Chapter 9 #2
Elizabeth moved with ease through the narrow aisles. This was her world—one he had once dismissed too quickly. He watched her trail her fingers across a roll of sky-blue ribbon, then turn to the older woman behind the counter with a warm smile.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I was last in Meryton some months ago, visiting family. I thought perhaps I might find a new bonnet ribbon while we are in town.”
The shopkeeper—pleasant-faced, with a fraying lace cap and shrewd eyes—offered a polite smile. “You have the look of someone familiar,” she said. “But I can’t quite place you.”
Elizabeth’s smile flickered. “I am an… acquaintance of Elizabeth Bennet’s.”
“Ohhh,” the woman said, brightening. “Longbourn—of course! Miss Elizabeth married the parson from Hunsford, did she not? Fine young woman. Bit quick with her tongue, but clever. You a cousin, then?”
Elizabeth paused, then dipped her head. “Something like that,” she said softly. “I recently came from seeing her in Kent. I must say, it was… quite a shock for me.”
“As it was for all of us.” The woman lowered her voice with evident delight at the opportunity for gossip. “Most of us thought it would be the eldest to marry first—Miss Jane, you know. Such a beauty. And everyone saw how Mr. Bingley—he’s the man who let Netherfield—how he looked at her.”
Darcy kept his expression carefully neutral.
“But then he up and left!” the woman went on. “Day after the ball, just packed up and went, he and those sisters of his. Never said goodbye proper. Not a word to anyone, not even Miss Bennet. Left all the servants without a quarter’s notice, too.”
“I had not heard,” Elizabeth said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And Miss Bennet?”
The woman’s lips pinched in sympathy. “Heartbroken, poor girl. It was all over town. Faded to nothing, they said. Still hasn’t quite recovered, though she puts on a brave face.”
Darcy stared down at his gloves, his jaw tight.
“As for Miss Elizabeth—Mrs. Collins now—well, no one expected her to accept the man, especially seeing how she turned him down the first time.”
“She did?” Elizabeth gasped.
The noise called the attention of two women stood near the back of the shop. “Talking about Miss Lizzy’s wedding again, are you?” one of them asked.
“Yes, I was just telling the lass here that it came as a shock.”
“I was not surprised,” the other woman said. “It was a good match for the Bennets, and I told Sir William as much the other day. And he agreed, you know. Said it had all the hallmarks—solid connection, respectable living, and just enough beauty to keep a man pleased.”
“Pray, excuse me.”
Darcy watched in consternation as Elizabeth bolted from the store, causing the women to frown after her.
“Please forgive my wife,” Darcy said. “She has not been feeling well lately.”
To his surprise, the women exchanged knowing glances. “She will be right as rain in a few weeks,” one of them said. “The first few months are always the most difficult.”
Confused, Darcy merely thanked them and paid for ribbon before following Elizabeth out into the cold evening air.
He spotted her a few paces away, standing stiffly at the edge of the street near the lamplight, her back to the door. Her posture was straight, but her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, and even from behind, Darcy could see the tension radiating from her.
He approached quietly. “Elizabeth.”
She did not turn. “I know it was not real,” she said, her voice low and tight, “but to hear them speak of me that way. As though I were some… prize to be assessed for practicality. ‘Just enough beauty to keep a man pleased.’” Her hands clenched under her arms. “I would almost rather they had called me plain.”
“I told them you were unwell, and they said you would be well in a few weeks.” He hesitated. “I confess I do not understand why they said the first few months are always the most difficult.”
She let out a sharp burst of laughter. “They must think that I am… increasing.”
Darcy could feel heat flood his cheeks, and she laughed again before saying, “I must say, that is certainly not a rumor I have had to endure before.”
He smiled faintly. “You bolted quite dramatically. I suspect they are crafting an entire backstory for us as we speak.”
She gave a weak giggle, then quieted again, her gaze drifting down the lane toward the familiar curve that led to Longbourn.
He followed her line of sight and said gently, “It is late. Shall we return to the inn?”
“Perhaps we could visit the bookseller first?” she asked. “It would be nice to have something to do this evening. Mr. Reid keeps quite a large selection of chapbooks, in addition to the usual expensive tomes.”
The idea of reading together in bed with a warm fire in the grate stirred something unexpectedly tender in Darcy’s chest.
He coughed lightly, schooling his voice. “That sounds… pleasant.”
She glanced at him sidelong, her brows arched in amusement. “Pleasant? From you, Mr. Darcy, that is practically a sonnet.”
His lips twitched. “Then allow me to wax rhapsodic. Nothing would give me greater joy this evening than acquiring a worn pamphlet of overblown verse and sharing it aloud before a crackling fire.”
Elizabeth gave a small, delighted laugh. “Careful, or I shall begin to think you enjoy poetry.”
“I enjoy you enjoying it,” he said, almost without thinking. She looked at him, her expression softening. For a long second, neither of them moved.
Then she nodded and turned down the lane. “Come, sir. I believe Mr. Reid closes at six.”
Darcy followed, the chill evening suddenly not quite so cold. The air smelled faintly of chimney smoke and pine, and beside him walked a woman whose smile warmed more than any fire. A false world, perhaps—but one in which he was beginning to feel strangely alive.
As they entered the bookshop, the scent of old paper and pipe smoke wrapped around them like a memory. The shelves, overfull and lovingly disorganized, ran almost to the low ceiling beams.
Elizabeth smiled, her fingers trailing lightly across the spines of well-worn volumes as she wandered down a narrow aisle. Darcy followed her silently, his eyes scanning the titles: treatises on botany, volumes of poetry, tattered novels printed in small batches and passed from hand to hand.
Near the counter, two voices drifted to them—soft enough not to be intended for eavesdropping, but loud enough to carry nonetheless.
“My aunt is here,” Elizabeth said in surprise.
Darcy looked over and saw Mrs. Philips at the counter, bundled in a thick shawl and chattering away with a man he could only surmise to be Mr. Reid.
Mrs. Philips gave a cackling laugh, the sound carrying across the nearly-empty shop. “She turned him down at first, you know. Poor Mr. Collins left the room with his tail tucked, according to Kitty and Lydia. But then her mother made her see reason.”
Mr. Reid’s voice was tight as he responded, “But you must admit, madam, that Mr. Collins is far below your niece with regards to intellect. If you ask me, I would have said she would marry someone with the sense to keep up. Someone who could match her wit.”
Mrs. Philips let out a sigh. “She always was clever. Too clever, some would say. That tongue of hers—”
“She was a sharp one, Miss Lizzy. Came in every fortnight like clockwork, always asking after the latest essays or travelogues. Had more opinions on Cowper and Barrow than most educated gentlemen I have met.”
Darcy felt a rush of something fierce and bright surge in his chest at that, but he made no sound.
“Better a foolish parson’s wife than a spinster,” retorted Mrs. Philips, shaking her head.
“We cannot always marry poets and princes, Mr. Reid. And if Mr. Collins is a bit pompous, well, Lizzy will manage him. She always had a way with words. If you ask me, it is Jane you should feel sorry for, abandoned like that.”
“Ah yes,” Mr. Reid said with a note of distaste. “That Netherfield fellow… he was in here once or twice. Smiled a lot. Did not read.”
“That is the one.”
“Pity,” Mr. Reid muttered. “Miss Bennet seemed quite taken with him. And he with her.”
“Precisely! It was nearly a certainty, you know. All the town expected it. But there was no proposal—nothing but smiles and calls—and then he was gone. Gone!”
“Quite rude of him.”
Mrs. Philips sighed. “We all thought so. The whole household packed up and left overnight. No farewells, no explanations—and none of the usual settlements. It was obvious then that Elizabeth needed to accept Mr. Collins after all, to secure the family’s future.”
There was a pause. Then Mr. Reid added more quietly, “I hope Miss Lizzy finds some peace. She deserved… well, something more.”
Darcy could feel Elizabeth go very still at his side. He stepped slightly closer to her—not touching her, not yet—but just near enough that she could feel his warmth.
After a long moment, she turned back toward the shelves and selected a slim volume of Cowper’s poetry.
When they approached the counter to make their purchase, Mr. Reid greeted them with a polite smile and made no mention of the conversation. Elizabeth asked after a pamphlet or two, her voice light. If he recognized her, he gave no sign.
When they stepped out into the cold again, Darcy reached gently for her hand to put on his arm and repeated his earlier question. “Shall we return to the inn?”
She nodded. “Yes. I think I have learned quite enough about my reputation for one evening.”
As they walked back through the darkening village, Elizabeth asked softly, “Do you think she—my other self—was truly so different from me? Or do you think I could have become her… under the right circumstances?”
Darcy considered. “I think you are the same woman. But placed in a world with fewer choices.”
She was quiet for several steps. “Perhaps. Or perhaps she was wiser than I. She accepted security, stability. And I—” she looked up at him, eyes troubled— “I rejected it all. Even you.”
He stopped. “Elizabeth—”
She shook her head. “No. I do not regret refusing that proposal, Mr…. William. But I do regret… not seeing you. Not who you truly are, the man I have come to know the last few days.”
Darcy could only look at her—this woman who had haunted his thoughts, challenged his pride, and now walked beside him in an impossible world.
As they reached the top of the stairs to the hall that led to their room, he reached for her hand. And this time, he felt her fingers curl into his without hesitation.
The touch was light, but it grounded him more surely than the floorboards beneath their feet.
Nothing more was said as they entered their room. The fire Darcy had arranged earlier glowed in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Their meager supper of cheese and bread, the remnants of the hamper from Mrs. Gardiner, remained mostly untouched on the side table.
Elizabeth removed her bonnet slowly and crossed to the fire, her silhouette calm but reflective. Darcy lingered by the door, her earlier words still echoing in his mind.
I do regret… not seeing you.
He swallowed. “Elizabeth.”
She turned, and the light danced in her eyes.
He took a slow step forward. “You see me now?”
She smiled, small but real. “Yes. I do.”
A long silence fell between them; not heavy, but full of something unsaid.
Then she sat on the edge of the narrow bed and looked at the books they had purchased, the stray curl escaping her braid as she reached for the volume of poems.
“Do you think the other me ever reads to her husband?” she asked lightly.
Darcy gave a quiet laugh. “If she does, I suspect he does not understand half of it.”
“Then perhaps he and I are well matched.”
He crossed the room and sat beside her. “But not well suited.”
She looked up at him.
“No,” she said softly. “No, I cannot imagine finding contentment being married to him.
Time seemed to pause in that moment. Though no declaration was made nor kiss exchanged, there was an understanding that settled between them like the firelight.
They were no longer strangers in a strange world.
They were together in it.