14. Fourteen

Fourteen

E lizabeth sat on the edge of her bed, smoothing the folds of the nightgown Sir Thomas’s housekeeper had so generously offered for her use. She and Jane had chosen to share a room, for it seemed that Netherfield was home to more people than either of them had realized, and they feared somehow displacing someone who would have kept silent out of politeness. As it was, Elizabeth was not altogether certain that someone had not already given up rooms for their comfort.

Jane leaned back against the pillows, still flushed from the warmth of the fire. The room Sir Thomas had provided them with was snug and quiet, the muffled sounds of the house winding down for the night and an occasional baby cry filtering faintly through the walls.

A soft knock came at the door, and at Elizabeth’s welcome, a young maid stepped inside, her apron slightly askew and her cap slipping over her brow. She bobbed a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, miss. I’m Clara. Sir Thomas said I’d be looking after you, and asked me to see if you needed anything before settling in.”

“That is very thoughtful of him,” Jane answered. “I think we have all we need, thank you.”

Elizabeth hesitated. The evening had left her restless, her thoughts tumbling over everything that had been said at dinner. She glanced toward the bedside table, conspicuously bare, and an idea struck. “Actually, I wonder if there is something to read. A book, perhaps? I often read before bed. Is there anything you might recommend?”

Clara shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the floor. “The library is well stocked, miss, but I…” She trailed off, twisting her fingers in her apron.

Elizabeth’s breath caught as understanding dawned. Like enough, this girl had never learned how to read. She quickly rose, shaking her head. “Oh, no, please, there is no need to trouble yourself. I can fetch it myself.”

The maid looked up, startled. “I could show you the way, miss, but…” She hesitated again. “It is just that most of the household is abed by now, so you might find the corridors a bit dark.”

“Is it improper for me to go alone?”

“Oh, no, miss! Sir Thomas always says the library is for any guest who wishes to use it, night or day.”

Jane, who had been silent until now, sat forward with a faintly conspiratorial air. “Do go, Lizzy. A little walk might do you good. You were so pensive at dinner.”

Elizabeth shot her sister a suspicious look. “And you? Will you simply sit here, perfectly content, while I wander about the house?”

“I am perfectly content, yes. But you are not, and I shall not rest knowing you are lying awake all night brooding.”

“I do not brood.”

“You most certainly do. Fetch your book, Lizzy. Perhaps Mr. Darcy was right—you do have a sharp understanding of what appeals to others, but you will never convince me you are not a brooder.”

Elizabeth groaned, grabbing her shawl. “Why bring Mr. Darcy into the conversation? But very well—I shall fetch a book to avoid further accusations. That is all.”

Jane’s eyes twinkled. “Of course, Lizzy. That is all.”

The maid led Elizabeth down the hall, her lantern casting warm circles of light against the walls. At the entrance to the library, she curtsied again. “Here it is, miss. You will find plenty to choose from. Shall I wait for you?”

“No, thank you, Clara.”

“Then, I’ll not disturb you further, miss.”

Elizabeth thanked her and stepped inside, her steps muffled by the thick rug beneath her feet. The room had a settled quiet to it, as though it had been waiting for someone to disturb its stillness. The furniture, arranged with thoughtful symmetry, invited her to linger, while the faint gleam of lamplight on the polished surfaces gave the space a tranquil, almost watchful presence. The fire in the grate had been banked low, but enough light remained to illuminate the rows of shelves and the grand, sweeping space.

She scanned the titles along one wall, her fingers grazing the spines. It was a lovely collection—nothing particularly modern or eccentric but carefully curated. She could almost hear Mr. Darcy’s voice echoing in her memory from the dinner conversation: measured, deliberate, and maddeningly thoughtful. Her lips twitched at the thought.

And then a sound—a soft rustle, like the turning of a page—came from deeper within the library.

Elizabeth froze, her heart dropping with a thud in her chest. Surely the maid had said the gentlemen were abed? She glanced toward the faint light pooling at the far end of the room. Her curiosity prickled. Taking a careful step forward, she peered around the edge of a tall shelf—and nearly gasped.

There, seated in a wingback chair by the fire, was Mr. Darcy himself, his profile cast in warm shadow, a book open in his hands.

D arcy had come to the library intending to think.

The dinner conversation still echoed in his mind—Elizabeth Bennet’s quick wit, the arch of her brow when she challenged him, the way her lips curled, half in jest, half in defiance. It unsettled him, how easily she lingered in his thoughts. He had retreated here with the intent to bury himself in a book, to distract his mind with the precision of well-crafted words, but every line he read dissolved into her voice.

Darcy turned another page, the faint rasp of paper breaking the library’s quiet. He shifted slightly in his chair, letting his eyes skim the lines of text. The fire in the hearth glowed faintly, the warmth diffusing into the stillness of the room.

Then he heard it—a soft rustle, a step too light to be mistaken for one of the footmen. His hand paused on the edge of the book as he listened, his senses narrowing in on the sound.

Elizabeth Bennet stood within the glow of the firelight, her shawl loose around her shoulders as though she had paused mid-thought. Her gaze swept the shelves and furnishings with quiet purpose before landing on him. Surprise flickered across her features, but it faded quickly, leaving only that unmistakable spark of self-possession he had come to expect from her.

“Oh! Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy rose, setting the book carefully on the chair behind him. “Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, inclining his head. “I was not expecting company this evening.”

Her pause lingered just long enough to quicken his pulse. “Nor I,” she admitted, her fingers tightening over the edge of her shawl. “The maid assured me the gentlemen had retired, or I would not have intruded.”

“Not at all,” Darcy said swiftly. “This is Sir Thomas’s library. It is yours to use as much as mine.”

She nodded, but her expression was cautious, her lips pressing together as if unsure whether to stay or retreat. Darcy found himself hoping—foolishly, desperately—that she would stay.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing toward the shelves.

“Of course.”

He watched as she moved toward the nearest row, her fingers brushing lightly over the spines of the books. She hesitated at one, tilting her head as she read the title. “My father has a volume like this.”

“Does he?” Darcy’s voice sounded far too formal, even to his own ears. He stepped closer, unable to help himself. “He must have an impressive collection.”

Her lips curved faintly. “Impressive in size, certainly—especially when one compares the number of books to the number of shelves in his library. But I suspect you might find his tastes a bit… eclectic.”

The humor in her tone sent a flicker of warmth through him. He studied her profile, the delicate line of her jaw, the way her lashes swept down as she considered another title. There was a quiet grace about her, a strength that only made her beauty more arresting.

“I imagine there is something rather charming in that,” he said.

She glanced at him then, her brow lifting in surprise. “You would think so?”

He felt the corner of his mouth lift—unbidden, and so uncharacteristic of him that he almost startled himself. “I would.”

For a moment, he simply watched her—the light play of her fingers over the book spines, the faint crease beside her mouth when she caught him gazing at her. He could feel the heat of the dying fire at his back, but it was nothing compared to the awareness that hummed through his limbs just in watching her. He knew he should step away, retreat to a safer distance.

And yet… he stayed.

At last, she pulled a title from the shelf and turned to face him, her gaze dropping to the book in his own hands. “What were you reading, Mr. Darcy?”

He glanced down, realizing he still held the volume. “An essay on goodwill and charity. One I have read many times before.”

“You do not strike me as someone who revisits books often. Am I wrong?”

“You are not,” he admitted. “But there are certain works worth returning to. Familiar words can offer new insights, depending on the reader’s state of mind.”

She drew a step closer, tilting her head to see the title of his book. “And what is your state of mind tonight, sir?”

Darcy hesitated, holding his book up for her inspection even as he groped for words. Joseph Addison’s The Spectator— he had been both pleased and utterly unsurprised to discover it in Sir Thomas’s library. “There are nights when sleep eludes me, Miss Elizabeth. This is one of them.”

She read the book’s title, her gaze softening with obvious recognition. “A restless mind can be a burden, I suppose. What keeps yours so occupied?”

Darcy turned his eyes to the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face. “Obligations, mostly. Business, yes, but that is but a piece of it. The responsibilities of maintaining my family’s estate, of seeing to its tenants and lands… they are unending, though I mostly manage them through my steward these days. It is still a duty, but one I accepted willingly when my father passed.”

She studied him carefully. “And yet, I hear something more than mere duty in your tone. You said before that not all memories of your family home are pleasant—that you have kept away because of that. But you still miss your family home, do you not?”

“I… I do.” Darcy forced a tight smile. “Yes, I do.”

“Then why ever do you not return? There is no one to stop you, is there?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Well, if you listen to Bingley—and I caution you in that endeavor because listening to Bingley can be hazardous to one’s peace of mind—”

He broke off when she laughed aloud. “Oh, dear, he sounds very much like Jane!”

Darcy chuckled. “You are not the first to trace a resemblance there.”

She shook her head and made a shooing motion with her hand. “Forgive me for interrupting. Go on. If I listen to Mr. Bingley…?”

He had to give himself a good shake and suck in a breath because that smile of hers was enough to reignite the fire in the hearth. “Oh, nothing. It is only that he has been trying to get me out of London for ages, and… well, you know the rest. Always, I have an excuse—some contract that needs my personal attention. Some duty to my sister, which is entirely false because she went to live with our aunt, Lady Matlock in London when she left school. I have a thousand excuses to stay away, and I suppose too few real reasons to return.”

“Or too few reasons that you will confess,” she offered.

He dipped his head. “You are more right than you know. Ah… would you… care to join me, Miss Elizabeth? I know it is late and far from prudent, but…” He gestured to two empty chairs that graced either side of the still-warm hearth.

Her brow creased for a moment. “Oh, that is a dreadful idea. Which chair do you prefer?”

He laughed. “Whichever one you like the least, I suppose.”

“Well…” She paced around both chairs, then, casting a glance toward the open door of the library, chose the seat facing away from the door. “There. Now, if someone should happen by, they will only see a very stern man reading by the fire and not the wayward ‘lady’ seated opposite him.”

“Unless they hear your voice,” he cautioned.

“I fear it is too late to worry about such things.” She settled herself in the chair with a self-deprecating smile. “It seems that we are now doubly invested in this scheme, Mr. Darcy, for if Sir Thomas and his household do not gain favor in Meryton, Jane and I may well be ruined as well.”

Darcy swallowed as he claimed the opposite chair. She was right. It did not matter if she sat alone in the library with him or with twenty men, for the fact that that library was in this house, and she was now a guest, made her somehow inculpate. The matter was easy enough for a gentleman to shrug off, but not a lady.

And that was the moment he made the determination—she would not be permitted to suffer for this. Whatever that meant… and he already held some notions of what the costs might be… on this, he would not be moved.

“Now, then, Mr. Darcy.” She leaned forward in her chair, resting her chin on the backs of her knuckles as she smiled that knowing sweetness at him. “Before you so cleverly diverted me, you were about to tell me all the reasons that have thus far failed to draw you back to your family home.”

Darcy could not help but grin as he sank further into his seat. “You seem to think it some great secret I am keeping from the world.”

“Because you are not a man to waste time in evasive answers unless there is truly something you wish to hide. And as you could have no possible reason to fear what little I might be able to do to you, and as we are situated so comfortably here with little to do but talk, then I say, out with it, Mr. Darcy.”

He laughed and crossed his thighs. “Then you must prepare yourself for a very dull story, indeed. My father instilled in me a profound sense of stewardship, of preserving what was entrusted to us. I suppose…” He sighed. “There are days when I wonder if I have lived up to his expectations—or if I have fallen short.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “Surely you do not believe that.”

He gave a short, rueful laugh. “There are moments when I do. My father was a man of purpose and tradition, a man who saw the world in clear lines. I… I am not always so certain. He prepared me to carry on his legacy, yet there are parts of his vision I have left behind. Choices I have made that he would not have approved of.”

“It sounds as though you have carved your own path, Mr. Darcy. That is not failure—it is strength.”

“Hmm. Perhaps,” he admitted. “There are ambitions I hold now that my father never imagined for me. For years, I dismissed the idea of a seat in Parliament. It seemed impractical—something better left to others. But it lingers.”

“Why Parliament?” she asked. Her tone was curious, not prying.

“Why not? The opportunity to make changes, real changes, beyond the borders of my own estate or the influence of our business. The injustices one sees when traveling, the inequalities…” He paused, catching her eye. “Surely, you see them, too.”

“More often than I would like.” She tilted her head. “But Parliament? That would be no small undertaking.”

“Indeed.” His mouth twitched. “Endless debates, ceaseless correspondence, and public speeches—which I loathe.”

Elizabeth’s brow arched, her lips curving faintly. “I cannot imagine you faltering at public speaking.”

“Perhaps not faltering,” he conceded, “but hardly enjoying it. Yet the thought persists, as though refusing to be dismissed. My cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, believes it would suit me. And then, of course, there is my uncle, who sits in the House of Lords. They encourage it… even as I hesitate.”

Elizabeth’s brow lifted, and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I struggle to conceive of you hesitating over anything, Mr. Darcy. From what I have seen, you are a man of conviction.”

Darcy leaned forward, setting the forgotten book on the small table beside him. His gaze lingered on Elizabeth’s face, her features softened by the glow of the hearth. “Conviction is only as strong as the courage to act upon it, Miss Elizabeth. And there are times when I question… if mine is truly sufficient.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, a glimmer of both curiosity and challenge in her expression. “If you lack courage, Mr. Darcy, then what hope is there for the rest of us?”

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “You give me far too much credit.”

“And you give yourself far too little. You have courage enough to entertain great ambitions. That alone sets you apart from most men.”

He leaned back slightly, her words settling over him like a balm. “You are kinder than I deserve.”

“Oh, I shall remind you of that the next time you disagree with me.”

Darcy chuckled softly. “I do not recall disagreeing with you so often.”

She arched a brow. “And yet, you are disagreeing with me now.”

“Touché, Miss Elizabeth.”

She smiled fully now, and the moment felt suspended, as though the rest of the world had been painted over in soft strokes of firelight and shadow. “And what of peace, Mr. Darcy?” she asked after a beat, her voice gentler now. “Do you find it anywhere, amidst these obligations and ambitions?”

His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to hers. “I try. I remind myself that no man’s life is without flaw, and that failure—though inevitable—need not be defining.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, as though turning over his words. “Wise counsel. And does it work?”

“Occasionally,” he admitted, his voice lighter now. “But not always. Still, it is enough to carry me to sleep on most nights.”

Elizabeth’s expression shifted into something teasing. “I wonder, Mr. Darcy, if you might have missed your calling. Philosopher of Pemberley sounds rather grand.”

He laughed again, the sound quieter this time, more intimate. “It lacks the practical application I value in life, I fear.”

Her lips drew into a thoughtful frown. “You are a curious man, Mr. Darcy.”

“Curious?” He raised a brow, leaning just slightly forward again. “How do you mean?”

“You hold yourself with such confidence, and yet you speak as though you are constantly at odds with yourself.” She gestured vaguely toward the book he had abandoned. “It is an interesting contradiction.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his voice quieter when he finally spoke. “Perhaps it is not a contradiction, Miss Elizabeth, but equilibrium. Certainty and doubt are not opposing forces; they are what keep us from falling too far in one direction.”

Elizabeth blinked, her lips parting just slightly as though caught off guard. “I never thought of it that way.”

“And you,” he said softly, his tone laced with something unspoken, “never fail to inspire thought.”

Their gazes held for a beat longer, the room growing still but for the fading crackle of the dying fire. Elizabeth shifted slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of her shawl as though she had forgot it was there. She glanced toward the window, where the darkened panes reflected the faint glow of the hearth, and her brow lifted slightly.

“I did not realize how late it must be.” Her gaze returned to him, a small, almost rueful smile forming. “But I believe I shall be able to sleep now.”

Darcy inclined his head, rising from his chair with deliberate care. “I am glad to hear it, Miss Elizabeth.”

She stood as well, adjusting her shawl. Darcy took a step closer, his movements measured as though giving her space to retreat. She did not.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low, “if I may…”

He reached for her hand, and she gave it. Slowly, he bent his head, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. The warmth of her skin against his lips sent a thrill through him that he dared not acknowledge aloud.

Elizabeth’s breath caught, but she did not pull away. Instead, her gaze remained fixed on him, her features unreadable save for the faint curve of her lips.

“Goodnight,” Darcy said, his voice quieter now, tinged with something that felt precariously close to longing.

She nodded, stepping back slowly, her hand slipping from his as she turned toward the door. “Goodnight, Mr. Darcy,” she murmured before slipping away, the faint rustle of her skirts disappearing down the hall.

Darcy remained where he stood, his hand still warm from hers, the memory of her presence vivid and inescapable. Whatever the night might bring, he knew sleep would not come easily—not with the lingering echo of her smile in his mind.