Chapter Two #2
Caroline held up the bracelet to catch the light, and Darcy caught a glimpse of her expression in the mirror behind the display case. She looked ready to step straight into one of Elizabeth’s novels as the main suspect.
A family with three small children wandered into the jewellery section, the children pressing their faces against every available glass surface while their parents engaged in damage control.
In the confusion of wiping noses and fingerprints and apologizing to staff, Darcy managed to slip behind a pillar near the watch display.
“Well,” Caroline continued, raising her voice to be heard over a determined toddler, “I suppose we shall have to be patient. And supportive. What are friends for if not to help one see things clearly?”
He needed no help from her. Of any kind.
“Oh, Caroline.” Louisa sighed. “You’re not planning one of your interventions, are you? Remember what happened when you separated Charles and that pretty Lillian girl? He met Jane Bennet. Now he’s with someone even less suitable, and through her, Darcy has met this novelist person.”
“It’s her sister, of course she would want to . . . Well, I’m sure the younger sister is adequate, in her own way, but one does worry about Darcy making himself ridiculous.”
The tourist family moved on. Darcy seized his opportunity and made a swift exit through the side entrance, grateful for the blast of cold December air that hit his face as he exited to the street.
Bingley was the best of men. How he had survived growing up with his sisters remained one of life’s inscrutabilities, right up there with why train timetables were treated as works of speculative fiction.
Back in his flat, Darcy found himself no closer to a solution but considerably more agitated. Athena had commandeered the sofa in his absence and was not inclined to move so he could sit.
“I don’t suppose you have any suggestions.” He dropped into the chair opposite her.
She yawned, stretched one elegant paw, and settled back into her nap.
Darcy stared at the ceiling and tried to approach the problem systematically. What did Elizabeth like? What made her laugh? What did she use, wear, read, enjoy?
Books, obviously. But Elizabeth read widely—literary fiction, crime novels, history, science, gardening magazines she’d picked up in dentist waiting rooms. Her shelves were an eclectic mix that reflected a mind that found interest in everything.
Buying her a book felt like bringing coals to Newcastle, and the risk of duplicating something she already owned was too high.
Experiences, then. Theatre tickets, perhaps, or a cooking class.
But Elizabeth’s schedule was as unpredictable as her personality.
She worked when inspiration struck, whether at three in the afternoon or three in the morning.
She’d mentioned once that she’d never met a deadline she couldn’t negotiate, but that her editor had learned to account for what she called her “creative flexibility” in all their planning.
Art might work, but Elizabeth’s flat was crowded with an assortment of prints, photographs, and what she optimistically called “found objects,” which meant essentially anything that caught her fancy during her walks with Waffles.
Last week she’d returned with a small piece of driftwood she insisted looked like Winston Churchill’s profile.
Darcy had squinted at it for several minutes.
All he could see was a piece of wood that had been partially chewed by something with excellent dental health. Waffles, most likely.
Jewellery felt too significant. They were just past three months in—happily, wonderfully, surprisingly three months in—but jewellery conveyed permanence, commitment, futures planned together.
Not that he hadn’t thought about such things, but had Elizabeth?
It wouldn’t do to scare her off if she hadn’t. When they reached Valentine’s, perhaps.
What about something for her writing? A better desk lamp, maybe, though her current setup seemed to suit her well.
A new laptop? But Elizabeth was oddly sentimental about that computer.
Though it wheezed and groaned, she claimed it had “character” and that she couldn’t possibly use anything else.
She’d named it Bartleby and occasionally spoke to it encouragingly when it seemed reluctant to cooperate.
Something for Waffles? Elizabeth doted on that ridiculous dog with a devotion usually reserved for minor deities. But what did one buy for a golden retriever who possessed more toys than some children and a wardrobe that included a bow tie for special occasions?
Darcy rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar tension that preceded his rare moments of professional uncertainty.
In his world, every problem had a solution if one only applied enough analysis, research, and strategic thinking.
But Elizabeth existed outside the normal parameters of human behaviour, at least insofar as he’d ever encountered them.
She delighted in small things. Terrible puns, perfect cups of tea, the way afternoon light fell across her living room floor.
She laughed at his more pompous moments with genuine affection rather than mockery.
She’d once spent twenty minutes explaining why she kept a rubber duck on her bookshelf (it had inspired an idea for one of her novels and she couldn’t bear to throw it away after the book was published).
Darcy leaned back, defeated. Elizabeth deserved something that showed her he understood her needs. But for the first time in years, he had to admit he was stumped.