Chapter Seven

Fall 1811

A fter dinner, Mr. Darcy listened politely to a duet performed by Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst; he then excused himself, saying he had correspondence to attend to, and he retreated to the library. It was not much of a library, there being no more than thirty volumes sitting on dusty shelves, but it possessed the inestimable virtue of being quiet. He sank into a plush armchair and leaned his head back; eyes closed, he soon drifted off.

A soft sound had him opening his eyes again. He blinked a few times, and saw the young lady he had met earlier. She was taking a book from a shelf. "Miss Elizabeth?" he said.

"Oh!" she said. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy. I had hoped to take a volume without waking you."

She pushed the book back onto its shelf, curtsied and walked to the door.

"Please do not go," he heard himself saying.

She turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder, eyes enquiring.

"If you need a book, I beg that you do not let me prevent you from fulfilling your errand."

"Thank you," she said, softly. "I would like to find something to read to my sister."

"You will not find much here, I fear," he said.

"I think tenants keep taking books away; the library grows ever sparser." She returned to the shelf and took the book down.

"Will you sit with me?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"Well – if you wish it, then certainly." She sounded surprised, but took the chair opposite his, her book resting in her lap.

And suddenly he, the most private of gentlemen, found himself telling Miss Elizabeth – a perfect stranger! – all about Georgiana, his young, innocent sister, and Wickham, the lying scoundrel who had seduced her into a marriage in Scotland. As his tale wound on, he found that she was, in fact, not just a perfect stranger, but the perfect stranger, for she listened intently, deeply, and as he spoke, her expressive eyes reflected his own anguish, until at the end of his tale, he found that his hands were in hers and her face was a mirror of his pain. And in that perfect sympathy, touching those soft hands, his heart found a moment of peace.

He gloried in it! Even if this respite was to last just that moment, it was enough; he would live on the memory of it forever. To be free of anguish for even one minute…!

But they were interrupted, inevitably and noisily, by the entrance of Miss Bingley. Her eyes narrowed at finding them together in such a manner. "Mr. Darcy!" she exclaimed. "I hardly expected to find you in such company." Her tone was steely.

Mr. Darcy stared at the intruder for a moment, unable at first to comprehend her presence or her words. Then he realised the impropriety of the situation. He was sitting with a young lady, holding her hands! He dropped her hands as if he had been burnt by them, and stammered out an apology.

But Miss Elizabeth shook her head at him, refuting the need for his apology. Without a word, she rose, curtsied, and left the room. Miss Bingley huffed and left as well, slamming the library door behind her.

Mr. Darcy sat back, still basking in the glow of that unexpected connection. Who was she, this girl who had the power, simply by listening to him, to alleviate – even for a minute – his anguish?

He considered what he knew of her. He recalled how she had spoken in the drawing room, with nothing but praise for her friends and neighbours. She had remained silent during dinner, as Miss Bingley had given her guest no opportunity to speak, and Miss Elizabeth clearly was not someone who would put herself forward. You do not know her, he told himself sternly, but he could not believe that. Somehow, he did know her.

He mocked himself. So many beautiful, rich, well-bred ladies in Town had thrown themselves at him, but the one young lady for whom he had felt anything was this daughter of an unknown country gentleman. It was everything absurd. But he could not argue with one simple fact: the few minutes he had spent with her in the library had been a balm to his troubled soul. He had felt the first glimmer of tranquility since the horror that he had endured at Gretna Green.

What harm could it do to spend just a few more hours – or even just minutes! – in her company?

***

Back in Jane's room, Elizabeth could not get Mr. Darcy's story out of her mind. The poor man! His pain was so all-encompassing, his grief so new, that it had been impossible for her not to be affected by what he had confided to her. What he had suffered, what he still suffered!

It was unfortunate that Miss Bingley had found them together in the library, hand-in-hand. Happily, there was no chance of her spreading rumours, as she clearly had set her cap for Mr. Darcy – Mr. Bingley's artless comment at the assembly had been confirmed by her own observations here at Netherfield – and Miss Bingley would not want even a hint of a compromising situation in the library to be bandied about. Unless, of course, it was Miss Bingley who had been compromised!

"Lizzy?"

Elizabeth turned to see Jane's eyes open. "You are awake? How do you feel?" She went to Jane's side and touched her forehead. "You seem a little cooler."

"Thirsty," Jane whispered.

"Can you manage some broth, do you think?"

Jane nodded.

Elizabeth pulled the bell cord. When Martha arrived, Elizabeth asked if it would be possible to get broth for Jane. Martha smiled and said that she had already alerted Cook to the fact that broth would soon be required, and she would bring it up directly.