixteen. She barely speaks of it. But there are signs...scars. On both of them.”

“I had no idea,” Phillips murmured, looking down. “We thought Mr. Bennet was… eccentric, perhaps unkind. But this…”

“He let Lord Wentworth believe his wife and daughters were dead. For sixteen years. And if Mary hadn’t finally broken...” His voice wavered. “If she hadn’t tried to run, they might still be trapped there.”

Silence again. Only the crackle of the hearth remained between them.

Upstairs, Lord Wentworth sat upright now, supported by pillows. His hands trembled faintly in his lap. He looked not like a nobleman, nor a patriarch, but a man stripped to the core—every veneer of pride and rank scorched away by grief.

Mrs. Phillips brought a cup of tea to his bedside. He took it absently but did not drink.

“I dreamed of her,” he said hoarsely. “Often. Of Margaret. I thought it was guilt, thinking I should have stayed home, insisted on better care. But it was more than that. Something always felt… unfinished.”

Georgiana sat beside him, her hand on the coverlet. “You were lied to, my Lord. Deliberately and cruelly. But you are not alone in this.”

“I am their father,” he said, voice thickening. “And I failed them.”

“No,” she said, soft but firm. “You did not know. But now that you do, you can do something.”

He turned to her, and for the first time, there were tears in his eyes again—not of shock, but of sorrow.

“I will,” he vowed. “I will see justice done. Longbourn will answer for what it did to them. To my daughters. And to Margaret.”

He paused, trembling. “I only pray they will allow me the chance to make amends.”

Outside, the wind began to pick up again, rustling the trees. But inside the cottage, something had shifted. The truth, once buried beneath years of silence, had broken the surface—and nothing, now, could return it to its grave.

It was mid-afternoon before Mary and Kitty stirred again after their interrupted breakfast, the ache of exhaustion soothed only slightly by hours of deep, dreamless sleep. A soft knock roused them fully, and it was Mrs. Gardiner who entered with a smile more tender than they had ever seen.

“My dears,” she said gently, smoothing a lock of hair from Kitty’s forehead, “there is someone here who wishes to meet you.”

Mary sat up at once, heart racing. “Who?”

But before Mrs. Gardiner could answer, the door behind her creaked wider, and a tall man entered with hesitant steps. His hair, though peppered with grey, was thick and elegantly styled, and his bearing noble. His eyes—deep blue and searching—landed on Mary, then Kitty. He stopped short, one hand gripping the doorframe as if to steady himself.

Kitty sat up slowly, her eyes narrowing, trying to place the stranger. Mary stood without knowing she had, hands clutching the sides of her dress.

He stared. No— took them in, as if drinking in every feature.

"Mary?" he said, his voice hoarse, almost reverent. "Catherine?"

The room swayed.

A thousand memories, questions, and aching absences roared forward in Mary’s mind. A missing space in her life suddenly took form and shape. This man—this stranger with familiar eyes—he looked at her like she mattered.

Kitty blinked hard, breath caught in her throat.

Lord Wentworth stepped forward, slowly, as if afraid he might frighten them off.

“I...” he tried again, voice shaking. “I prayed for this moment, but I never dared to believe…”

He stopped, and his hands trembled.

“You look just like her,” he murmured. “Like Margaret.”

“You’re him.” Mary’s breath caught. “ You must be Lord Wentworth?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. Though I do not expect you to call me that. Not now.”

Kitty sat upright, pressing into Mary’s side. “Are you… Our father?”

He stepped forward, kneeling before them both, his voice breaking. “Yes. And I have failed you both more than I can ever forgive myself for. I believed you were dead. I buried your mother, thinking she had taken you with her. And yet here you are...alive, and grown, and brave beyond measure.”

Mary felt something break in her chest. The wall she had built to keep the pain away—brick by brick over the years—crumbled. Her lips parted, but no words came.

She looked into his eyes and for a long moment, she said nothing. 

“We thought we had no one. But you came,” she whispered.

Lord Wentworth reached for her hand with trembling fingers. “I swear to you now, both of you, I will never leave you again. Whatever has been taken from you, I will see restored. You are my daughters, my family...my heart.”

Kitty burst into quiet tears, and Mary folded her arms around her, pulling her close. Slowly, she extended one hand to the man kneeling before them. “We do not know you yet,” she said softly, “but we are willing to try.”

He took her hand with reverence and pressed it to his lips. “That is more than I deserve. And I will spend the rest of my life earning your trust.”

A sob tore from Kitty’s throat.

She stumbled to her feet and crossed the space in two steps, falling into his arms, her voice ragged. “You came… You found us…”

He caught her and clutched her tight, pressing his forehead to hers. “Never again. Never again will I let you be taken from me.”

Mary moved slowly toward them, her feet unsure. She wanted to resist—wanted to stay cold and composed. But as she saw Kitty’s fingers clutching his coat and heard the brokenness in his voice, a truth rooted itself in her chest: this man loved them.

And he always had.

She knelt beside him, tears burning her eyes.

His arms opened for her without hesitation. The embrace, when it came, was unlike anything she had ever known—warmth, strength, a shelter she had never dared to dream existed.

“I missed you every day,” he murmured into her hair. “Even when I believed you were gone.”

Mary shook with silent sobs, her fingers digging into his sleeve.

“Was she beautiful or kind?” Kitty whispered.

“The most amazing woman I’ve ever known,” he said. “And she lives again in you both.”

They stayed there, the three of them huddled together, no longer strangers, but as something broken being slowly put back together.

As the wind outside howled and the scent of roasting venison filled the lodge, the drawing room buzzed with a sense of quiet purpose. Mr. and Mrs. Phillips sat near the fire, and Kitty nestled beside them with Georgiana. Mary, still pale but calm, sat with Lord Wentworth, his posture both protective and humbled.

It was Mr. Gardiner who finally voiced what all had been thinking.

“This hunting lodge has served its purpose, but it is not fit for a convalescence, nor the beginning of a new chapter.”

Lord Wentworth nodded. “I agree. Wortham Park is ready. I had hoped to open its doors under better circumstances, but perhaps this is right...perhaps it must begin with healing.” 

He added, “It will offer safety, privacy, and everything the girls need to recover. And,” he glanced at Mary, “it is close enough to London for the necessary inquiries and protections to be made.”

Mrs. Phillips looked at Mary and Kitty, her expression full of maternal warmth. “It is a large house. Will you be comfortable there?”

Mary exchanged a glance with Kitty, who gave a shy nod. “We are not used to comfort,” Mary said softly. “But perhaps it is time to learn.”

And so the decision was made.

Preparations began at once. Servants were dispatched to air out the rooms at Worthwam Park, to prepare hot baths, fires in every hearth, and fresh linens. It would take a day’s travel, and a second carriage would be sent to ensure the girls did not endure discomfort.

As the conversation carried on, Lord Wentworth’s gaze fell on his daughters again. He had found them at last. And now, together, they would begin anew.

The room was dim, painted in cracked velvet and smoke-stained lace. The scent of cheap rose oil clung to everything—the walls, the sheets, the air Lydia breathed. She no longer flinched at the sounds from beyond the thin walls: the muffled groans, the laughter, the barked orders, the slaps. It was all part of the rhythm now, a lullaby of ruin.

Lydia sat cross-legged on the narrow cot, fingers picking absently at a loose thread on the hem of her shift. Her hands bore the fading marks of restraint—red welts turned yellow and green—but they no longer stung. Her ribs ached, and her cheek was still swollen from the last time she’d fought back.

She didn’t fight anymore.

With her hands folded tightly in her lap to keep from trembling, she waited for her client. Her knuckles were red. The girl in the corner—Alice? Annie?—had taught her to fold them like that. “It hides the shaking,” she had said, her voice far too calm.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs.

Heavy ones.

Her stomach turned.

The bolt on the door scraped back with a metal shriek, and he entered. A coarse man. Middle-aged. Red-faced. His boots mud-caked and worn, the collar of his shirt damp with sweat. She could smell the ale on him before he spoke.

He didn’t look at her right away.

Just dropped coins on the small wooden table.

Lydia stood slowly. Her feet bare, the floor cold. The rough edge of the blanket scraped her knees.

He turned.

Their eyes met for a moment, and she went away.

Not bodily. Not visibly. But inside, she vanished.

Her face remained blank and pliant, her movements practiced. She was obedient, just as they’d told her to be. Quick to yield. Easy to forget. That’s what made it easier.

She could hear him talking—words she did not absorb, compliments thick with condescension, a low laugh. Her hands moved because they were meant to. Her lips parted because that’s what was expected.

But her soul—It had retreated to a locked corridor of memory.

She was in the orchard behind Longbourn, the one no one ever weeded, lying on her back and squinting up at the clouds. Lizzy was humming a hymn under her breath as she read. Jane was plaiting wildflowers into her hair. The sun was warm on Lydia’s cheeks, and for a moment, she had felt beautiful.

But the hands were on her now.

Touching.

Taking.

And she was no longer in the orchard. She was on a cot that smelled of other bodies and sour linen.

Inside, she screamed. Her fingers dug into the edge of the mattress.

She focused on the crack in the wall, the little place where the plaster peeled and revealed the dark grain of the wood beneath. She counted her breaths, made herself into a doll, a shell.

It wouldn’t last long. It never did.

The man grunted something—something cruel, but almost playful—and she flinched. A tear slid from her temple into her hair.

He didn’t notice.

Her mind clung to fragments. Mary’s soft voice. Kitty’s giggle. Elizabeth scolded her gently for stealing her ribbon. Jane was brushing her hair in long, quiet strokes.

She would forget them, too. If this went on.

She knew that was the true horror.

She could bear the touch, the invasion, the ache in her bones. But not the forgetting. Not the moment, she wouldn’t remember what it meant to be loved.

When it was over, he left without a word. The door shut behind him with a thud, and the bolt slid back into place.

Lydia lay there, eyes open, lips parted.

She blinked once, twice.

Tears slipped down her cheeks. Real ones, and for the first time in days—or weeks, she didn’t know—she let herself feel it.

The pain. The shame. The loss.

Her fists clenched.

“I’m still here,” she whispered, but the room stayed silent.

After some hours, there was a soft knock. Then the door creaked open, and Mira stepped in.

Mira was barely seventeen, though the brothel years aged her like dog seasons. Her hair was dark, and she wore a dressing gown with a tear at the sleeve and a tired expression that always softened when she looked at Lydia.

“You didn’t eat again,” Mira said gently. She set down a chipped bowl of soup and sat on the edge of the cot, smoothing her skirts beneath her. “They’ll say you’re trying to make yourself sick.”

“I’m not hungry,” Lydia replied, voice barely a whisper.

Mira didn’t press. She reached for the girl’s hair and began combing her fingers through the tangled curls. Lydia leaned into her, letting her eyes close. For a moment, it almost felt like being small again, like those faraway mornings at Longbourn when Jane would quietly detangle her hair by the hearth.

“Do you remember when you  first arrived?” Mira asked quietly.

Lydia gave the smallest of nods.

“Your dress was torn. You kept looking at the door like someone would come back.”

“I thought he would,” Lydia murmured.

Mira’s hand stilled in her hair.

“He won’t.”

Lydia said nothing.

Mira sighed and shifted, her voice rougher now, edged with bitter truth. “He took the coin, you know. Said you were already spoiled, so what’s the harm? He laughed when he left.”

The silence stretched.

She only nodded once, her face unreadable. Then, wordlessly, she curled against Mira’s side and lay her head on the older girl’s lap.

Mira wrapped an arm around her and held her there.

Above them, footsteps echoed across the floorboards, heavy and fast.

But for now, the room remained still. Lydia breathed, shallow and slow, eyes open but not seeing. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible at all.

“I think I’m dead, Mira.”

Mira pressed a kiss to her brow.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

Rain had followed them for three days now, and the roads were little better than mud-streaked veins across a sick land. Darcy sat with his arms crossed, jaw clenched, boots caked in filth. Besides him, Colonel Fitzwilliam studied a folded paper, his brow furrowed.

“This man in Banbury... Greaves. One of Wickham’s old gambling partners. Might know where he offloaded her,” the colonel muttered. “If he’s still breathing.”

Darcy didn’t respond. His eyes were hollowed from sleepless nights, his gloves stiff from drying blood, not his own, but from hauling a drunken informant out of a tavern two nights prior, after the man tried to flee with Darcy’s coin.

They had already visited five towns. Oxford. Bicester. Towcester. Daventry. Banbury.

Each place whispered the same refrain: Too late. Wrong girl. Wrong face. Try elsewhere.

But one name kept returning. Greaves.

They found him in a dim back alley behind the Golden Hind, a gaming den tucked behind a butcher’s shop.

Greaves was a wide-shouldered brute with yellowed teeth and a scar splitting one eyebrow. He wore a hat even in the rain and carried a switchblade tucked behind his belt. He sneered when he saw Fitzwilliam dismount.

“Didn’t think the army let you ponce about in red coats anymore,” he drawled.

Fitzwilliam didn’t reply. He stepped into the alley, cracking his knuckles. “We’re looking for a girl. Almost fifteen. Brown hair. Taken by George Wickham seventeen days ago.”

Greaves laughed. “You’ll have to be more specific, soldier. That man’s sold more girls than he’s slept with.”

“Lydia Bennet. Where did he take her?” Darcy stepped forward.

Greaves spat on the cobblestones. “Don’t know the name. Don’t care. But he did pass through two weeks ago. Said he had something special... and filthy rich friends to impress. Said she’d bring in coin even after she was broken in.”

Fitzwilliam surged forward. “Where?”

Greaves shrugged. “He was heading east. It might be Leicester. It might be Derby. Or maybe he tossed her to the rats for all I...”

The colonel punched him square in the face.

Greaves staggered, roaring, and lunged with his blade.

Darcy shoved Fitzwilliam aside just as the knife slashed the air. With a sickening crunch, Darcy slammed Greaves into the alley wall, forearm pressed to the man’s throat.

“Speak again,” Darcy said, voice like gravel, “and I will break your jaw.”

Greaves coughed. “She was sold. East of Daventry. A woman in Leicester runs a place for ‘broken girls.’ That’s all I know. That’s all...”

Darcy dropped him.

He crumpled into the gutter.

Fitzwilliam wiped his lip. “He’ll live.”

“Barely,” Darcy muttered.

They returned to their horses in silence, the rain turning sleet now, and neither spoke for a long while as they rode toward the next town.

The early spring sun hovered behind a veil of cloud, turning the landscape a flat shade of pewter. Colonel Fitzwilliam rode with easy grace, his posture relaxed, though his expression bore the tension of too little sleep and too many unpleasant suspicions. Darcy, more rigid in the saddle, kept his gaze on the road ahead, the reins taut in his gloved hands.

They had been riding in companionable silence for several miles when the Colonel finally spoke.

"Tell me, Darcy," Fitzwilliam said, his voice casual, "what is it you make of Mr. Brown?"

Darcy turned slightly, brow furrowed. "Thomas? I find him capable. Intelligent. Useful, certainly. Loyal."

The Colonel nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, yes. All of that is plain enough. He’s done more for those girls than half the men of Meryton combined, and with no expectation of recompense. But I was wondering more..." He trailed off, his voice lowering, the hint of a smirk forming beneath his mustache. "...about his tastes ."

Darcy’s brows lifted. “Tastes?”

"You know," the Colonel said lightly, eyes fixed innocently ahead. “Whether he prefers the company of hunting dogs to hunting wives. Or whether he has, perhaps, an eye more for fine tailoring than for fine ladies."

Darcy blinked, startled. “You mean to ask...”

“I mean to ask,” the Colonel said, voice hushed but tinged with amusement, “whether our Mr. Brown is more inclined to... cultivate friendships of the Greek variety.”

Darcy let out a bark of laughter so sudden and unguarded that his horse sidestepped, startled. He tugged the reins to steady the beast, but the mirth still danced in his eyes. “Richard, if I fall and break my neck for laughing at your ridiculous euphemisms, I shall haunt you.”

“I’ll take the risk,” the Colonel replied, grinning. “But come, do you know? Is he...?”

Darcy shook his head, his smile lingering. “If I did, it would not be my secret to tell. And I doubt he would appreciate being discussed like a prized gelding at auction.”

“Certainly not,” Fitzwilliam agreed cheerfully. “But you must admit, there is a... certain composure about him. His manner. His regard.”

“His regard?”

“Well, he looks at you as though he’s measuring your boots, not your character.”

Darcy gave him a dry look. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re bored.”

“True,” the Colonel sighed. “But I have to entertain myself somehow on this bleak road to the underworld. And speculating about handsome, mysterious footmen-turned-freedom-fighters is more engaging than counting sheep.”

Darcy laughed again, more quietly this time. “He’s more than that. Much more.”

The Colonel nodded, all levity fading for a moment. “That, I believe.”

A beat passed in silence before Fitzwilliam added, tone lighter again, “But you must admit, if he were a friend of Achilles, it would explain his lack of interest in the fairer sex. I mean, even Miss Kitty, despite being barely out of the schoolroom, is rather pretty.”

Darcy gave a tight shrug. “Perhaps he has other priorities. Some men do.”

Fitzwilliam raised a brow but let it lie. “You are always a vault, cousin.”

“Better a vault than a sieve,” Darcy said, reining in his horse as the spires of Leicester came into view. “Now, save your gossiping tongue for the innkeeper. We have more work ahead.”

Fitzwilliam smirked. “Indeed. Though if Thomas does take to me, do you suppose I should be flattered or concerned?”

Darcy smothered a smile. “Perhaps neither. But I’d advise against borrowing his waistcoats.”

“And here I thought I looked dashing in green velvet,” the Colonel sighed.

They rode on, laughter trailing behind them as the grim purpose of their journey began to gather again around their shoulders.

The room reeked of spilled brandy and bitterness. A single lamp flickered on the mantle, casting long shadows over the faded wallpaper and dust-streaked windows. Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed. The house was no longer quiet—it held its breath, tense and waiting.

Mr. Bennet sat slouched in his armchair, glass dangling loosely from his hand, eyes bloodshot and distant. The bottle at his feet was nearly empty. The fire had long gone out, but he had not stirred to stoke it. He hadn’t left that chair for hours.

Mrs. Bennet hovered at the edge of the room, wringing her hands, her face blotched with tears.

“Thomas, please,” she whispered, voice cracking. “It’s been over a fortnight. The child is gone. We must—someone must go after her—”

“Silence.” His voice cut like a whip. “I’ve heard enough of this.”

She stepped forward, desperate now. “You’re her father! What if she’s... what if she’s ruined? Or dead? Or sold!”

The crack of his palm across her cheek silenced her.

Mrs. Bennet reeled back with a gasp, catching herself against the wall. Her breath came in ragged sobs as she pressed trembling fingers to her face.

Jane and Elizabeth, drawn by the raised voices, burst into the room.

“Mama!” Jane cried, rushing to her mother’s side.

Elizabeth froze.

Mr. Bennet turned toward them, swaying as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “And here come the other harpies. Did you come to lecture me, too? Blame me for your sister’s wildness?”

“Stop this,” Elizabeth said, low and steady. “This is your doing.”

His eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” she replied, voice eerily calm. “You neglected her. You abandoned them all. You mocked. You drank...and now, when the consequence arrives, you strike the only woman who dared mourn them aloud. What a coward you are.”

His expression twisted.

Before Jane could cry out, before Mrs. Bennet could raise a hand—

His strike landed. It wasn’t hard enough to bruise, but the sharp, humiliating slap of it echoed through the house like a shot.

Elizabeth didn’t flinch. Her head turned with the blow, and then she straightened slowly, her face pale, her cheek blooming red.

She didn’t speak.

She only stared.

And in that silence, something broke.

Not just in her, but in him.

Because her eyes, wide and glassy, held nothing of the daughter who once hung on his every word. No clever remarks, no scorn. Just... absence.

She saw him now. Not as the witty father who once praised her essays or pointed out constellations. Not the man who quoted philosophers and smirked at society’s follies. That man had never existed — or if he had, he was long dead.

What stood before her was a ghost draped in sarcasm and soaked in regret.

Jane’s hands were shaking as she helped their mother up. Mrs. Bennet sobbed quietly, but no one tried to console her.

Elizabeth said nothing.

She turned and walked out of the room.

Behind her, Mr. Bennet sank back into his chair with a grunt, reaching for the bottle and missing it by an inch.

The slam of the front door still echoed faintly upstairs when the sharp clatter of carriage wheels broke through the quiet dusk. Hill, startled and pale, hesitated at the parlour window before retreating to the entrance hall with stiff composure.

A moment later, Mr. Collins stepped into the house, dripping with the indignity of rain and self-importance.

“My dear relations!” he called out, tugging off his gloves. “I trust I do not intrude upon the domestic peace?”

No one answered.

Mrs. Bennet bustled forward after a beat too long, her cheeks blotchy, hair askew. She forced a simpering smile onto her lips.

“Mr. Collins! How sudden, how delightful. We had no notion you were coming early.”

He bowed stiffly. “Lady Catherine insisted I pay my respects as soon as it was possible. Family obligations, you know. Duty and blood. The Christian foundation of society.”

Mr. Bennet emerged from the study, a half-empty glass in hand, the smell of brandy clinging to his coat. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Collins,” he said curtly. “You’ve arrived.”

The parson blinked. “Yes, yes indeed. How fortunate that I should find the family intact. Though I must say, I had hoped to see all my charming cousins tonight. Tell me, where are Miss Mary, Miss Catherine, and... of course, Miss Lydia?”

The room fell utterly still.

Elizabeth, seated stiffly by the fireplace, kept her gaze on the hearth. Jane, perched beside her, reached to gently grasp her hand.

Mrs. Bennet coughed loudly. “They are... they are in London! Yes, visiting our dear relations, the Gardiners. Such a spontaneous thing, you know. A little change of air. Girls will be girls.”

Mr. Bennet took a long drink.

Mr. Collins frowned. “In London? All three? At once? How... unexpected.”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Bennet tittered, a note too high. “They’ll be back soon enough. But come, come, you must be tired. We were just about to sit down to dinner.”

Jane rose. “I’ll see to the table.”

Elizabeth did not move.

As the family shuffled awkwardly into the dining room, the mood became an oppressive fog. Mr. Collins, ever oblivious to nuance, prattled on about the moral virtue of female modesty and Lady Catherine’s views on soup courses. Mr. Bennet chewed in silence. Mrs. Bennet kept darting her eyes toward the stairs, as if expecting Lydia to burst through laughing and undo the lie they’d just told.

Elizabeth could barely eat.

Halfway through the meal, Mr. Collins asked again, “Are you quite certain the young ladies can not shorten their visit in town?”

The sound of Mr. Bennet’s fork clattering against the plate startled everyone.

“I think,” he said coolly, rising to his feet, “that I shall retire.”

He left without a word more.

Mrs. Bennet gave a shrill laugh. “My nerves!... He’s not himself lately.”

Mr. Collins blinked and nodded. “Yes. Well. I shall pray for his health.”

Dinner resumed in awkward snatches of cutlery on china and murmured attempts at conversation.

Elizabeth rose the moment the meal was over, her heart pounding, skin flushed with a shame she couldn’t explain... not for the slap, not for her father’s drinking, not even for the lies, but for the years of willful blindness.

Jane touched her arm. “Lizzy...”

But she had already turned away, only to be dragged by their mother, forced to entertain their unexpected visitor.

The drawing room was unusually stiff that night, the fire burning low, the windows closed tight against a chill spring breeze. Elizabeth sat at the embroidery frame beside Jane, her fingers motionless on the linen. Jane stitched quietly, her eyes shadowed. Neither spoke.

Then the door opened.

Mr. Collins entered with the air of a man arriving at court, hands clasped behind his back, chin lifted as if awaiting applause.

“My dear cousins,” he said, “what a pleasure to find you both at leisure. I had hoped to secure a private audience. It seems providence favours me yet again.”

Elizabeth bristled but said nothing. Jane offered a smile, polite and tired.

“Please,” Mr. Collins said, drawing a chair too close to Jane, “do not trouble yourselves. I bring no imposition... only my admiration and a few observations, I hope you’ll receive in the spirit they are offered.”

Jane paused in her stitching.

He continued, eyes sweeping from Jane to Elizabeth. “It has come to my attention, through your mother’s helpful intimations, that Miss Bennet... Jane... has attracted the attention of Mr. Bingley. A man of means, though perhaps lacking the refinement of true station. Nonetheless, I extend my warmest congratulations on your apparent conquest.”

Jane blinked. “It is not a conquest, Mr. Collins.”

“Of course,” he said, unhearing. “Of course. But it does place your younger sisters in a… more complicated position. The natural order of marriage arrangements must be respected. A delicate matter for any family, and one I feel especially bound to address given my future inheritance.”

Elizabeth straightened, eyes narrowing.

Mr. Collins turned now to her. “Cousin Elizabeth, you are... how shall I say this... a woman of spirit. I commend that. A dangerous trait in most females, but when tempered by a strong masculine influence, such as my own, it might be made into something admirable. You could make a fine wife, I believe. Perhaps not as universally agreeable as Miss Bennet, but...”

“I beg your pardon?” Elizabeth’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Mr. Collins blinked. “Oh, I meant no insult, of course. Only that with Miss Bennet so obviously spoken for, and your sister Mary unfortunately…absent, one must consider his options pragmatically.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “Mary is not a contingency plan.”

“Indeed not,” Collins said quickly. “She is entirely if what your mother says is true. But you, Miss Elizabeth, still retain some, though waning, appeal. And with my generous connections, particularly with Lady Catherine, I could offer a very secure future. Your prospects, I must say, have not improved under current circumstances.”

Elizabeth rose slowly from her seat. Her voice was soft. “You are not here to comfort us, Mr. Collins. You are here to survey what remains, and to seize it.”

“My dear...”

She stepped toward him. “I would sooner live alone in the streets than suffer your protection.”

Jane set down her needlework and stood beside her sister, her face pale, eyes flinty. “Mr. Collins, I believe you’ve said quite enough.”

He sputtered. “You mistake my intentions. I came only out of familial duty.”

“Then go,” Elizabeth said. “And do not speak of duty again until you know what it means.”

Collins looked between them, face red with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment. “I shall... return... later, when tempers have cooled,” he mumbled, and made his exit in graceless haste.

When the door shut, Elizabeth exhaled. She looked at Jane.

Jane, still trembling, whispered, “I don’t know how much more of this I can bear.”

Lizzy took her hand and squeezed it. “Neither do I.”

After everyone had retired to sleep, the house lay bruised in silence. No footfalls echoed in the corridors, no creaking floorboards, no whispered quarrels. Even the wind outside had died, as though mourning with the house it once played through.

Elizabeth climbed the stairs alone, lantern in hand. The light trembled with each step, casting dancing shadows that seemed to shrink from her presence. She did not know where she was going—only that her body carried her upward, away from the shattered evening, away from the echo of her father’s hand.

She found the attic door.

It groaned as it opened, stiff with disuse.

The air inside was stale with dust and long-faded perfumes, that mingled with something colder—neglect. A faint chill kissed her ankles as she stepped in, and the lantern’s light spilled across a small room at the far end.

Mary and Kitty’s room.

It was exactly as they had left it.

Two narrow beds, side by side beneath the sloping ceiling. The patchwork quilts were thin and fraying at the edges, one corner folded neatly, the other half-kicked off, as if Kitty had stirred in her sleep and no one had ever tucked it back in.

On top of Mary’s pillow, Elizabeth’s fingers brushed against something stiff and brittle. She drew out a yellowed sheet of foolscap, its edges gnawed by mice. A child’s careful hand had drawn five stick figures beneath the words My Family—but the father’s face had been scratched out with such force that the paper had torn. The ink was smudged, as if by tears.

Beside the bed, their dresses hung like ghosts on crooked pegs. Dull colours, hems let down more than once, stitches pulling at the seams. A pair of cracked leather shoes sat beneath one bed, soles worn nearly through. The smallest bookshelf leaned askew, its contents dampened by time—children’s readers, prayer books, a single volume of Latin poetry that Mary must have hoarded like a treasure.

And there—by the window—sat a limp rag doll missing an eye. Elizabeth had given it to Kitty on her seventh birthday.

A sharp sob caught in her throat.

She fell to her knees beside the bed.

Her lantern clattered to the floor, its light casting long, trembling lines over the low ceiling beams and cracked plaster walls.

Her breath came in gasps, not gentle tears but something rawer—wounds reopening after too long sealed shut.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “God, I’m so sorry.”

Her voice broke. She pressed her hands to her face, but the shame could not be scrubbed away.

“I should have known. I should have seen...” She let out a bitter laugh that dissolved into another sob. “I was reading books and reciting poetry while they were suffering. Right here. In this house.”

A creak sounded behind her, but no one came. The attic remained still. The house was not listening.

Elizabeth crawled forward and curled up against Mary’s old pillow, her arms wrapped around it like a child’s. The scent was long gone, but the memory pressed warm against her cheek.

“I failed you,” she said into the silence. “I failed all of you. And now Lydia…”

She could not finish.

There were no more words. Just the sound of her breath and the wild rhythm of her heart.

Minutes passed—or hours.

Then she sat up, slow and shaking.

The tears had not dried, but something in her spine straightened, something ancient and fierce. She looked around the room again, taking it in not as a mourner, but as a witness.

The threadbare dresses.

The cracked shoes.

The forgotten books.

This was not just grief.

This was evidence.

“I will make it right,” she whispered. “I will .”

She stood, steadied herself on the bedframe, and reached for the lantern.

And then, very quietly, she closed the attic door behind her.

It was well past midnight. The coaching inn outside Leicester was nearly silent, save for the wind pressing at the windows and the occasional creak of the floorboards above. The fire in the hearth had burned low, coals glowing red beneath a bed of ash.

Darcy sat alone, his shoulders hunched, a glass of brandy untouched in his hand. He stared into the embers as if they might offer answers. Or forgiveness.

Footsteps approached—measured, firm.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

Darcy didn’t look up. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Fitzwilliam crossed the room and poured himself a drink, his back to Darcy. “Neither could you.”

The silence between them stretched long. Only the soft hiss of burning wood filled it.

“Let’s stop playing at polite brotherhood for a moment, shall we?” Richard asked.

Darcy raised a brow but said nothing.

“I need to ask you something, and I want the truth... without your damned shields.”

 “Go on.” He tensed 

The colonel stepped closer, resting a hand on the mantel, the flicker of firelight catching in his eyes. “Is this only guilt... or something more? Do you truly care for her? Or is she simply your redemption?”

Darcy inhaled sharply.

The room was suddenly smaller, the shadows more intimate.

“I need to know,” Fitzwilliam continued, his voice quieter now, but no less cutting. “Because I saw what he did to her. And I see what you are doing to yourself.”

Darcy set the glass down.

His hands were trembling.

“I visited Longbourn,” he said slowly, “because I was horrified. Because I failed to see what he was capable of. Because I thought I could fix it.”

“Is that what she is to you?” Fitzwilliam snapped. “Something to fix?”

“No,” Darcy said, voice low. “At least—not anymore.”

Fitzwilliam didn’t speak.

Darcy looked up, and in the dim light his face was stark—his eyes hollowed by sleepless nights and a thousand unanswered questions.

“Guilt brought me there,” he admitted. “But I stayed because I began to feel something deeper. Something... I did not expect.”

“You’re not a boy, Darcy. This isn’t just a fancy.”

“I know what it is,” Darcy said, almost desperately. “It terrifies me.”

The colonel's expression shifted, the sharpness in his face softening. “Then say it.”

Darcy looked down at his hands.

“When I see her…” he whispered, “I see pain. Strength. Rage. Music. Silence. All at once. I see everything I failed to protect. And everything I still might.”

He exhaled shakily.

“I cannot stop myself... even if I tried. It’s no longer about guilt, Richard. It’s needed. It's Mary. It has always been her since our eyes crossed paths. I just...” He broke off, voice cracking. “I didn’t know it then.”

Fitzwilliam sat across from him, the weight of his cousin’s confession heavy in the quiet.

“And if she cannot love you in return?” he asked softly.

“I will still stay,” Darcy said. “Because I want her to be safe. Even if she never forgives me.”

The colonel studied him for a long time, then nodded once.

“Good,” he said simply.

Darcy looked at him in surprise.

Fitzwilliam raised his glass. “Because if you’d said otherwise, I’d have knocked you flat.”

Darcy managed a breath of laughter, barely, but it broke the tension between them.

They sat there a while longer, saying nothing more, the fire burning low between them as night deepened and the first hint of grey crept into the edges of the sky.

And in that silence, something shifted.

Not absolution.

But the truth.

And for now, it was enough.