“Thank you,” Mr. Bennet said. “Now, if it is all the same to everyone, I should like to return to that drawing room and finish the glass of brandy I was so unceremoniously pulled away from.”
The others laughed softly, the tension easing slightly as they turned back toward the warmth of the hearth. Darcy lingered for a moment, holding the door as Miss Elizabeth passed.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said quietly.
He gave a short nod, watching her retreat with her sister down the hall. He was meant to feel concerned for the awkward situation the storm had created—but instead, he found himself secretly, selfishly pleased. Miss Elizabeth Bennet would not be rushing away tonight.
Fourteen
Elizabeth sat on theedge of her bed, smoothing the folds of the nightgown Sir Thomas’s housekeeper had so generously offered for her use. She and Jane had chosen to share a room, for it seemed that Netherfield was home to more people than either of them had realized, and they feared somehow displacing someone who would have kept silent out of politeness. As it was, Elizabeth was not altogether certain that someone had not already given up rooms for their comfort.
Jane leaned back against the pillows, still flushed from the warmth of the fire. The room Sir Thomas had provided them with was snug and quiet, the muffled sounds of the house winding down for the night and an occasional baby cry filtering faintly through the walls.
A soft knock came at the door, and at Elizabeth’s welcome, a young maid stepped inside, her apron slightly askew and her cap slipping over her brow. She bobbed a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, miss. I’m Clara. Sir Thomas said I’d be looking after you, and asked me to see if you needed anything before settling in.”
“That is very thoughtful of him,” Jane answered. “I think we have all we need, thank you.”
Elizabeth hesitated. The evening had left her restless, her thoughts tumbling over everything that had been said at dinner. She glanced toward the bedside table, conspicuously bare, and an idea struck. “Actually, I wonder if there is something to read. A book, perhaps? I often read before bed. Is there anything you might recommend?”
Clara shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the floor. “The library is well stocked, miss, but I…” She trailed off, twisting her fingers in her apron.
Elizabeth’s breath caught as understanding dawned. Like enough, this girl had never learned how to read. She quickly rose, shaking her head. “Oh, no, please, there is no need to trouble yourself. I can fetch it myself.”
The maid looked up, startled. “I could show you the way, miss, but…” She hesitated again. “It is just that most of the household is abed by now, so you might find the corridors a bit dark.”
“Is it improper for me to go alone?”
“Oh, no, miss! Sir Thomas always says the library is for any guest who wishes to use it, night or day.”
Jane, who had been silent until now, sat forward with a faintly conspiratorial air. “Do go, Lizzy. A little walk might do you good. You were so pensive at dinner.”
Elizabeth shot her sister a suspicious look. “And you? Will you simply sit here, perfectly content, while I wander about the house?”
“I am perfectly content, yes. But you are not, and I shall not rest knowing you are lying awake all night brooding.”
“I do not brood.”
“You most certainly do. Fetch your book, Lizzy. Perhaps Mr. Darcy was right—you do have a sharp understanding of what appeals to others, but you will never convince me you are not a brooder.”
Elizabeth groaned, grabbing her shawl. “Why bring Mr. Darcy into the conversation? But very well—I shall fetch a book to avoid further accusations. That is all.”
Jane’s eyes twinkled. “Of course, Lizzy. That is all.”
The maid led Elizabeth down the hall, her lantern casting warm circles of light against the walls. At the entrance to the library, she curtsied again. “Here it is, miss. You will find plenty to choose from. Shall I wait for you?”
“No, thank you, Clara.”
“Then, I’ll not disturb you further, miss.”
Elizabeth thanked her and stepped inside, her steps muffled by the thick rug beneath her feet. The room had a settled quiet to it, as though it had been waiting for someone to disturb its stillness. The furniture, arranged with thoughtful symmetry, invited her to linger, while the faint gleam of lamplight on the polished surfaces gave the space a tranquil, almost watchful presence. The fire in the grate had been banked low, but enough light remained to illuminate the rows of shelves and the grand, sweeping space.
She scanned the titles along one wall, her fingers grazing the spines. It was a lovely collection—nothing particularly modern or eccentric but carefully curated. She could almost hear Mr. Darcy’s voice echoing in her memory from the dinner conversation: measured, deliberate, and maddeningly thoughtful. Her lips twitched at the thought.
And then a sound—a soft rustle, like the turning of a page—came from deeper within the library.
Elizabeth froze, her heart dropping with a thud in her chest. Surely the maid had said the gentlemen were abed? She glanced toward the faint light pooling at the far end of the room. Her curiosity prickled. Taking a careful step forward, she peered around the edge of a tall shelf—and nearly gasped.
There, seated in a wingback chair by the fire, was Mr. Darcy himself, his profile cast in warm shadow, a book open in his hands.
