CHAPTER 2 AMONG TEA AND BOOKS
Elizabeth dodged a curricle as she darted across the cobblestones of Bond Street to reach the small, inviting storefront nestled between Garrard’s Jewelers and Rundell’s Haberdashery.
The Tea Book stood apart from its grander neighbors with its cheerful teal-painted facade adorned with gilt lettering and a whimsical sign depicting an open book with steam curling from its pages.
The ginger shop cat—the same one she’d noticed on her previous visits—slipped between her skirts as she reached for the door, apparently returning from a brief excursion onto Bond Street.
After the careful display at Lady Egerton’s ball, with the stiff smiles and barbed speech, Elizabeth needed a cup of tea and a good book the way a gentleman enjoyed his cigar and port.
She pushed open the door, inhaling with relish the fragrant cloud of bergamot and lemon sugar.
The lingering tension from the ball dissipated as she and her companion, Mrs. Leacock, entered the cozy tea shop attached to a lending library.
“Miss Bennet, this is most irregular,” Mrs. Leacock murmured, her thin lips pressed together in disapproval.
The older woman unwound her serviceable gray shawl with movements as precise as her judgments, her patrician face framed by iron-colored curls that matched her unbending principles.
“Your aunt specifically mentioned a morning call to the Downshires. They have a son just returned from Cambridge, if you recall.”
“Another son thrust before me like a prize goose at market,” Elizabeth muttered, then louder, “and we shall make the call. After we fortify ourselves with tea.”
Mrs. Leacock’s eyes narrowed, crow’s feet deepening at the corners.
“I feel compelled to remind you, Miss Bennet, that your uncle has not sponsored your London season so you might waste your mornings hiding in tea shops. The purpose of this venture—the only purpose—is to secure a more advantageous match than Mr. Collins offered.”
“How fortunate that you are here to remind me of my purpose, Mrs. Leacock,” Elizabeth replied, the edge in her voice not entirely masked by her smile. “I had nearly forgotten I am merely merchandise to be bartered.”
Mrs. Leacock flinched, but recovered quickly. “Pretty words will not feed your sisters when your father is gone, Miss Bennet.”
Her mother’s parting words still rang in her ears. Mr. Collins remains determined to have you, and without a better match, how shall you refuse him a second time? Think of your sisters!
That truth, baldly stated, stung more than all of Caroline Bingley’s elegant barbs combined. Elizabeth turned away, unable to argue with the reality of her situation.
Last night’s triumph felt hollow in the morning light.
Yes, she had impressed Mrs. Drummond-Burrell.
Yes, Lord Malvern had been utterly charmed by her performance.
Yes, Caroline had looked triumphant when Darcy had been forced to dance with her instead.
Yet Elizabeth had returned to Gracechurch Street with an emptiness that no amount of her aunt’s enthusiastic praise could fill.
Miss Eliza might be a success, but Elizabeth Bennet was exhausted from maintaining the illusion.
A round-faced woman with apple cheeks approached, beaming as though Elizabeth were a long-lost niece. “The window table has just been cleared, Miss. Perfect for watching Bond Street come alive, and the morning light is excellent for reading.”
“How lovely,” Elizabeth replied, her voice softening to its natural Hertfordshire cadence rather than the carefully modulated tones of Miss Eliza. “Thank you, Mrs…?”
“Teabrook, dear. Dinah Teabrook. This is my establishment, along with Mr. Basil Booker, who manages our lending library.” She gestured toward a thin man arranging books on shelves at the back of the shop.
Elizabeth claimed the marble-topped table by the bow window with undisguised relief.
She had discovered The Tea Book several days ago while escaping a particularly tedious morning call.
Here, she could briefly shed “Miss Eliza.” She could be Elizabeth, who preferred books to ballrooms and honest conversation to calculated flattery.
She reached into her reticule to check her coins. Her fingers brushed against Caroline’s note—a reminder of another assembly three nights hence, where Elizabeth was expected to once again deflect Darcy’s attention toward her gracious sponsor while maintaining her indifferent disdain.
Mrs. Teabrook appeared with two delicate porcelain cups. “Our house blend today is particularly fine. A touch of orange peel to brighten a breezy morning.”
Mrs. Leacock unbent enough to nod approval at the tea’s aroma. “Most pleasant.”
Elizabeth watched steam curl from her cup, breathing deeply. “Mrs. Teabrook, do you permit ladies to peruse your lending library while taking refreshment?”
“Indeed, we do.” The proprietress gestured toward the low bookcases lining the back wall. “Mr. Booker keeps an excellent catalog. We’ve received the latest from the Minerva Press just yesterday—though I daresay those might be too frivolous for a serious reader.”
“Frivolity is precisely what I require,” Elizabeth confessed, earning a scandalized look from Mrs. Leacock. “At least between these walls.”
Mrs. Teabrook’s laugh was as warm as her tea. “Mr. Booker will assist you once you’ve refreshed yourself. Shall I bring a plate of seed cake? It pairs wonderfully with the orange in the tea.”
Elizabeth hesitated, mentally tallying her expenses for the week. The muslin for her gown at Lady Sedley’s dinner had already stretched her allowance. A lending library subscription was a luxury she’d been debating for days. “Perhaps we might share a slice?”
Mrs. Leacock’s expression softened, recognizing the economy for what it was. “A half plate, please,” she told Mrs. Teabrook. “Miss Bennet and I had a light breakfast.”
As Mrs. Teabrook bustled away, Elizabeth gazed at the window where the ginger cat sat, watching her with unnerving intensity. Their eyes met, and she felt a peculiar kinship with the creature—both observers, separate from the busy world, belonging nowhere in particular.
“You should not encourage strays, Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Leacock remarked, following her gaze.
“I was not aware that looking constituted encouragement,” Elizabeth replied, raising her cup to hide her smile. “Though perhaps that explains much about London marriage markets.”
Mrs. Leacock pressed her lips together, but Elizabeth detected the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth.
In the weeks since her arrival in London, she had discovered that her companion was not quite the dragon her aunt had advertised—merely a woman who took her responsibilities seriously without fully subscribing to the absurdity of the marriage mart.
The bell over the door chimed, drawing Elizabeth’s attention from the cat. Her cup froze halfway to her lips.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood in the doorway, his tall figure silhouetted against the morning light. Of all the tea shops in London, he had to walk into this one—her refuge, her one place free from the Miss Eliza performance.
His dismissal at Meryton had wounded more than her pride. It had confirmed her deepest fear—that no matter how cleverly she spoke or how lively her mind, without fortune or connections, she would always be merely “tolerable” to men of consequence. The memory still burned like a blistered heel.
How ironic that last night, transformed into Miss Eliza with borrowed jewels and polished manners, she had caught his interest enough to request a dance—only for her to refuse him. The sweet satisfaction of that moment now soured in her mouth.
Darcy looked impossibly elegant in a dark blue coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, his cravat tied with the stiffness that screamed wealth and privilege. He surveyed the tea shop with the same composed scrutiny she remembered from Hertfordshire until his gaze landed on her.
She had the satisfaction of seeing shock flicker across his face before his expression settled into its usual remote politeness. His dark eyes widened fractionally—the aristocratic equivalent of a gasp.
“Miss Bennet.” He approached their table with measured steps. “Good morning.”
Elizabeth set her cup down with deliberate care, willing her fingers not to tremble. “Mr. Darcy. What an unexpected pleasure.”
She infused the last word with just enough irony to make his left eyebrow twitch—a small victory that warmed her more than the tea.
“You are acquainted with this gentleman, Miss Bennet?” Mrs. Leacock straightened in her chair, clearly reassessing the situation.
“Mr. Darcy was a guest of our neighbors in Hertfordshire,” Elizabeth explained, deliberately omitting any indication of friendship. “Mr. Darcy, may I present Mrs. Leacock, my companion during my stay in London?”
Darcy bowed with impeccable courtesy. “A pleasure, madam.”
Mrs. Leacock nodded, her shrewd eyes taking in his impeccable attire and reserved manner. “Are you a regular patron of this establishment, Mr. Darcy?”
“Indeed. I find it conducive to quiet reflection before the demands of the day begin.” His gaze returned to Elizabeth, lingering in a way that made her uncomfortably warm. “I was not aware you had connections in London, Miss Bennet.”
“My aunt and uncle Gardiner reside in Gracechurch Street,” Elizabeth replied, lifting her chin slightly, watching for his reaction to the unfashionable address. “They have kindly invited me for the Season.”
A muscle flickered in Darcy’s jaw—disapproval, no doubt. “How fortunate.”
For whom? she wondered, fighting the urge to smooth her second-best morning dress. The champagne silk from last night was safely returned to Caroline’s maid, along with the borrowed amber pendant and matching earrings.
“I believe we saw each other briefly at Lady Egerton’s ball last evening,” he continued, his tone carefully neutral. “Though we did not have the opportunity to dance.”