Page 84 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

There had been one from Rosings in January, eleven pages long. Darcy had answered it in four lines. He would not tell her what they were, but he had looked very satisfied.

Elizabeth read it by the library fire, with her feet on the fender and her shoes off. It was from her father. It was short, and in his small, untidy hand.

My dear Lizzy,

Your mother is well, and has told Lady Lucas about Pemberley in every particular. Lady Lucas has stopped calling.

Meryton has discovered that Mr. Wickham owes the haberdasher eleven pounds, and the tailor rather more. Your Aunt Phillips no longer believes a word he ever said. Lydia has been made to give back a ribbon. She considers it the great tragedy of the age.

Your mother drives to Netherfield every day the roads allow. Jane has lately begun to send notes ahead, regretting that she has the headache. Jane is not, as a rule, much given to headaches. Mr. Bingley has started to speak of an estate in Derbyshire. I cannot think what put it into his head.

I read the Milton every evening. Mary has asked to hear it. I have told her she may, if she promises not to improve upon it.

The library is very quiet without you. Tell your husband I have nearly finished the Tillotson. That is a lie, but he will appreciate the thought.

Your loving father.

She laughed and passed it to Darcy. He read it in his chair, with his feet beside hers on the fender, and she watched his mouth twitch.

It was the best room in the house. She had thought so on the first evening, and she thought so still. It was long and high and full of books, with a great stone hearth at one end. The fire burned there all day, every day, all winter.

His father's chair stood by the hearth. Beside it, on the second shelf, there was a gap among the books. It was the width of two quarto volumes.

Elizabeth had noticed it on their first night. She had asked Mrs. Reynolds quietly whether they ought to fill it.

"No, ma'am," Mrs. Reynolds had said. "The master says it is to stay as it is."

Darcy finished the letter and folded it. He looked across at her in the firelight. "Your father," he said, "is a dreadful liar."

"He is. He likes you very much."

"I know." He set the letter aside. "Shall I read to you?"

"Yes, please."

He took down a book from the shelf at his elbow without looking. He had done it a hundred times. His hand knew where everything was.

It was Cowper. The Task. He opened it at the second book and began to read.

Elizabeth listened to his voice. She watched his hands on the pages. They turned each one easily, without a pause.

She thought of a library at Netherfield, at two o'clock in the morning. She thought of a man in an open shirt who could not turn a page, and swore at it. She thought of herself in the wing chair with her ankle bound up. She had read to him because he could not hold the book.

I shall be your hands, she had said, if you will be my feet.

She looked at the fire. She put her hand flat against her own waist, very lightly, where nobody could see.

Perhaps, by Michaelmas, there would be someone else to carry. Someone small, who would need them both entirely. Someone who would have to be fed and dressed and held, and lifted down from things.

She did not think he would mind it. She did not think he would mind it at all.

He came to the end of a passage and looked up. He caught her watching him. "You are not listening," he said.

"I am listening to every word."

"What was the last line?"

"I have no idea," said Elizabeth. "Read it again. And then read me one more."