Page 40 of Mr Darcy’s Quizzing Glass

“No one who makes your acquaintance can be anything but charmed by you,” Darcy responded, lifting her chin gently until he could see her eyes. “I thought I needed to confirm the feelings of my heart—to confirm your goodness and the rightness of my love. I was a fool.”

“No,” she protested, laughing. “Such feelings are new to both of us. I sought confirmation of you through others’ eyes⁠—”

“While I nearly looked for yours with a piece of decorated glass.” He exhaled heavily, clearly disgusted with himself.

“Now, now. You never used it on me.” Elizabeth leant closer, not near enough to draw curious eyes, to examine the quizzing glass dangling on its handsome silver ribbon. “It is a pretty, bespoke thing which you wear in an excellent manner.”

“I did not want any of my new friends to feel singular in their fashion. None can outdo mine, joining as it does silver and gold.” He smiled in a manner she realised had always been intended only for her. “Besides, a ceremony uniting two people deeply and unquestionably in love seemed the right time for me to wear it in company, one last time.”

Elizabeth lifted the object in question. The ruby embedded in the bottom of its gold handle was the largest of the gems, but it was the smaller onyx and diamonds at the base of the lens that truly caught her eye. “Did you never suppose these stones were catching the light and creating the glow?”

“Of course. But even in the dim light of my study, after putting out a candle, it was evident the light was cast from the person, not from a lamp or sconce.”

“Will you have need of it again?”

“It has served me excessively well for some five years,” he said wryly before turning more serious, “but now that I shall have you to help me ease my way in society and understand others, I believe it can be locked away for good.”

He did not need to see her warm smile to know he had touched her with his sentiments. Her glow brightened.

And then she laughed. “At least until your sister is beset with suitors.”

Darcy took her hand and smiled.

EPILOGUE

Six Years Later

In the aftermath of a loud shriek, the nursery at Pemberley was unnervingly calm.

The nursemaid was abed, felled by the same head-cold recently suffered by the eldest Darcy children. Instead, it was Darcy and Elizabeth, pulled from a rather passionate embrace, who came hurriedly to investigate the odd silence. Darcy paused at the threshold, looking round the brightly lit blue and yellow room. There was neither toppled furniture nor toys out of place. There was no sound of sobs, only a quiet giggle. Three-year-old Henry sat on the rug, humming. Behind him stood his elder brother Bennet, his hands clasped behind his back.

Elizabeth moved towards them. “Boys,” she said quietly. “Your sister is asleep. What are you up to?”

Darcy strode into the room and leant down, trying to peer behind Bennet. “Son, what do you have there?”

The four-year-old looked up at him, all innocence. “Nothing, Papa.”

“We are playing with Jasper,” whispered Henry.

“Who?” Darcy looked at his wife, whose expression revealed similar confusion.

She shook her head. “Is this a new toy?”

“No, he is our new friend,” said Bennet.

Darcy looked round the room. “Is Jasper an imaginary friend, or has he hidden himself?”

Again the boys shook their heads. Henry pulled a sheet of paper from his robe. “Here, Papa.”

Darcy glanced at the blotches and scrawls on the paper. He could make out what appeared to be letters; other lines seemed to form a map. Or a perhaps a volcano. Whatever it was, it had been drawn using a quill neither child was of an age to use. He glanced at Henry’s ink-stained fingers and the spots on the carpet and felt his frustration mount. The maid assigned to replace the ailing nurse had twisted her ankle trying to keep up as the boys ran on the lawn. Elizabeth was fatigued by their infant daughter, mercifully asleep in her cradle, and exhaustion plagued him as well.

It was past the boys’ bedtime. Clearly they had needed more exercise in the day, more supervision and, perhaps, a writing tutor. He could read neither their minds nor a bloody word on the paper.

“Read it, Papa. We made a story.”

He glanced at Bennet, whose encouraging looks were dissolving into something closer to disappointment. Henry’s eyes welled with tears.

Squinting again at the paper, he sighed impatiently and reached towards his empty waistcoat pocket.