Chapter 18 #2
He intended only to choose a book. Perhaps two.
Something solid enough to occupy his mind and dull the absurd expectancy that had taken root in him since the previous night.
A Roman history would be unwise; it would lead too directly back to her.
Poetry worse. Agricultural reports might serve, being both useful and sufficiently dry to punish sentiment.
He opened the library door quietly and stepped inside.
Then stopped.
Miss Elizabeth stood before one of the shelves with a cup of tea on the table behind her and a shawl wrapped about her shoulders.
The pale morning light touched the side of her face, softening the fatigue there without hiding it.
She had a book half drawn from the shelf, one hand still resting upon its spine, and when she turned, surprise brightened her eyes.
For a moment, Darcy forgot every book he had ever meant to read.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, bowing. “Forgive me. I did not know the room was occupied.”
“I believe libraries are made to be occupied, sir.”
Her voice was quiet, suited to the stillness of the hour, but the reply carried its usual quickness. Darcy felt the tension in him ease by a degree.
“So they are. Yet I would not intrude upon your solitude.”
“Then we are both unfortunate,” she said, releasing the book from the shelf and holding it against her shawl, “for I had just begun to fear I was intruding upon yours.”
“As I had not yet entered, I think my claim must be weaker.”
“But you are Mr. Bingley’s guest, and I am merely the sister of an invalid.”
“You could never be merely anything.”
The words left him before he considered them. They were not improper, but they were more earnest than he had meant to be. Miss Elizabeth looked down at the book in her hands, and a little color touched her cheek. Whether from pleasure, awkwardness, or the warmth of the fire, he could not tell.
“Jane is sleeping,” she said after a moment. “Mrs. Nicholls banished me before I could make myself useful enough to be tiresome.”
“A wise housekeeper.”
“Very wise. Though I am beginning to suspect she governs this house more thoroughly than anyone gives her credit for.”
“Most good housekeepers do.”
“Is that true at Pemberley?”
“Yes.” Darcy’s mouth curved faintly. “Though Mrs. Reynolds would claim she only gives suggestions.”
“And do the suggestions differ greatly from commands?”
“Only in that they are phrased with greater civility.”
Miss Elizabeth laughed softly, and the sound pleased him too much. “Then your housekeeper is much like her niece, Susie.”
“You know Susie?”
“Yes, she is a maid at Longbourn. I met her when she was housekeeper at…” her voice trailed off.
“At your aunt and uncle’s house,” Darcy finished softly for her.
“Yes.”
He came farther into the room, though he kept a proper distance.
The library, he noticed, suited her. Not because she affected learning, as some young ladies did, but because she seemed entirely at ease among books, firelight, and quiet, as though she had never required permission to belong in such a room.
The thought came with an odd certainty: if Netherfield had been hers, she would have known what every shelf contained.
He dismissed it as fancy. Or tried to.
“Were you seeking a particular volume?” he asked, attempting to change the subject to one less sorrowful.
“Peace, chiefly. But as that is rarely cataloged, I settled for a history of Hertfordshire.”
“A useful substitute?”
“That depends upon whether one desires truth or confidence. Thus far the author offers more of the latter.”
Darcy glanced at the spine. “You know the county well enough to judge him?”
“Well enough to quarrel with him, which is often more satisfying.”
“Then I pity the author.”
“Do not. He is safely dead, and therefore beyond correction.”
“An enviable position for an historian.”
“Only for a careless one.”
Darcy could not help smiling. “You have severe standards, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Only for those who put things in print. The rest of us may be wrong in private with far less consequence.”
“I shall endeavor to keep my errors unpublished.”
“That would be very prudent.”
The exchange settled something between them.
Not entirely. There remained the memory of his offense, the uncertainty of their present acquaintance, and the strange knowledge they shared without speaking it aloud.
Yet the sharp edges had softened. She did not look as though she wished him gone. That alone felt like undeserved mercy.
Darcy gestured toward the shelves. “I came in search of occupation, though I had not yet decided whether I required instruction or distraction.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Generally. Instruction improves a man. Distraction merely prevents him from making himself disagreeable to others.”
“Then for the sake of the household, perhaps you had better choose distraction.”
He inclined his head. “A charitable suggestion.”
“I am known for my charity.”
“Are you?”
“To those who deserve it.”
He looked at her, and she met his gaze with a spark of challenge that warmed him more than the fire. “Then I must hope to earn it.”
The words hung between them a moment too long.
Miss Elizabeth’s expression shifted—not retreating, not quite, but becoming aware of the same sudden stillness he felt. Darcy looked away first, not from indifference but from self-preservation, and turned toward the nearest shelf.
“What would you recommend?” he asked.
“From this library?”
“Yes.”
“That is a dangerous question, Mr. Darcy. A recommendation reveals as much about the person giving it as the person receiving it.”
“Then I shall consider myself warned.”
She moved along the shelves, her fingers passing over several worn spines before pausing upon one. “For distraction, perhaps this. For instruction, something duller and more improving, but I would not be so cruel before breakfast.”
“You are merciful after all.”
“Occasionally.”
He accepted the book she offered. Their fingers did not touch, though he was aware of how near they came. He looked down and found himself holding a volume of essays, not new, not handsome, but clearly used.
“This is your notion of distraction?”
“It contains two tolerably amusing essays, one very foolish argument, and at least one passage that made me wish to argue with the author aloud. I call that excellent distraction.”
“Do you often argue with books?”
“When the company is equal to it.”
“And when it is not?”
“Then I argue with people.”
Darcy laughed then, quietly but with genuine amusement.
Her eyes widened for the smallest instant, as if the sound had surprised her. Then she smiled, not triumphantly, but with something nearer pleasure, and Darcy felt the moment settle within him.
He was in danger.
Not the danger of a passing attraction, nor of admiration easily reasoned away. It was much worse. He liked being with her. He liked her intelligence, her courage, her quickness, the way she treated conversation not as a performance but as a living thing to be shaped, tossed, tested, and enjoyed.
He liked that she made him forget to be guarded.
A soft sound from the hall recalled them both. Miss Elizabeth looked toward the door, then back at him. “I ought not remain long. Jane may wake and decide I have abandoned her for county histories and argumentative essays.”
“That would be a grave betrayal.”
“Very grave. Sisters in sickrooms are jealous creatures.”
“Then I shall not detain you.”
She glanced toward the chair near the fire, then at the tea she had scarcely touched. “Mrs. Nicholls ordered me to take half an hour.”
“Mrs. Nicholls is wise, as we have established.”
“She is also difficult to disobey.”
“Another mark of wisdom.”
Elizabeth considered him, her smile returning. “Then perhaps I shall obey for ten minutes more and call it a compromise.”
Darcy bowed slightly. “A most reasonable rebellion.”
She laughed again and took the chair near the fire. Darcy chose one across from her, close enough for conversation, far enough for propriety, and opened the book she had placed in his hand.
For the next little while, the house remained quiet, Jane slept above stairs, and Darcy let himself believe that ten minutes could be a very great gift.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth had intended to obey Mrs. Nicholls for ten minutes.
This, she told herself, was a most reasonable compromise.
Ten minutes in the library could not be considered neglect of Jane, nor could it be called self-indulgence when one had spent most of the night in a chair designed, apparently, by a person with a personal grudge against spines.
Ten minutes of warmth, tea, and conversation would restore her enough to be useful again.
The difficulty was that Mr. Darcy sat across from her.
He had opened the book she recommended, but instead of pretending to read it while ignoring her—as many gentlemen would have done—he examined the table of contents with what appeared to be genuine interest. The firelight caught the dark line of his profile, the slight furrow between his brows, and the firm curve of his mouth when some title amused him.
Elizabeth tried very hard not to notice all of this, then gave it up as hopeless and took a sip of tea.
“You have not yet objected to my choice,” she said.
His eyes lifted from the page. “Was I expected to?”
“Not expected, perhaps, but gentlemen who ask ladies for recommendations often prefer to admire the taste involved rather than actually submit to it.”
“Then I shall endeavor to distinguish myself by reading at least three pages before forming an opinion.”
“Heroic.”
“I have been accused of less.”
“That I can well believe.”
His mouth curved, and Elizabeth felt a small, unreasonable pleasure at having put the expression there.
Mr. Darcy amused was not at all like Mr. Darcy grave.
It did not transform him, exactly; he was still too composed for that.
But amusement softened the severity about his eyes and made him appear younger, less like a man formed entirely of duty and restraint.