He followed her out, folding the list and pocketing it. Miss Bingley was left behind in the library, her eyes narrowed andher expression souring by the second, with nothing but the dust motes and her peevish disappointment for company.
∞∞∞
As Elizabeth made her way toward Jane’s room, her thoughts were not of her sister, nor even the dinner ahead, but of Mr. Darcy.
He had looked so pale that morning—more than pale, stricken. She had watched his self-possession crumble, seen the fear he had struggled so hard to hide. And it haunted her still.
Whoever was tormenting him with those strange and unsettling letters had gone too far. It was not right. It was not fair. He already carried so much—the burden of wealth, responsibility, family, propriety. He was proud, certainly, and not always easy to read, but in the quiet hours they had spent speaking together, Elizabeth had begun to glimpse the man behind the reserve. A man worn thin by worry, duty, and perhaps loneliness.
Who would be so cruel as to torment a respectable gentleman like him?
She hated the idea of someone toying with him. Whatever else could be said of Darcy, he did not deserve to be hunted like prey. And if there were some small thing she might do to ease his mind—to remind him that he was not alone—then she would do it gladly.
A plan formed in her mind as she stepped into Jane’s room and helped her prepare for dinner. Before joining the othersdownstairs, Elizabeth paused just long enough to ask one of the footmen if a chess set might be placed in the drawing room after dinner.
“On the side table near the fire,” she added with a smile.
In the dining room, Elizabeth sat between Jane and Mrs. Hurst, who was more occupied with her wine glass than her plate.
“Longbourn geese are far superior to any I have tasted elsewhere,” Elizabeth said lightly, casting a glance across the table toward Mr. Hurst, who was muttering about dry breast meat.
Mr. Hurst looked up, blinking. “Eh?”
She smiled. “I only mean that our cook swears by her method—she stuffs them with apples and herbs and never lets them dry out.”
Across the table, Mr. Bingley grinned. “That sounds promising! I shall have to beg the receipt from your Mrs. Hill.”
Miss Bingley sniffed. “Surely there are finer pursuits to discuss at table than geese.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Few things are more dangerous than offending a cook by questioning her goose.”
Darcy’s lips twitched. He did not laugh, but he did look up from his plate, his eyes catching hers.
Encouraged, Elizabeth pressed on. “The eldest son of Sir William Lucas once attempted to roast a duck himself. He had read a French treatise and thought himself quite the expert. The duck, alas, did not agree.”
“What happened to it?” Bingley asked, clearly delighted.
“It exploded,” Elizabeth replied with perfect solemnity. “Or so he insists. The kitchen staff described it merely as 'dramatically overdone.'”
Darcy gave a single, short laugh, which seemed to startle even himself.
Jane glanced between them with quiet satisfaction.
Miss Bingley narrowed her eyes. “Cooking accidents are not exactly genteel conversation,” she murmured.
“But very human,” Elizabeth said, taking another bite. “And quite diverting, when no one is injured.”
For a few moments, the table lapsed into a more contented rhythm, punctuated by occasional remarks from Mr. Bingley and Jane about the weather and local walks. Darcy was silent again, but not withdrawn—his gaze often found Elizabeth’s, and once, when she passed the stewed carrots down the table before he asked for it, he gave her a small, surprised nod.
“Have you ever read Cowper’s poem about the hare?” Elizabeth asked suddenly, directing her question across the table.
Mr. Hurst frowned. “Can’t say I have.”
Darcy looked up again. “You meanThe Task?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Yes. There is something very tender about how he writes of the creature. I always wondered if he had a pet rabbit as a child.”
“I believe he did,” Darcy said quietly. “He wrote several letters about it.”
