Page 65 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

He sat with his hand on his father's Milton and looked for an answer. There was none.

She had cut his meat. She had dressed his palms in the dark, and buttoned his waistcoat, and washed his hair. And she had never once looked at him the way the servants looked at his father. She had looked at him as a man worth arguing with.

Needing her had not made him less. It had been the best hour of his day, every day.

"Take it to Mr. Bennet," said Georgiana. "That is why you sent for it. You know it is."

"It is yours as much as mine."

"Then I give you my half." She stood and shook out her skirts. At the door she turned back. "Fitzwilliam? Do not give it to her father and call that a proposal. Say the other thing."

That night he left the proposal unwritten. There was no need to write it down.

The wagons went down on the ninth, with the books packed in straw and the Tillotson on top. Darcy rode behind them and slept at Netherfield. Bingley swore on Jane's name to tell nobody, and then talked about Jane until one in the morning.

On the morning of the tenth they went the last mile to Longbourn.

The last time Darcy had seen the house, it was burning. Now the east end had a new roof of bright slate.

Mr. Bennet came out onto the step with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead. "Mr. Darcy. My wife has gone to Netherfield with four of my daughters, at a most remarkable invitation from Mr. Bingley. I suppose that was your doing."

"It was, sir."

"I thought as much. Mr. Bingley has never invited anybody anywhere before ten in the morning."

Four of his daughters. So she had not gone with them. Darcy kept his face still.

The new library smelled of oak shavings and fresh plaster. Darcy carried the first crate in himself.

Mr. Bennet watched his hands on the rope handles and said nothing about them. He took up a crowbar, opened the crate, and lifted out the first volume of the Tillotson. "I told you not to hurry over the Tillotson," he said.

"It was the first thing I found, sir. All twelve volumes."

"Of course it was." Mr. Bennet sighed and shelved it.

When the second wagon was empty, Darcy went out to his horse. He came back with a parcel in oilcloth and put it in Mr. Bennet's hands.

Mr. Bennet unwrapped it. There were two volumes in old brown calf. He opened the first at the Baskerville title page. Then he turned back to the flyleaf.

There was a name on it in faded brown ink. George Darcy. Pemberley.

Mr. Bennet read it twice. He looked at Darcy over his spectacles. "This did not come from a shop."

"No, sir. It was my father's."

"The one he read to you. You told me so at the bonfire, a quarter of an hour before my house caught fire." Mr. Bennet turned the book in his hands. "Mr. Darcy. I have received a good many gifts in my life. Every one of them wanted something. So I shall ask you plainly."

He held up the Milton. "Are you here for my books, sir, or my daughter?"

The old answer came to Darcy at once. A small return.

He did not give it. "For your daughter, sir."

Mr. Bennet's eyebrows went up a little.

"The books are for you," said Darcy. "Because you lost them. I would rather she did not hear of them from me. Not until she has answered me, one way or the other."

"And if the answer is no? Do I keep the Tillotson?"