Darcy drew in a breath. “So if someone were intelligent—”
“Then I should be ruined twice over, and you with me,” she cut in. “But Miss Bingley is not intelligent. Or creative. You ought to be quite safe.”
He stared at her, still fuming—but quieter now. His voice came rougher than he intended. “Why do you write like this, Miss Bennet? Why would someone so careful put herself in harm’s way again and again?”
She looked away. Her jaw tensed.
“I do not understand. What are you trying to prove? Why do your fingers twitch every time you have a thought, and what is wrong with keeping them inside your own head?”
Then, without looking at him, she said tightly, “I was eight. Mama told me my teeth were too large and my laugh too loud and that I would never catch a man if I kept flinging opinions like flower petals. I was mortified.”
Darcy swallowed. Rather harsh for a mother.
She exhaled, as if the story needed to be finished, even if it cost her. “Papa gave me a blank book and told me to write it all down. Said it would stop me from shouting. I filled four pages that night. And the next. And every day after.”
Something hollow flickered behind her voice then—something that did not belong to wit or pride.
“I have tried to stop,” she added. “I truly have. But sometimes I think I might fly apart without it.”
Darcy’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “And you kept them all.”
She nodded once. “Every one. Even the awful ones.”
They walked for a moment without speaking, the bustle of the market threading around them in a hum of bells and voices.
He glanced at her sidelong. “How many did she get?”
Elizabeth exhaled. “Just the one, thank Heaven.”
“The most current one, I suppose, which would mean, perhaps, that it… was not very complete?” He tilted his hat to survey her hopefully.
“Poor, optimistic man. There, I doubt anyone has ever accused you of optimism before! That wretched thing was nearly bursting.” she said. “I had a very nice new pen, you know, and a very productive set of circumstances. You were a particularly obliging subject.”
He gave her that look—half horror, half disbelief. She shrugged. “I had a great deal of time on my hands, and very little sense of self-preservation.”
He frowned. “And the rest?”
“Locked in a trunk. At home. With a key that no longer matches anything in this country.”
Darcy gave a short breath—almost a laugh, though not a kind one. “Then one volume was enough to do this much damage.”
Elizabeth’s mouth twisted. “Miss Bingley may not be clever, but she had plenty to work with.”
Darcy shook his head once. “We were fools to assume stupidity made her harmless.”
Elizabeth hummed. “Well. We do have a lot of practice being wrong.”
“Entirely. And too much history to…” He stopped.
“To what?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Elizabeth’s voice dropped to a hush, urgent and tremulous. “Speaking of history… there is still a way. We both laughed at it once, but it would… well, itwouldsolve… We could—”
He lifted a hand to stop her, face falling as he searched for words. “Please, Elizabeth… I cannot.”
Her hopeful smile faltered. “Youcannot—or youwillnot?”
