Page 109 of What Change Entails

Mr. Darcy laughing no longer astonished her. That alone ought to have alarmed her more than it did. At Netherfield she had thought him almost incapable of easy amusement. At Rosings, she had thought him capable just of disdain and discomfort. In Derbyshire he was forever revealing another portion of himself: dry humor, patience with Lydia’s nonsense, kindness to tenants, affection for Georgiana, and a startling willingness to let Elizabeth tease him without seeking the upper hand in every exchange.

She did not know what to do with all these discoveries. Or perhaps she did, and merely disliked the answer enough to avoid examining it too closely.

Mr. Darcy stopped before a narrow shop with green-painted trim and windows crowded by books in varying states of dignity. Some stood upright in proud ranks; others slumped beneath pamphlets, maps, and a few prints of local ruins. The sign above the door read Mr. Alden, Bookseller & Binder.

Elizabeth gestured to him. “A bookshop.”

“One with particular talents.”

“Mr. Darcy, you should have mentioned this sooner. You allowed me to discuss bonnets for nearly a quarter hour when this was waiting nearby.”

“I beg your pardon. I had not realized the injury was so grave.”

“It may never be forgiven.”

He opened the door for her. “Then I must attempt restitution.”

A small bell rang overhead as they entered.

The shop smelled of paper, leather, dust, ink, and faintly of cloves from some hidden source. Shelves climbed the walls wherever windows did not interfere. A table near the center held stacks of volumes in no order Elizabeth could perceive, though she suspected the proprietor understood the chaos perfectly. Near the back, a little iron stove stood cold, and beside it an elderly man in spectacles raised his head from repairing a binding.

“Mr. Darcy,” he said, setting down a tool with care. “A pleasure, sir.”

“Mr. Alden. I hope we do not intrude.”

“Never, sir. Not upon a buyer, and rarely upon a reader.” He regarded Elizabeth with a knowing expression, sharp despite his age. “And this lady is both, I should think.”

Elizabeth liked him instantly.

“You are very charitable,” she replied.

Mr. Alden shook his head. “No charity in it. A browsing reader looks at the shelves first, not the counter.”

Darcy removed his gloves. “Miss Bennet has an interest in difficult volumes.”

“All volumes are difficult when one wishes for them urgently.” Mr. Alden rose with a slight creak in one knee. “Any particular quarry today?”

Elizabeth hesitated. It was foolish to ask. Mr. Bennet had searched for the book twice through London booksellers with no success, and she herself had written once to a shop in Gracechurch Street after hearing him mention it at dinner with an air of resigned longing.

Still, where was the harm?

“My father has long wished to find a copy of Harrington’s edition of Lucian,” she said. “The 1772 printing, if possible. He claims the notes in later editions are inferior, though I cannot pretend to judge.”

Mr. Alden’s brows lifted. “Does he indeed?”

Elizabeth’s gaze flickered between them. “You know it?”

“I know the gentleman in Bakewell who owned it last year and the widow who sold half his library three months ago.” Mr. Alden moved toward the rear shelves with unexpected briskness. “If memory serves, it came to me in a parcel with several sermons no one will purchase unless guilt overtakes them.”

Elizabeth followed, too eager now to pretend indifference.

Mr. Alden climbed a short set of steps before Darcy could stop him, drew out two wrong books, muttered at both, then retrieved a slim brown volume from behind a larger folio.

“There.” He descended and brushed dust from the cover with an old cloth. “1772. Binding serviceable. One corner repaired. Notes intact.”

Elizabeth accepted it with both hands.

Her father’s face rose in her mind so clearly that for a moment she forgot Mr. Darcy stood beside her. Mr. Bennet would pretend not to be moved. He would make some dry remark about daughters who spent their travels more sensibly than expected. Then he would take the book to his library and not emerge for hours.