The Eldest | F. Darcy

Epilogue: The Last Dance

Darcy had made up his mind.

They would leave Netherfield.

The decision settled over him with an air of finality, as unyielding as it was painful. He had resolved upon it the moment he heard Mrs. Bennet prattle on about her matchmaking schemes, her voice grating with unrestrained self-congratulation. It astonished him, truly, how someone as natural and graceful as Adele could have been born to such a woman.

His gaze drifted, unbidden, to the lady in question. Seated beside him—thanks to Bingley's last-minute arrangement—Adele was observing Miss Bingley with an expression of quiet amusement, while the latter glared at her with all the venom she could muster. The contrast between the two women was almost comical.

But his heart was far from light.

If he left the next day, he might never see Adele again. The very thought sent a sharp pang through his chest. He would lose her good graces, perhaps even alienate her entirely. Yet, what choice did he have? He had spent the evening carefully observing Jane, seeking any sign of true affection for Bingley. And while she was sweet and agreeable as ever, he saw no undeniable proof of love. Could it be that she was simply too reserved? That her mother had pushed her into an attachment she did not truly feel?

He did not know.

And Adele had said nothing to assure him otherwise.

Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, continued her boasting, entirely oblivious to the discomfort of those around her. "Oh, Mr. Bingley," she trilled, "such a grand match for my Jane! I daresay she shall be mistress of Netherfield in no time—if not something grander still! And of course, when one daughter is married so well, the rest are sure to follow—"

Adele stiffened beside him.

Darcy saw it in the slight rigidity of her posture, the way her fingers curled just so against the tablecloth. Though her expression remained composed, he knew—knew in the way one knows the habits of a dear companion—that she was livid.

As the supper concluded and the guests moved toward the parlor, Adele slipped away to the balcony, thinking no one had noticed.

But Darcy had.

She stood by the railing, her eyes closed, breathing deeply as though willing the crisp night air to carry away her frustrations. The moon bathed her in silver light, making her glow with an almost ethereal radiance.

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself this evening," Darcy murmured as he approached.

She exhaled sharply but did not turn to face him. "Every enjoyment must come to an end."

"Your mother?"

She sighed again. "I do not know why she is so consumed by marriage and wealth. It is exasperating. And worse, she is sabotaging Jane's happiness."

Darcy raised a brow. "Meaning?"

"Jane loves Bingley," Adele declared, her voice firmer now. "Truly loves him. I have never seen her so radiant, so... changed. But Jane is not like Lydia or even Lizzie. She does not wear her emotions so openly. Father says she takes after me in that regard." She let out a small, humorless laugh. "Even I cannot always tell what she is feeling. And that worries me. People mistake her shyness for indifference. What if Charles does the same? What if he walks away and takes her happiness with him?"

Darcy was stunned into silence.

It was not that he did not believe Adele's words—indeed, they rang with an earnestness he could not ignore—but rather that he had been so thoroughly convinced of the opposite mere moments ago.

He had spent the evening scrutinizing Jane, searching for any sign of deep attachment, and had found none. Yet Adele—who knew her sister far better than he—spoke with unwavering certainty.

His mind reeled, struggling to reconcile what he had believed with what he now knew to be true. He had seen love before. Georgiana had loved Wickham—or believed she had, in her youthful innocence. She had spoken of him with breathless excitement, her eyes alight with a joy that had made Darcy's heart ache when he had learned the truth of the man she adored.

And now, recalling the way Jane's eyes followed Bingley, the quiet way she listened to him, the flush on her cheeks when he spoke—it was all so clear.

Darcy, who prided himself on his perception, had been blind.

Worse still, he had resolved to interfere. To pull Bingley away. To rob Jane of her happiness out of misguided certainty.

He exhaled, deeply unsettled.

Adele turned then, her gaze sharp, knowing. "You do not agree with me." It was not a question.

Darcy met her eyes but said nothing.

Silence stretched between them, heavy, unrelenting. And for the first time, Adele found it unbearable.

She sighed. "Dance with me, Fitzwilliam. Just this once."

His head snapped toward her in surprise.

Mary was at the pianoforte, her fingers poised to begin the next song.

Darcy hesitated only a moment before nodding. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

It was a waltz.

"I know you plan to leave tomorrow," Adele whispered as they moved together, their steps effortless, instinctual. "I only wish you would not."

Darcy sighed. "Charles is... fickle, when it comes to matters of the heart," he admitted, though there was less conviction in his voice than before. "He fancies himself in love too easily. A passing infatuation, and in a week's time, he scarcely remembers the woman's name. I only wish to protect your sister."

"Perhaps you do not see the situation as clearly as you believe," Adele murmured, holding his gaze.

The song played on, yet neither paid it much mind.

They continued dancing long after the music had stopped, their own heartbeats carrying the rhythm now.

Darcy memorized every detail—how the candlelight reflected in her eyes, the warmth of her hand in his, the way her lips parted ever so slightly as though she, too, were struggling to find breath.

He did not know when they would meet again.

And so he held her just a little closer.

And Adele let him.