Chapter Seventeen
D arcy was again lying on his stomach. It was so much worse than sitting at home on a Sunday evening with nothing to do. At least then he had the full house to pace about in.
He had nearly resigned himself to spending the rest of the afternoon drumming his fingers against the cover of a book he could not comfortably sit to read when the door swung open again, this time slowly.
He stiffened slightly, turning his head as best he could without aggravating the ache in his back. The answering pain was far less than it had been only a few days ago.
Darcy blinked as he recognized the figure who had come into his chamber. “Anne?”
She closed the door behind her with the composure of a woman who had long since abandoned the need for ceremony. “I have come to correct our cousin’s latest disaster.”
Darcy sighed. “The conundrum, you mean?”
Anne inclined her head in the smallest of nods, her hands folded before her. “Miss Elizabeth’s riddle was not about oblivion.”
Darcy let out a slow, long-suffering breath. “Of course it was not.”
“She was rather amused by your answer,” Anne added, in a tone that was clearly meant to soothe but entirely failed in doing so.
At least one of them had enjoyed it. Darcy shut his eyes briefly. “Good.”
Anne moved to the chair beside his bed and lowered herself with precise economy, her back as straight as a ruler, her expression as calm as ever. “Would you like the true conundrum?”
Darcy nodded as best he could. “I would.”
She recited it with perfect clarity, her voice measured, unhurried—as if allowing him every opportunity to appreciate just how egregiously Fitz had failed him.
“The beginning of eternity, the end of time and of space, the beginning of every end, and the end of every place.”
Darcy stilled, his mind shifting through the structure of the words. And then, almost immediately, the answer came. A slow smile curved at the corner of his lips. “E.”
Anne gave a single satisfied nod. “That is correct. I will inform Miss Elizabeth that you only required the correct riddle.”
Darcy huffed. “At least she will know I have some capacity for reason.”
Anne paused, her expression unreadable. Then, with resignation, she asked, “I assume you wish to send one in return?”
Darcy tilted his head slightly, considering her. “Do you object to being the messenger?”
Anne sighed, her hands falling deliberately to her sides. “This is the last one I shall carry for you two—at least today.” She frowned slightly. “No offence to you, cousin, but we could never be married. The way you and Miss Elizabeth sport with one another is absolutely exhausting.”
Darcy chuckled, despite himself. “I rather like it.”
“I know.” Anne regarded him with quiet patience, waiting.
Darcy considered. He could send Elizabeth a challenge—something to test her cleverness, something intricate and demanding. But he did not wish to merely test her.
Instead, he wanted to send a message. But it could not be too bold. He did not want to frighten her away.
A conundrum stirred in his memory. He turned his head toward Anne. “It is rather long. You may want to write it down.”
She sighed. “Very well.”
He waited until she sat at the little writing table and then began. Three sixths of an instrument known, Which gentlemen frequently play; Two thirds of a fish with a spine That extends from the head a great way.
Anne wrote it down and when the scratching of the pen halted, he gave her the next lines. Myself to your eyes must appear, Possessing some small share of spirit: One sixth of a tyrant so near Devoid both of feeling and merit.
He could hear her dipping her pen in the inkpot and tapping it again the glass. “Is there more?” she asked.
He nodded. “A few more lines.”
“I cannot believe you have this all in your memory, Darcy,” she replied.
He paused. “My father taught it to me.”
She paused for a moment and then said, “I am ready.”
Darcy took as deep a breath as he could and recited the last part. Ah, these in a garland I’ll bind, And present as a gift to my friend; ‘Tis what in my bosom she’ll find, And on what she may always depend.
Anne studied what she had written for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. “I imagine Miss Elizabeth will have no difficulty answering that.”
Darcy only smiled.
Anne hesitated before saying, “You should know, I like her very much.”
Darcy tilted his head slightly, taken aback. Anne was not given to admitting attachments.
“I am pleased to hear it,” he said carefully.
Anne regarded him with that same cool assessment, then said with quiet certainty, “I think you will do well together.”
Something in Darcy stilled. “I have not asked her anything yet.”
Anne’s expression remained composed, but her next words lodged themselves in his mind, slipping in before he could even consider resisting them.
“Then you had best do so as soon as you are able.”
Darcy’s chest tightened unexpectedly, his thoughts snapping into sharp focus. He wanted to ask—but was she ready? He had been prepared to inquire whether he might call on her, court her, when they had been under the wreckage of the folly. It had seemed ludicrous to do so when they might not ever be rescued. But he had wanted her to know in just how much esteem he held her.
He had not been able to pose his question then, and now she might not know at all, might think their back and forth was merely a way to distract themselves from their situation.
“Darcy?” Anne asked. “Will you repeat it again so that I may check my work?”
He recited the conundrum again, and then, with her usual quiet efficiency, Anne rose and departed.
The door clicked softly behind her, leaving the room eerily silent once more. However, it was not the same as before. This silence was not tedium; it was anticipation.
Anne’s words had disturbed something inside him, dislodging thoughts that had long been pushed aside in favour of caution, propriety, hesitation. He had known—before the accident, before the folly, and if he was honest, even before Kent—that he could not continue as he had. He had been fighting his desires, but the moment he had seen her collecting bluebells, he had known he could not fight them any longer. He wanted Elizabeth. Then they had quarrelled, and not half an hour later, she had been almost ripped from his life in an absurdly violent way.
It was a great deal to sort through.
The games, the riddles, the underlined words in the margins of books—they were a reprieve, a delight, a glimpse into something thrilling and new. But they were not enough. Not anymore. And if he wanted to ask Elizabeth the question, he had to be prepared.
Darcy pressed his palms against the mattress, pushing himself up slowly, carefully, ignoring the muted protest of his still aching back. He sat up, reached for the writing set Anne had used, and dipped the quill into the ink with slow, steady fingers.
He had to write to Bingley.
Miss de Bourgh entered Elizabeth’s chamber without ceremony.
Elizabeth, who had been idly tracing the pattern on her coverlet, straightened. She did not ask. She did not need to.
Her hostess tilted her head slightly. “He has sent his answer.”
“And?”
Miss de Bourgh’s lips quirked at the corner. “His answer to your conundrum was, as you expected, ‘E.’”
Elizabeth smiled to herself. Of course he had solved it.
“But,” Miss de Bourgh continued, with the faintest glint of humour, “he has sent another in return. Would you like to hear it?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught just slightly. “I would.”
Miss de Bourgh unfolded a piece of paper and read the riddle, her voice smooth and deliberate. At the end of each verse, she paused to allow Elizabeth to think through the clue. When Elizabeth thought she had it, she nodded at Miss de Bourgh who then continued.
Fiddle. Eel. The letter Y. Her fingers curled slightly against the coverlet. She swallowed.
“Fidelity,” she murmured.
Miss de Bourgh inclined her head. “I thought you would understand it.”
Elizabeth glanced down at her lap, pressing her lips together. Her heart felt full. She ought to laugh. Ought to dismiss it as mere idle sport, a diversion devised to entertain two restless minds confined within the walls of Rosings Park. It would be safer.
But she could not.
Elizabeth stared at the pattern in her coverlet, her fingers idly smoothing the fabric, though her thoughts were anything but idle.
Fidelity.
Of all the riddles he might have chosen, he had sent that one.
The word curled into her mind like the edges of an old parchment, soft yet indelible, a truth she could neither ignore nor explain away.
She knew, of course, that it was only a game. That he could not possibly have meant to pledge his fidelity to her. But he was in general so very serious a man that her heart wondered.
Miss de Bourgh regarded her with quiet amusement and held out the page. “Shall I take your answer to him, then?”
Elizabeth forced herself to look up, to meet that sharp, unreadable gaze.
She had meant to offer something light-hearted, a jest to dispel the sudden heaviness in her own thoughts. But the words would not come.
Instead, she shook her head, her voice quieter than usual. “No.”
Miss de Bourgh tilted her head. “No?”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, as if that might ease the unfamiliar tangle of emotions tightening in her chest. “Not this time.”
There was no rule that demanded she reply, and for once, she did not wish to continue the game simply for the sake of playing.
Not when she was still trying to understand how she felt about the answer to his conundrum.
Miss de Bourgh regarded her for a moment longer. “As you wish.”
Jane, who had been sitting quietly by the window, finally set her book aside, her gaze warm but assessing. “It was rather a romantic choice, was it not?”
Elizabeth scoffed, though it lacked conviction. “It is only a game.”
Jane’s lips curved knowingly. “Are you sure?” She exchanged a brief glance with Miss de Bourgh.
“I suppose I should not be surprised that he answered mine correctly,” Elizabeth continued, willing herself back to a steadier, more familiar footing. “He is a clever man.”
Miss de Bourgh’s brow lifted slightly. “He is and therefore would carefully consider the meaning of any riddle he might send.”
Elizabeth had believed so too. She hesitated. Her thoughts drifted back over the past week, over the quiet exchange of words in margins, the playful battle of wits, the stolen moments of amusement that had made this tedious convalescence something more than bearable—something enjoyable.
It had been a diversion, yes. But now, she was not certain it had only been that.
She thought of the way he had met her challenge at every turn, the way his humour had woven itself through his responses, dry and unassuming but ever-present, the way she had begun to anticipate his next move with a kind of gleeful anticipation.
And now—this. This riddle that made her pulse stutter. She swallowed. What a moment for her aunt to have stepped away!
Miss de Bourgh, who had been watching this exchange with mild curiosity, now inclined her head with the air of one making a final pronouncement. “Your marriage will be a happy one.”
Elizabeth turned to her, startled. “You say that with great certainty.”
Miss de Bourgh gave a delicate shrug, her voice as calm as ever. “He is utterly unmanageable, but you have nearly succeeded doing so. That alone is remarkable, but you actually appear to enjoy it too. That is nearly miraculous.”
Jane laughed softly at that, while Elizabeth merely shook her head. “You make it sound as though I have tamed some wild creature.”
Miss de Bourgh tilted her head. “Have you not?”
Elizabeth had no answer for that.
Instead, she glanced down at the book still resting in her lap, running her fingertips lightly over the worn spine, as though searching for an answer that would not be found in its pages.
“I believe,” she said at last, her voice softer now, “that I should like to think on it a little longer.”
Jane nodded in understanding, and Miss de Bourgh, for once, offered no argument.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was only something . . . new. Something that, Elizabeth suspected, was at last beginning to take shape.