TWELVE
Netherfield.
Darcy
The library at Netherfield was not large by Pemberley standards, though Bingley spoke of it with sufficient pride to suggest he considered the deficiency temporary rather than permanent.
Being the least frequented room in the house, Darcy had chosen it that morning for the sake of quiet. Upon Marsh’s insistence, he had at least taken some breakfast in his room before retreating there.
Rain touched softly against the windows, more mist than storm now, and the muted grey light suited both the room and his humour equally well. A chessboard rested open before him near the fire, the pieces midway through a game he had begun that morning and interrupted several times since.
Marsh sat some distance away with a book open across his lap. Darcy had long since learned that his valet possessed the inconvenient ability to read whilst remaining aware of nearly everything occurring around him.
Darcy studied the board another moment, though his concentration had long since ceased belonging entirely to the game.
A slight creak from the library door drew his attention. A moment later, it opened quietly inward.
Elizabeth Bennet paused just within the threshold, her brow faintly furrowed, evidently not expecting the room occupied. Her gaze moved first toward the shelves, then toward Darcy himself, and finally toward Marsh seated nearby with his book.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy,” she said at once. “I had thought the room empty.”
For one absurd moment Darcy could think of nothing whatsoever to say.
What possible business had brought her there?
He had spent the better part of the morning avoiding precisely this sort of encounter.
It was the chief reason he had taken breakfast in his room rather than with the household despite Marsh’s repeated efforts upon the subject.
Yet now, merely at the sight of her standing uncertainly in the doorway, he could already feel that careful solitude slipping beyond recovery.
Elizabeth Bennet possessed the increasingly inconvenient ability to make him speak when he preferred silence, and worse still, to make him continue.
The previous evening returned unpleasantly clearly to mind.
You are still here.
The words had escaped before sense intervened, much as his defence of her later had done. He had intended neither observation. Indeed, he had intended quite the opposite. Yet somehow Elizabeth Bennet’s mere presence unsettled the reserve he ordinarily maintained with everyone around him.
It was intolerable.
“It is a library, Miss Bennet,” he said at last, rather more abruptly than he intended. “Not my private chamber.”
The instant the words left him, he regretted them.
Elizabeth’s expression altered almost imperceptibly. Not offence precisely, but caution. As though she had immediately concluded she had interrupted something he considered important and was now being reminded of it.
Darcy became aware, with familiar irritation, that he had once again managed to sound disagreeable whilst attempting civility.
“What I mean,” he said after a brief pause, “is that this is not my house. I can hardly claim the library for my exclusive use. Pray remain if you wish.”
“That is very obliging.”
Yet she made no immediate movement toward the shelves.
Darcy understood her hesitation almost immediately.
Though Marsh’s presence preserved propriety well enough, Miss Bennet still seemed uncertain whether she ought to remain.
Before restraint fully returned, he heard himself add dryly, “With Marsh here, propriety survives the occasion tolerably intact. I cannot imagine what scandalous conduct a man in my circumstances might attempt beneath the eyes of his valet.”
The words settled awkwardly into the room.
Marsh did not lower his book, though Darcy had the distinct impression the man disapproved.
Elizabeth’s expression altered at once. It was not pity, which Darcy would have hated instantly, but something much nearer to annoyance.
“If you wish it, you may keep the door open,” Darcy added stiffly.
Elizabeth lingered in the doorway a moment longer, as though deciding whether the invitation, such as it was, outweighed the awkwardness of accepting it.
Then she stepped fully into the room and moved toward the shelves without further comment, her fingers drifting lightly along the bindings as she searched for a volume.
Darcy returned his attention to the board, though the game had become considerably less absorbing than it had been five minutes prior.
He was acutely aware of her presence at the shelves behind him, of the quiet sound of her movements, of the precise distance between where she stood and where he sat, and he found the awareness both uninvited and entirely resistant to dismissal.
Then, without turning, she said, “Your knight would sit more safely at king’s eighth.”
Darcy frowned slightly at the board.
“I had thought the bishop sufficiently protected.”
“For the present.”
She drew a book from the shelf before continuing, “But should your opponent press the rook forward, your bishop cannot defend both positions long. You must either abandon the piece or leave your king exposed.”
Darcy looked more carefully at the arrangement of pieces.
It was, irritatingly enough, entirely correct.
“You anticipate a remarkably determined opponent, Miss Bennet.”
“Only an attentive one.”
The answer carried no triumph whatsoever. Merely certainty.
Darcy moved the knight experimentally.
Elizabeth crossed nearer the fire then, the book resting loosely in one hand. She paused beside the chess table long enough to consider the altered position.
“There,” she said quietly. “Now your rook may still prove useful later in the game.”
Darcy leaned back slightly, still studying the board.
“You are accustomed to chess then, I think?”
“A little.”
Something in her tone suggested the answer concealed rather more than it admitted.
“My father taught us,” she continued. “Though my younger sisters possess very little patience for strategy and generally sacrifice pieces merely to discover what disorder may follow.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” said Elizabeth gravely. “Particularly when one of them insists queens ought to move according to personal inclination rather than established rules.”
Against all preference, Darcy felt amusement threaten.
Elizabeth noticed at once. He knew she noticed because the corners of her mouth shifted almost immediately in response.
And suddenly, absurdly, he found himself thinking that amusement suited her far too well.
He looked back toward the board at once.
“You do not strike me as a gentleman who bears defeat patiently,” said Elizabeth after a moment.
Darcy considered the question.
“Carelessness offends me more than defeat.”
“And yet your rook was left rather vulnerable.”
“That,” said Darcy dryly, “was before Miss Bennet chose to involve herself in the matter.”
Elizabeth laughed softly.
The sound struck him with uncomfortable familiarity. Not merely because it was pleasant, though it was. But because it lacked calculation altogether. Most laughter in drawing rooms was performed for an audience. Elizabeth Bennet’s seemed simply the natural consequence of genuine amusement.
Clara had laughed in much the same way.
The memory arrived swiftly enough to leave him momentarily still.
Clara seated opposite him years ago, dismantling his chess strategy whilst informing him he defended pieces too cautiously because he expected loss before it arrived.
Clara smiling whenever she won because she knew how thoroughly he disliked losing to her.
Darcy’s hand tightened slightly against the arm of the chair.
Elizabeth’s expression altered immediately.
“I beg your pardon,” she said more quietly. “Have I interrupted your game entirely?”
The concern in her voice recalled him at once.
“No.” He glanced back toward the board. “Only improved it, apparently.”
A small silence followed. Rain whispered faintly against the windows. Somewhere behind them a page turned beneath Marsh’s hand.
Elizabeth lowered herself at last into the chair nearest the window, far enough away to satisfy propriety, yet near enough to observe the board comfortably.
“How is your sister this morning?” Darcy asked before deciding whether he ought.
Elizabeth’s expression softened immediately.
“Better, I hope. The fever remains, but less violently than yesterday.” Her fingers settled lightly against the closed book in her lap. “Mr. Jones believes the improvement encouraging, though she cannot yet be moved.”
“I am glad of it.”
And he was.
Elizabeth regarded him thoughtfully a moment.
“She is asleep, and I found myself rather tired of my own thoughts,” she admitted softly. “Mr. Bingley told me I might use the library whenever I wished.”
Darcy’s fingers shifted lightly against the edge of the chessboard.
“Bingley does not use it himself, so I suppose he is pleased to see someone else do so.”
The remark escaped him before he properly considered it.
Elizabeth looked up at once, surprise softening almost immediately into unmistakable amusement.
“I did not know you joked at all, Mr. Darcy.”
He had not intended a joke.
Yet the brightness in her expression unsettled him enough that he looked back toward the board at once.
“You are very determined to think well of people, Miss Bennet.”
“Not always.”
He glanced up despite himself. “No?”
Her eyes met his steadily then, intelligent and thoughtful in a way he was beginning to find increasingly difficult to dismiss comfortably.
“No,” she said quietly. “But I begin to suspect some people are determined to encourage the worst opinions of themselves.”
Darcy’s eyes lifted fully to hers then.
There was no mockery in her expression. No triumph at having observed him accurately. Only a calm certainty he found far more discomposing than either would have been.
He looked away first.
Elizabeth rose.
“I ought to return before Jane wakes and imagines herself abandoned entirely.”
“She would probably forgive you eventually,” Darcy managed.
Elizabeth smiled then, and Darcy found himself thinking the expression made her considerably more beautiful.
* * *
The door closed softly behind her.
Marsh turned a page calmly.
Silence settled once more over the library. Darcy kept his attention upon the chessboard, though he was aware, with some irritation, that he had not considered the game seriously in several minutes.
Neither spoke.
“An improved position, sir?” said Marsh mildly, breaking the silence.
Darcy’s eyes narrowed faintly. “You appear remarkably invested in my chess this morning.”
“I endeavour to take an interest in whatever presently occupies your attention, sir.”
Darcy knew that tone. Marsh employed it when venturing nearest the borders of impertinence whilst remaining technically within them.
“The game was already salvageable,” said Darcy coolly.
“I am relieved to hear it.”
Another silence followed.
Marsh closed the book across his lap at last.
“Miss Bennet appears a very sensible young lady.”
Darcy’s hand stilled briefly against the chess piece before continuing a move.
“She possesses opinions upon subjects she was not invited to discuss.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And an alarming tendency to express them.”
“Indeed, sir.”
Darcy glanced toward him faintly. Marsh’s expression remained composed innocence.
After a moment Darcy said, somewhat in a quieter tone, “You appear determined to admire her.”
“I confess I am partial to any person capable of persuading you into conversation voluntarily, sir.”
Darcy looked back toward the board. “You exaggerate.”
“Do I?”
“I am perfectly capable of conversation when required.”
“Yes, sir. Which is why the distinction is so noticeable.”
Darcy ignored that.
After a moment Marsh added mildly, “The library appears considerably less sepulchral than it did an hour ago.”
Against all preference, something dangerously close to amusement threatened again. Darcy suppressed it at once.
“You overstep, Marsh.”
“Undoubtedly, sir.”
Yet there was not the slightest apology in the man’s voice.
Darcy studied the board another moment before moving the knight once more.
Miss Elizabeth’s position remained superior to his own.