#netherfield

“Miss Bennet, I cannot fail to observe you are distressed and I should like to assist in any way within my ability. I am your servant, ma’am,” he said. It was clumsy, he knew that as he heard the words uttered, too formal, too easily misconstrued or waved away, but it was what he had said and he must wait for her response.

“You are kind, Mr. Darcy, but there is nothing you can do,” she replied, her voice low, her fine dark eyes downcast. He had not seen her so pale before and the hand she raised to dab at her tears trembled.

“Perhaps you are mistaken,” he essayed.

“My sister is ill and you are not a physician. Even a physician will say there is nothing he can do, it is God’s will to decide and she did not even want to come here, not like this. It was all Mama’s foolishness and now Jane is insensible, burning up with a fever, she does not even know me and for what?” she said. 

“You must rest, you are over-wrought,” Darcy said, a peculiar ache in his throat as he spoke. Miss Bennet had said more than she knew but what was most salient was her sister’s failing health, far beyond the skill of even the most affectionate and diligent sister to nurse.

“I cannot. Who else will look after her? I cannot let strangers nurse her, she is the best of us, the best person I know, so good and sweet—she calls for me when I am right there beside her, her voice most piteous, she thinks I have abandoned her, and she can barely swallow a sip of water or broth, and I cannot lose her, I cannot—” she broke off, breathless, all her strength seeming to desert her. In the instant before she would collapse, he took hold of her arm and brought her to rest against him.

“Elizabeth, it will be all right,” he said, startling them both with his use of her Christian name more even than his gentle embrace; any gentleman would keep a lady from falling to the floor in a dead faint, but to address her so was the intimacy of a close relative, a father or a brother or a husband. He could not regret it, not when he saw her reaction, felt a surge of vitality in her weakening form and noticed the ruddy flush across her cheeks. “You will tell me the name of the best physician in the county and I shall send for him, Elizabeth. Whoever you want conveyed from your home to Netherfield I will have brought over by day’s end. You must not make yourself ill nursing her, you will not help her that way.”

“Sir, I am grateful, but I cannot, it is not proper—” she said.

Later, much later, he would recall that she had spoken so. He’d felt her begin to pull away from him and he had tightened his hold, bringing a hand up to rest against his chest.

“She is your dearest sister and I will do whatever I can to help you, Elizabeth,” he said and that was when the door opened for Charles and Caroline Bingley to witness the tableaux, Miss Elizabeth Bennet compromised in every way, her name on his lips very clearly audible given Miss Bingley’s gasp of horror and Charles’s look of disappointment, a slight shake of his head he would apologize for in the days to come.

“Pon rep, Darcy, you must explain yourself,” Charles said as sternly as he was capable of sounding. Darcy was reminded Charles also had sisters he felt responsible for and for all his congenial nature, was strict when it came to matters of honor and hospitality.

“Miss Elizabeth has done me the very great honor of agreeing to become my wife,” Darcy said. Elizabeth’s lips parted as if she would speak and then she pressed them together. “I shall obtain a special license after I send for a physician for Miss Elizabeth’s sister, whose fever is growing worse.”

“She’s that ill?” Charles asked. Darcy would have ordinarily made a point of expecting felicitations, but given that he had announced a wedding without making an offer and Elizabeth’s own anxiety about her sister, propriety could go hang.

“She’s in a bad way,” Elizabeth said softly. “I’ve never seen her so sick—”

“You must know the best physician in the neighborhood, Miss Elizabeth,” Charles interrupted. “Tell me his name and where to find him and I’ll fetch him myself.”

“I shall ride to Longbourn, speak with your father and bring your mother back with me, Elizabeth,” Darcy said. He must impress upon both Bingleys that he and Elizabeth were affianced, must undertake to render their engagement as unremarkable, the product of a brief courtship rather than a rakish compromise.

“Make sure she brings Hill with her,” Elizabeth said.

“You and Miss Elizabeth Bennet?” Caroline said, as if she were coming out of a dream, having been deaf to all conversation that had followed his declaration. “But you said she was barely tol—”

“Excuse me, Miss Bingley. You don’t appear to be yourself, perhaps a rest or some tea, in your room,” Darcy said.

“I will go back to sit with Jane,” Elizabeth said.

“Do not overtax yourself,” Darcy said, pitching his voice to be heard solely by her.

“Do not worry about me, Mr. Darcy,” she replied.

“Fitzwilliam,” he said. 

Your fingers, delicate and restless, played with the laces of your gown, as if seeking to untangle the weight of both joy and melancholy that enveloped you. Throughout your life, you had often been informed that this very sensitivity—this exquisite responsiveness to the beauty around you—was a liability. It rendered you vulnerable, laid bare to the world’s harshness. Your mother had frequently chastised you for it; your companions had teased you; and even the society pages, in which your family sometimes featured, alluded to your “delicate sensibilities.” Yet, how could you so easily alter your nature? How could one harden a heart that was fashioned to feel so deeply?

Even yet, you perceived this sensitivity as a gift. You were attuned to the subtlest shifts in countenance, catching the gentlest inflections in tone, and at times, it seemed as though you could decipher hearts through the briefest exchanges of glances. Though this heightened perception brought its own trials—many deemed you overly sensitive, prone to fervent emotion—you had gradually learned that such sensitivity might be a strength, albeit a quiet one.

The room whirled in a kaleidoscope of colors and laughter, yet your gaze was inexorably drawn to a solitary figure in the dimmest corner. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy stood apart from the merriment, his brow contemplative as he surveyed the assembly. His dark, penetrating gaze roved over the room, seemingly detached yet unmistakably watchful.

It was nearly impossible to overlook him throughout the evening, for his presence bore an undeniable weight, stirring emotions within you that you would scarcely confess to another. Each time you caught sight of him, your heart fluttered, your breath quickened, and a warm blush bloomed upon your cheeks, betraying the depths of feeling you endeavored to conceal. There was an ethereal quality about him, a bearing that combined pride with a silent yearning, and tonight, the shadows that surrounded him appeared less forbidding and more inviting.

A mixture of curiosity and trepidation fluttered within your heart. You had overheard whispered accounts of Mr. Darcy—tales of his aloofness and unyielding pride. Yet, beneath every account of disdain, you sensed a complexity that hinted at a soul wrestling with his own sensitivity.

“Would you care for a dance, Miss Y/L/N?” A familiar, cheerful voice broke through your reverie. It was Mr. Bingley, his warm smile and outstretched hand a welcome distraction. You accepted his invitation, though your gaze lingered on Mr. Darcy, who appeared both intrigued and reserved.

As you twirled across the floor, laughter echoed around you, yet the world felt faintly distant. Your thoughts remained entangled in Mr. Darcy’s presence, swirling like the fabric of your gown

When the dance concluded, you excused yourself from the vibrant room. Constrained by the jangling energy around you, you slipped into a quieter nook of the manor. Here, the air was still, and the shadows seemed intimate rather than isolating. You leaned against the windowsill, relishing the cool air against your flushed cheeks.

“Miss Y/L/N,” a deep voice, rich and resonant, emerged from the doorway, startling you. You turned to find Mr. Darcy, his tall figure imposing yet regal. He approached with a gravity that both intrigued and unnerved you, his earnest gaze disarming.

“Mr. Darcy,” you replied softly, your voice trembling slightly beneath the weight of his scrutiny. You curtsied, your heart fluttering like the ribbons entwined in your hair.

"Forgive my intrusion,” he said, his tone low and measured. “I find myself in need of a moment’s reprieve from the festivities.”

“Indeed,” you replied softly, wishing he could see the heart behind your words. “I too prefer quieter moments, where the laughter seems to echo rather than drown out contemplation.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the lively sounds of the ball fading into a distant hum. You sensed a hesitancy in him, an uncertainty that only made you more attuned to the flickers of emotion in his expression. He glanced away briefly, as though collecting his thoughts, and when he spoke again, there was a sincerity in his tone that caught you off guard.

“So it is with sentiment that you exist," he began, his gaze searching yours as though grappling with the right words, “I have… noticed in you a sensitivity, a kindness, that I do not often see in others.”

Your cheeks warmed under his attention, the delicate blush deepening at his words. “I… I have been told it is my weakness, Mr. Darcy,” you murmured, evading your gaze to avoid the intensity in his.

His dark gaze pierced the veil of propriety. “If it is a weakness, Miss Y/L/N, then it is one I find myself quite… affected by.” He paused, his words lingering in the air. “I believe sensitivity, in your case, is not a liability. It is…” He hesitated, his voice lower to a tone almost reverent. “It is a strength. A rare strength.”

At his pronouncement, your heart swelled, a gentle fluttering sensation filling your chest. “That is too kind of you, Mr. Darcy,” you managed, glancing back up to meet his gaze. “Though I fear many would not agree with you. Sensitivity is, in the view of society, rather inconvenient.”

He held your gaze with an intensity that seemed to dissolve the distance between you. “Then society does not deserve such a gift,” he replied, his voice laced with a quiet conviction that stirred something deep within you. “To care deeply, to feel so keenly… it is not a burden. It is a virtue.”

A smile played at the corners of your lips, a soft, genuine expression that seemed to reach into the depths of your heart. “I never thought to hear you speak so, Mr. Darcy,” you admitted, your voice scarcely a whisper.

He exhaled softly, his eyes unwavering. “Perhaps… perhaps I find myself saying things I did not know resided within me,” he said, stepping a fraction closer. “I fear I have often allowed my own sensitivity to manifest as pride and disdain, hiding behind a façade of strength.”

“Perhaps there is strength in vulnerability,” you suggested gently, an empathetic pulse boldly urging you onward.

In that moment, a connection blossomed that transcended the words shared between you. It enveloped you both like the warmth of a gentle sunrise, fostering a sense of understanding that needed no further elucidation. Mr. Darcy had seen you—not as others had, but with an awareness that acknowledged both your strength and your fragility.

With a soft smile, you began to share the beauty you discerned in colors and emotions—the way a sunrise could evoke hope, or how a simple gesture could convey volumes. As you spoke, you noticed how the gravity that adorned Mr. Darcy seemed to dissipate, leaving only a man hungry for connection, wary yet intrigued by the spirit you displayed.

As the night unfolded, you found solace not only in your own thoughts but in Mr. Darcy’s burgeoning interest. He listened with an intensity that both unnerved and fascinated you, his dark brows furrowed and lips tugged into a faint smile. Moments of warmth blossomed between you, weaving a connection that tethered the softness of your heart to the fortress of his.

When the night drew to a close, you stood along the grand staircase, illuminated by flickering candlelight and the murmurs of departing guests. He regarded you with a newfound softness, as if the unspoken echoes of your conversation lingered in the air.

“You have opened my eyes,” he said, his tone rich with sincerity. “To perceive the world with such tenderness is a gift I wish to understand more fully.”

A blush crept to your cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. Perhaps we can learn of sensitivity together.”

A rare, almost imperceptible smile broke through the walls that surrounded him, illuminating his stern features. “I would welcome that very much.”

As you exchanged promises of future conversations, a connection tethered you in that fleeting moment—one bound not by societal expectations but by the power of the sensitivity you both shared, a bridge spanning between a gentle heart and a complex soul.