In the back of the cart, carefully packed and wrapped in a blanket to guard against the cold, sat her precious Shakespeare volumes. A pang shot through Elizabeth’s chest as she thought of them—her books, lovingly collected over years of careful saving. Each one held memories: evenings spent reading by the fire, passages recited aloud to Jane, and the occasional argument with her father over which play contained Shakespeare’s finest wit.
And now, she was giving them up.
Charlotte met her at the door, her face lighting with a mix of amusement and—Elizabeth suspected—sympathy. “Lizzy,” she greeted warmly, stepping aside to allow Elizabeth inside. “To what do I owe this honor? A friendly visit, or are you here to settle our little wager?”
Elizabeth pressed her lips into a thin line, refusing to rise to the bait. “I have come to fulfill my end of the bargain,” she said briskly, brushing past Charlotte to retrieve the books from the cart. “It is no honor at all.”
“Oh, but it is!” Charlotte called after her, her voice laced with mock reverence. “The great Elizabeth Bennet, bestowing her sacred Shakespeare collection upon an unworthy friend. Truly, it is a day for the history books.”
Elizabeth returned moments later, her arms full of the wrapped volumes. She set them on the nearest table with a care that bordered on reverence, her hands lingering on the topmost book before she stepped back. “There,” she said, her tone clipped. “I trust you are satisfied.”
Charlotte tilted her head, surveying the stack with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Hmm. Yes, I think they will do nicely. I have even been considering where they might look best on my shelf.”
The jab hit its mark, and Elizabeth’s frown deepened. “You do not even care for Shakespeare.”
“That is precisely why they are so effective,” Charlotte replied with mock solemnity, crossing her arms. “Think of them, Lizzy—sitting proudly on my shelf, a testament to your folly and my triumph. Hamlet may even find a new purpose as a teacup saucer.”
Elizabeth’s mouth fell open, indignation bubbling up. “Charlotte Lucas, if you so much as balance a single cup on one of these books, I will—”
“Oh, relax,” Charlotte interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “I would never disrespect them so openly. Subtly, perhaps, but not openly.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help the reluctant laugh that escaped her, though it was tinged with bitterness. “You are impossible.”
“And you,” Charlotte countered, “are far too attached to these dusty old things.”
“They are not ‘dusty old things,’” Elizabeth retorted, her tone sharp. “They are works of genius.”
Charlotte smirked. “Genius, is it? The same genius who fills his plays with bawdy jokes and overlong soliloquies?”
“Bawdy jokes that reveal the deepest truths of human nature,” Elizabeth shot back. “And soliloquies that—”
”—that you will now have to live without,“ Charlotte finished smugly. “Do not look so aggrieved, Lizzy. It was just a wager, after all.”
Elizabeth’s smile faded, her shoulders sagging slightly. “It was more than just a wager, Charlotte. For both of us.”
The sincerity in her tone seemed to disarm Charlotte, whose expression softened. She stepped closer, her voice gentler now. “Lizzy, you do not have to do this. Truly, I do not care about the books. I only teased because—well, because I hate to see you so unhappy.”
Elizabeth shook her head, forcing a wry smile. “You won, Charlotte. Fair and square. It is only right that you take them.”
Charlotte hesitated, then placed a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “You are a terrible liar, you know. But if this is what you need to do…” She trailed off, glancing at the books. “Just know that they will have a good home. And perhaps,” she added with a small, teasing grin, “I might even read one of them.Much Ado About Nothing, perhaps. That title seems particularly fitting.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at her lips. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet, you still bring me gifts,” Charlotte quipped, her grin widening. “Come, let us have tea. You can mourn your books properly before you go.”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be led into the sitting room, her heart heavier than she cared to admit. The books were gone, but the weight of what she had lost lingered, far deeper than a few volumes of Shakespeare could explain.
Twenty-Three
The fire crackled softlyin Darcy’s study, its warmth doing little to ease the chill that had settled in his chest. The hour was late, and the streets of London were quiet, save for the occasional sound of wheels against cobblestones outside. Darcy sat in his chair, staring into the flames, a glass of brandy untouched in his hand.
He did not even hear the door open until his cousin’s familiar voice broke the silence.
“Well, this is a sight,” Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam drawled, stepping into the room with an easy confidence. “I had wondered if I’d find you buried under some mountain of paperwork or brooding into the night, and here you are—doing both, I see.”
Darcy’s shoulders stiffened. “Richard,” he said flatly, not bothering to rise. “I was not expecting you.”
“That much is obvious.” Richard closed the door behind him and crossed the room, his sharp eyes taking in Darcy’s uncharacteristically disheveled appearance. “You look terrible,cousin. No, truly. I’ve seen soldiers after a week-long march look better than you.”
