He turned at last, inclining his head with practiced politeness. “I find I am merely reflective.”
“Indeed.” She struck a single key, sharp and discordant. “I should have thought the evening sufficiently instructive without further contemplation.”
Darcy did not reply. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the warmth of Elizabeth’s voice, the intelligence that animated her every expression, the way conversation with her required no vigilance, no careful restraint.My mask slips too easily in her presence,he acknowledged. And, astonishingly, he did not regret it.
Bingley approached him then, cheerful as ever, oblivious to the tension his sister radiated. “A capital evening, was it not?” he said. “I think the Bennets will do very well indeed.”
Darcy managed a smile. “I think so as well.”
When at last he withdrew to his chambers, the house quieting around him, Darcy found that sleep did not come easily. He stood for a time at his window, looking out over the dark sweep of Netherfield’s grounds, replaying moments he could not yet name as significant—but felt, unmistakably, that they were.
Elizabeth Bennet was not like the women of the ton, who paraded their accomplishments and measured every word for effect. She was candid without impropriety, thoughtful without affectation, and possessed of a moral seriousness that both unsettled and drew him in.
“I shall come to know her better,” he murmured into the stillness.
It was not a declaration—only a decision. But Darcy had learned that decisions, once made, had a way of shaping everything that followed.
Chapter Thirteen
“Papa! I have just heard the most delicious gossip!” Lydia burst into the sitting room as Mrs. Bennet poured her husband a cup of tea.
The door flew open with such force that the fringe of the rug lifted, and Lydia’s cheeks were flushed from haste. Her curls had escaped their pins, bobbing wildly as she skidded to a halt before the hearth.
“Lydia, dearest, pray remember you are indoors.” Mrs. Bennet gave her youngest an indulgent look, though her tone carried a mild rebuke. She handed the teacup to her husband, who accepted it absently, his attention already on Lydia.
“That hardly matters at the moment, Mama. You will never guess what was found on the common between Netherfield and Longbourn!”
Elizabeth froze, her biscuit halfway to her mouth. A crumb fell unheeded onto her lap. Mr. Bennet exhibited a similar stillness, his normally cheerful eyes shifting to a serious tone, suggesting the sudden commencement of an internal calculation.
“You will never guess, so I shall tell you. Maria Lucas and I were walking near Oakham Mount, and we encountered Millie Turner. She says her brother found a small pot filled with bronze coins! Is it not exciting? There must be more treasure there—we should look! How marvelous it would be to make our fortunes.”
The room seemed to tighten around Elizabeth’s chest. She forced herself to breathe evenly, willing her face into neutrality. Millie Turner. The name struck like a bell.
Millie Turner’s father was one of Mr. Bennet’s tenants. They worked the home farm and an additional piece of land. The family had been attached to Longbourn for three generations.
“Any gold or silver found belongs to the Crown.” Mary stared at Lydia over the top of her book, her voice calm, precise, and faintly reproving.
“The Turners did not find gold or silver.” Lydia looked rather perplexed, likely confused that Mary had introduced an unnecessary complication. “What does it matter?”
“Do not be obtuse, Lydia,” Kitty said, joining the conversation from her perch near the window. “You spoke of making our fortune in Roman treasure. Mary is pointing out that treasure of real value would not belong to us. We would be obligated to turn it over to the Crown.”
Elizabeth felt her pulse thrum in her ears.Obligated.The word echoed unpleasantly.
“You do know how to spoil things, do you not, Mary? I hardly care.” Lydia tossed her curls with careless bravado. “I shall join Maria in combing the common. We shall find a treasure trove of ancient artifacts, and when the finder’s fee is rewarded, I shall not share one farthing.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a small, breathless laugh that sounded amused. “That is enough, my dears. Please have a seat, Lydia. The tea is cooling rapidly.” She handed her daughter a cup and busied herself with the tea tray.
Lydia took it and sat on the settee beside her mother, chattering away about gold and jewels and other mystical relics—Roman soldiers, hidden villas, fortunes buried beneath their very feet. Elizabeth hardly heard her. Her gaze was fixed on her father.
Mr. Bennet had fallen silent. He wore a frown and appeared to contemplate heavily the rug at his feet, as though the pattern held answers he alone could see. His tea went untouched. No one else appeared to notice his sudden change of demeanor. When he rose to return to his library, Elizabeth followed.
She closed the door behind them. The familiar scent of leather bindings and beeswax enveloped her, but it brought no relief.
“Papa—”
He held up a hand before she could continue. “No, Lizzy, I shall not be pushed into a hasty decision just because a tenant lad found a cache of bronze coins. What we have is far more valuable. It is not as if anyone saw us that day—there is no suspicion—none directed toward us.”
But did my find also inadvertently spur this frenzy?Elizabeth clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. “But Papa, if someone does find more gold and decides to report it, that will make our predicament all the more precarious.” Her voice dropped. “If the Crown’s attention were already on Hertfordshire, it seems rather unlikely that such a large hoard—hidden though it is—could be disposed of discreetly.”
