CHAPTER 2 AMONG TEA AND BOOKS #2
Elizabeth felt heat rise to her cheeks at the memory of refusing his dance request.
“Did we? How curious that I recall seeing you with Miss Bingley for most of the evening.”
Mrs. Leacock’s disapproving cough reminded Elizabeth that deliberate impertinence was not part of a proper young lady’s repertoire. Darcy, however, seemed more amused than offended.
“And how does your sister fare?” he asked, changing the subject smoothly. “I understand Mr. Bingley continues his residence at Netherfield.”
The mention of Jane sent a pang through Elizabeth’s chest. If Jane secured Mr. Bingley, at least one Bennet daughter would escape the fate of dependence on Mr. Collins’s charity.
“Jane is well, thank you.” Elizabeth took a sip of tea, watching him over the rim. “She writes that Mr. Bingley calls at Longbourn with flattering regularity.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Was that relief in his voice? Surely not.
An awkward silence fell. Mrs. Teabrook approached with a plate of seed cake.
“Mr. Darcy!” she greeted. “Your usual table by the bookshelves is ready. Unless…”
“Please, do not let us delay your morning ritual,” Elizabeth said quickly, seizing the opportunity to end the uncomfortable exchange.
She treasured these brief moments of freedom between social obligations, when she could shed Miss Eliza’s perfect manners and simply enjoy a book without wondering how it might impress a gentleman of means.
Darcy hesitated, then bowed again. “I wish you a pleasant day, Miss Bennet, Mrs. Leacock.”
He moved toward the back of the shop, and Elizabeth released a heavy breath, her fingers trembling as she reached for the seed cake.
“We should leave,” she whispered to Mrs. Leacock. “Find another tea shop.”
Mrs. Leacock regarded her with a mixture of sympathy and firmness. “We shall do no such thing, Miss Bennet. This establishment is perfectly respectable, the tea is excellent, and it would be foolish to abandon it merely because a gentleman of your acquaintance also appreciates its qualities.”
“He is not—” Elizabeth began, then lowered her voice. “He is not a friend. In Hertfordshire, Mr. Darcy made his disdain for country society quite clear. For me in particular.”
“Did he indeed?” Mrs. Leacock’s gaze traveled to where Darcy sat, his broad back to them, then returned to Elizabeth’s flushed face. “Yet he greeted you with perfect civility. And specifically inquired after your sister.”
“Social niceties only.” Elizabeth turned toward the window, only to find the ginger cat still watching her, its tail twitching in what she fancied was either judgment or sympathy.
Mrs. Leacock waited until she had composed herself before leaning forward. “You seemed quite… affected by his appearance.”
Elizabeth felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Surprise, Mrs. Leacock, nothing more. One does not expect to encounter Hertfordshire acquaintances in London tea shops.”
“Indeed not.” The companion sipped her tea, her expression thoughtful. “Particularly such wealthy ones. I believe I have heard the name Darcy associated with a substantial estate in Derbyshire.”
“Pemberley,” Elizabeth confirmed, then wished she hadn’t when Mrs. Leacock’s eyebrow rose in interest. “It was mentioned during his stay at Netherfield.”
Mentioned repeatedly, almost reverently, by Miss Bingley, who had made no secret of her aspirations to become its mistress.
“I see.” Mrs. Leacock’s tone suggested she saw rather more than Elizabeth would like. “It is always advantageous to cultivate respectable acquaintances in town. Perhaps we shall see Mr. Darcy again during our morning outings.”
The prospect filled Elizabeth with a confusing mixture of dismay and something she refused to identify as anticipation. This tea shop had been meant as her refuge from her social anxieties. The last thing she needed was to regularly encounter a man who had already found her wanting.
“I should like to look at the books now,” she said, rising abruptly. “Mrs. Teabrook mentioned new arrivals.”
Mrs. Leacock nodded, settling back with her tea and directing her attention to the street. The companion had made her point; she would not belabor it.
Elizabeth made her way toward the reading gallery, careful to keep her gaze fixed on the bookcases and away from Darcy’s table. Mr. Booker, a thin man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose, greeted her with a gentle smile.
“Miss Bennet, is it not? Mrs. Teabrook mentioned you might be interested in our newest acquisitions.” He gestured toward a shelf labeled ‘Just Arrived.’ “These came in yesterday. Are you seeking anything in particular?”
Elizabeth glanced at the shelf, calculating the cost of a subscription against her pin money. Perhaps if she skipped the ribbon she’d planned to purchase for Jane’s birthday…
“Something diverting,” she replied, scanning the titles. “With heroes less vexing than those one encounters in real life.”
Mr. Booker’s smile widened. “Ah, a challenge indeed. May I suggest The Castle of Wolfenbach? Most thrilling, with a heroine of remarkable spirit.”
“That sounds perfect.” Elizabeth reached for the volume, only to find another hand extending toward the same book.
“I beg your pardon.” Darcy withdrew his hand as though burned. “Please, Miss Bennet, the book is yours.”
Their fingers had barely brushed, yet heat bloomed across Elizabeth’s skin as though she’d pressed her hand to a warming pan. She clutched the book to her chest, using it as a shield between them.
“You read Gothic novels, Mr. Darcy? I confess, I would not have expected such frivolous tastes from you.”
His mouth tightened, but then, unexpectedly, relaxed into what might almost have been a smile. “My sister has expressed interest in the title. I thought to evaluate its suitability.”
“How conscientious.” Elizabeth tried to ignore the strange flutter in her stomach when his dark eyes held hers. “Though I wonder if your sister might benefit more from forming her own literary opinions.”
“Georgiana is but sixteen,” he replied, his tone defensive. “Some guidance is appropriate.”
“At sixteen, I was devouring everything from sermons to Fanny Burney,” Elizabeth countered, surprising herself with the candor. “The wider one reads, the better one discerns quality from rubbish.”
Like men who judge women based on their dowries and connections, she added silently.
Darcy regarded her with an intensity that made her wish she had remained at her table. “You speak as though from experience, Miss Bennet. What discernment have your varied readings granted you?”
“The ability to recognize pomposity in prose and person,” she replied sweetly.
A startled laugh escaped him—a warm, rich sound that transformed his austere features and momentarily robbed Elizabeth of her composure.
She had not thought Fitzwilliam Darcy capable of genuine mirth.
The sound triggered an unwelcome warmth in her chest, a dangerous softening she quickly steeled herself against.
“A valuable skill indeed,” he acknowledged, his eyes still holding hers. “Perhaps you might share your assessment of this novel once you’ve finished it? For Georgiana’s benefit, of course.”
Elizabeth hesitated. Last night, she had performed her role perfectly, steering Darcy toward Caroline as promised. This morning, standing before him without borrowed finery or feigned smiles, she felt strangely exposed—yet more herself than she had in weeks.
“I am at The Tea Book most mornings,” she said, despite her better judgment. “Mrs. Leacock and I have established a pleasant ritual before the day’s social obligations begin.”
“As have I.” He glanced at the window where the ginger cat stretched languidly across the sill. “Though I lack such an attentive audience.”
“The cat is Bookmark,” Mrs. Teabrook explained, noticing Elizabeth’s interest in the ginger feline. “Quite the character—rules the shop with an iron paw but chooses his favorites with great discernment. He rarely acknowledges new customers.”
“Yet he seems to have made an exception for Miss Bennet,” Darcy observed, his voice carrying a note of curiosity.
Elizabeth turned to find him watching not the cat, but her. “Perhaps he recognizes a kindred spirit. Neither of us is particularly impressed by titles or fortune, only by genuine character.”
“Is that your assessment of me as well, Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked, his expression unreadable.
“I have not yet read enough chapters to form a proper review, sir,” she replied, surprised by her boldness. “Though the opening pages were rather… forbidding.”
The shop bell rang again, and a group of young ladies entered, their excited chatter filling the quiet space. Elizabeth recognized them as the fashionable debutantes she’d been introduced to at Lady Mountford’s musicale—precisely the society she’d been hoping to avoid.
“I should return to Mrs. Leacock,” she said quickly, clutching the novel to her chest like a shield.
Darcy nodded, his mask of polite indifference sliding back into place. “Of course. Good day, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth hurried back to her table, where Mrs. Leacock was already gathering her shawl, clearly recognizing the newcomers as well.
“Perhaps we should proceed to the Faringdons now,” the companion suggested, eyeing the giggling young ladies with mild disapproval.
Elizabeth nodded, suddenly eager to escape. She approached Mrs. Teabrook at the counter to settle their bill, reaching for her reticule with fingers that still tingled from the brief contact with Darcy’s hand.
“And I should like to inquire about the cost of a lending subscription,” she said, glancing at the novel she still held. The economy would be worth it for the escape these pages would provide.
Mrs. Teabrook smiled broadly. “A subscription has already been opened in your name, Miss Bennet,” she informed her, handing over a small brass token engraved with the letters TB and the number 45. “For the lending library. The gentleman thought you might enjoy visiting regularly.”
“What gentleman?” Elizabeth asked, though her heart had already begun to race with unwelcome awareness.
Mrs. Teabrook’s eyes twinkled. “Mr. Darcy, miss. Said it was to make amends for nearly taking your book. A year’s subscription, paid in full.”
Elizabeth turned, scanning the tea shop, but Darcy had vanished, presumably through the back entrance to avoid the new arrivals.
“How… presumptuous,” she murmured, though the token felt warm in her palm. The gesture unsettled her—in its generosity and the implicit expectation of continued encounters.
“How fortunate,” Mrs. Leacock corrected, guiding her toward the door. “Now we need not search for a new establishment, as you suggested earlier.”
Elizabeth bit her lip, torn between pride and practicality.
The subscription would save her precious coin, but accepting felt dangerously like accepting Darcy himself into her carefully constructed London existence.
The small brass token was perhaps the one authentic piece in her world of borrowed gowns and borrowed smiles.