Chapter 6
The next morning, another small package was delivered to Longbourn. Elizabeth recognized the brown paper wrapping as soon as her father held it out to her. Her heart quickened. She told herself it was nothing more than curiosity.
Her father’s expression was far too knowing for her comfort. “Your mysterious correspondent continues his campaign, I see.”
The string came away easily. The paper fell back. Her breath caught, as it had before.
This piece showed more of the chessboard, the squares continuing the pattern from where the first ended.
The edge of her sleeve appeared, the cornflower blue rendered with the same painstaking detail.
Her hand was more visible, reaching just beyond the edge of the paper.
A chess piece stood on one of the white squares.
A pawn, only partially shown, but unmistakable.
“Well?” Her father could no longer hide his amusement. “What do you make of the second installment?”
“I will not know until I see it with the first section.”
At the lift of his brow, she rushed to her room, carefully setting it alongside the newly received portion once she returned to her father’s library.
Together, they created a larger picture, a scene from their duel taking shape, though still maddeningly incomplete.
“He is being strategic,” she murmured. The edges aligned perfectly.
“I agree.” Her father leaned back in his chair.
“Let me see… You attended Lucas Lodge yesterday. You spoke with Mr. Darcy privately—do not bother denying it, half the room noticed. And now, you are presented with a mysterious drawing.” He picked up the second piece to examine it more closely.
“His technique is precise with extraordinary attention to detail. Notice where the pawn is placed. He positioned it directly in the center of the square. This is not a casual sketch, dear girl, but a work of careful deliberation. Hours of work, I should think.” He looked at her over his spectacles.
“The sender is quite determined to communicate his message to you.”
“I wish I knew what,” Elizabeth said, regretting immediately that she spoke aloud.
Her father’s smile was gentle. “I suspect you will know soon enough. How many more pieces do you suppose there will be?”
She retrieved the chessboard they used for the duel. Matching the pattern on the edge, she laid her wrist exactly where it was positioned in the drawing. “These two pieces only need one more to cover this side. If the rest are of the same size, there should be…”
“Seven more. So nine altogether,” her father replied.
“Yes.”
“And will there be seven more encounters with Mr. Darcy to precede them?”
“I cannot control who attends local social gatherings, Papa.”
“No, but you can control how much time you spend in his company, Lizzy dear.” He handed her both pieces. “I find it interesting that you permitted him to approach you at Lucas Lodge.”
Elizabeth held the drawings carefully. “I promised Mama I would be civil. Nothing more.”
“Ah, yes. Civil.” Her father’s eyes twinkled. “Is that what they are calling it now?”
“Papa!”
He chuckled, then waved her to the door. “Go. I am sure you will carefully study those pieces with purely academic interest and nothing more.”
Elizabeth fled before he could see her blush deepen.
In her chamber, she arranged the pieces together on her dressing table. The chessboard. Her hand. The waiting pawn.
Would his hand appear across from hers in successive drawings? She sighed. She already knew. She had known since she held the first piece in her hand.
Mr. Darcy was drawing her. Drawing them. Drawing them when everything between them had been anger and pride and wounded dignity.
Why?
She traced the edge of the second piece, careful not to smudge the delicate ink. Her fingers stilled as memory surfaced: his voice, low and intimate at Lucas Lodge. Perhaps the artist had an excellent model to work from.
The artist. Not an artist. And that shadow of ink beneath his thumbnail. She was now certain. He drew it himself with such care that she could see individual threads in her sleeve’s trim. His hands held the brush while he remembered her with each stroke.
She moved to the edge of her bed, staring at the artwork.
Seven more pieces. Seven more encounters.
Seven more chances to understand what he was trying to tell her.
And she found—despite every promise she had made to herself, despite every intention to remain politely distant—that she could hardly wait.
Their encounters continued with predictable regularity over the following weeks.
They would meet at a small assembly, at the Lucases’, once when she was walking in Meryton, and he happened to be riding past. Each time, Mr. Darcy sought her out with a determination that both unnerved and flattered her.
Each conversation lasted longer than the last and revealed more than the previous one.
And each time, the day after their encounter, another piece would be delivered to Longbourn.
When Mrs. Goulding invited the neighborhood to enjoy the fruits of the harvest, impromptu dancing began.
Mr. Darcy asked Elizabeth. She declined.
Yet when he inquired about her reading, she found herself drawn into a discussion of poetry that lasted through two sets she might have danced with others.
When he gestured toward the dancers, Elizabeth could not fail to note a small ink mark on the inside of his wrist. Once he departed, she smiled to herself. Proof positive.
Charlotte observed with raised eyebrows. “He seeks you out, Lizzy.”
“He is merely attempting to make amends,” Elizabeth protested, though even she heard the weakness in her own defense.
At tea with the Lucases, Miss Bingley’s increasingly pointed attempts to gain his attention might as well have been directed at the furniture since Mr. Darcy chose to spend the entire visit at Elizabeth’s side.
In Meryton, when she was walking with her sisters, he dismounted from his horse to speak with her. Mr. Bingley immediately followed suit, offering his arm to Jane. Their younger sisters giggled and whispered while Mary begged them to regain their composure. Elizabeth barely heard them.
In the bright autumn sunlight, she could see evidence of sleepless nights in his eyes. Was he working on the drawings late into the evening? Sacrificing rest to create this for her? The thought unsettled her more than she wished to admit.
Piece Three arrived, showing both forearms clearly visible and more chess pieces dotting the board. She recognized the position, the same opening from their first game.
Piece Four prominently revealed the base of the queen piece. Hands drawing closer together.
Piece Five showed the positioning with unmistakable intimacy—two hands approaching the same space on the board.
She arranged them carefully on her dressing table each time, studying how they fit together. Missing were three pieces across the top and the center. She was unable to keep from anticipating what the image would reveal once it was complete.
What she had not anticipated was how she found herself looking for him when she entered a room.
Found herself disappointed on the rare occasions when he was not present.
Found herself noticing small things, how he truly listened when she spoke, as if her words mattered to him.
The way he remembered details from previous conversations, the intelligence in his observations, and the unexpected humor that occasionally surfaced.
And always, always, the ink stains. Faint shadows on his fingers or a smudge on his cuff, as if he wanted her to know it was him.
“You are softening toward him,” Jane observed one evening as they prepared for bed.
Elizabeth wanted to deny it. She could not.
“He is not what I thought,” she finally said. “He is far more than the man who insulted me.”
Jane agreed. “I suppose that he has discovered that you are far more of a woman than he first thought, Lizzy. He is pursuing you steadily, and you are not running from him.”
“Not anymore,” Elizabeth whispered to herself.
The neighborhood noticed.
Her mother vacillated between delight at the prospect of Mr. Darcy’s interest in one of her daughters and frustration that it was Lizzy instead of Lydia who claimed his attention.
Jane teased Elizabeth privately, though her focus was mainly on Mr. Bingley.
Charlotte said nothing, but her knowing smiles spoke volumes.
Even Mary, Kitty, and Lydia, usually oblivious, remarked on how often Mr. Darcy found reasons to speak with their sister.
“He is always staring at you, Lizzy,” Lydia complained. “It is most odd since Jane is the prettiest and I am the liveliest. Mama says so.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile. Trust Lydia to make Mr. Darcy’s attention about herself.
All in all, Elizabeth could not deny that it was in every way particular.
Three days after the fifth piece was received, a note from Netherfield Park invited Jane for tea with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst while the gentlemen dined with the regiment’s commanding officer.
Their mother insisted Jane go on horseback despite threatening skies. Elizabeth observed the storm clouds gathering with growing unease. From experience, she knew how often her mother’s plans went awry.
Late that evening, a message from Netherfield was delivered with news that Jane was unwell. By the next morning, Elizabeth’s fears were confirmed. Jane had caught cold in the rain and was too ill to return to Longbourn. She remained at Netherfield, and she wanted Elizabeth.
Without hesitation, Elizabeth donned her coat and walking boots, gathered her bonnet, gloves, and a scarf, and departed on foot. Three miles passed in a blur of worry for Jane and feelings she refused to examine too closely.
She deliberately would not allow herself to think about who else would be at Netherfield. She would not allow herself to acknowledge the flutter of anticipation beneath her concern for Jane. She was going only for her sister.
It was, perhaps, the least convincing lie she had told herself in weeks.
Darcy looked up from breaking his fast as the door opened.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” the butler announced.
His heart stopped.
She stood in the doorway, breathless and glowing. Her hem and petticoat were muddy. Hair escaped its pins, dark curls framing flushed cheeks. Her eyes were bright with exertion and worry for her sister.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Good heavens, Miss Eliza,” Miss Bingley’s voice disturbed his thoughts. “Did you walk here?”
“I did. I came as quickly as I could. My sister’s note said she is unwell.”
Three miles? She walked three miles down muddy lanes because her beloved sister needed her. While Miss Bingley and the Hursts concerned themselves only with their own interests, Elizabeth acted.
“How very…devoted,” Miss Bingley said, her tone dripping disdain.
Bingley readily agreed. “Your kindness to your sister is exemplary, Miss Elizabeth.”
Devoted. Kind. Yes, that perfectly described Elizabeth Bennet.
He saw the anxiety for her sister as Bingley explained Miss Bennet’s fever. Elizabeth cared nothing for her appearance, nothing for Miss Bingley’s thinly veiled contempt. Nothing mattered except her sister.
This fierce, loyal, compassionate woman would weather any storm for those she loved.
Georgiana, shy and wounded, still recovering from Wickham’s treachery, needed someone like her. Elizabeth would be exactly this sort of sister to her—protective, devoted, unflinching. She would sacrifice for Georgiana as fiercely as she did for her eldest sister.
Pemberley’s tenants needed a mistress who would care for them as people, not obligations. He knew as certainly as he knew his name that she would not hesitate to walk the same distance to reach a sick child or a woman in need.
His heart thumped loud enough that he feared the others could hear. She was everything.
“Allow me,” he heard himself say. “I know which room Miss Bennet occupies. I will show Miss Elizabeth the way.”
Miss Bingley’s objection was swift, but he ignored it. This gift, her presence here, was not anything he intended to waste. If he was fortunate, if he was careful, if he was patient—she might come to see that this was where she belonged.
With him.