Page 34 of A Question of Character

“She should be. If ever she seeks another place, Aunt Gardiner may attempt to steal her.”

“I shall warn the housekeeper.”

Elizabeth’s eyes traveled across the room to Georgiana, who had begun a lively passage and then stopped to correct herself. “Miss Darcy plays with more confidence when she does not know she is being heard.”

“She does many things with more confidence when she forgets herself.”

“Were you like that at her age?”

“No.”

“Of course not.” Elizabeth brushed a crumb from her glove and gave him a look of mock gravity. “You were born at eight-and-twenty, already in possession of a house, a steward, and a disapproving opinion of inferior penmanship.”

“My penmanship is excellent.”

“I did not say otherwise.”

“You implied I judge others by it.”

“Do you not?”

Darcy hesitated long enough to condemn himself.

Elizabeth laughed under her breath. “There. I knew it.”

“Bad penmanship may conceal serious faults.”

“It may also conceal an impatient hand.”

“Which is itself a fault.”

“You are severe.”

“So I have been told.”

She rested back against the sofa, the plate balanced in one hand. “Tell me about Pemberley.”

The request struck him with unreasonable force.

“What would you like to know?”

“Anything. You speak of Derbyshire with such attachment, and yet I cannot assemble the whole of it from scattered pieces. I know there are hills, streams, a housekeeper with opinions on impressing visitors, and tenants who object to being maligned before breakfast. I require more.”

Darcy looked across the room. Georgiana had changed to a slower piece, her head bent over the keys, and Mrs. Gardiner sat nearby with her embroidery forgotten in her lap. Mr. Gardiner had lowered the newspaper, pretending to read. Darcy suspected everyone within ten feet had heard Elizabeth’s request.

Still, she had asked him.

He could answer her.

Darcy could have given her the account he offered to guests: the age of the house, the situation of the park, the improvements his father had made, the distance from Lambton, the quality of the woods, the approach from the north road. Such answers came readily, dressed in proper phrases and polished by repetition. They would satisfy any curious acquaintance.

Miss Bennet was not merely curious.

“Pemberley lies in a valley,” he began, choosing the words with less ease than he liked. “The house stands on rising ground, with woods behind it and the stream below. It is not a grand prospect in the manner some gentlemen prefer. One does not approach it and feel conquered.”

“That sounds a recommendation,” Elizabeth said, drawing her feet a little beneath her skirts as she settled more comfortably upon the sofa. “I do not know that I should like to be conquered by a house.”

“Many houses attempt it.”