Would his hand appear across from hers in successive drawings? She sighed. She already knew. She had known since she held the first piece in her hand.
Mr. Darcy was drawing her. Drawing them. Drawing them when everything between them had been anger and pride and wounded dignity.
Why?
She traced the edge of the second piece, careful not to smudge the delicate ink. Her fingers stilled as memory surfaced: his voice, low and intimate at Lucas Lodge.Perhaps the artist had an excellent model to work from.
The artist. Not an artist. And that shadow of ink beneath his thumbnail. She was now certain. He drew it himself with such care that she could see individual threads in her sleeve’s trim. His hands held the brush while he remembered her with each stroke.
She moved to the edge of her bed, staring at the artwork. Seven more pieces. Seven more encounters. Seven more chances to understand what he was trying to tell her. And she found—despite every promise she had made to herself, despite every intention to remain politely distant—that she could hardly wait.
Their encounters continuedwith predictable regularity over the following weeks.
They would meet at a small assembly, at the Lucases’, once when she was walking in Meryton, and he happened to be riding past. Each time, Mr. Darcy sought her out with a determination that both unnerved and flattered her. Each conversation lasted longer than the last and revealed more than the previous one. And each time, the day after their encounter, another piece would be delivered to Longbourn.
When Mrs. Goulding invited the neighborhood to enjoy the fruits of the harvest, impromptu dancing began. Mr. Darcy asked Elizabeth. She declined. Yet when he inquired about her reading, she found herself drawn into a discussion of poetry that lasted through two sets she might have danced with others.
When he gestured toward the dancers, Elizabeth could not fail to note a small ink mark on the inside of his wrist. Once he departed, she smiled to herself. Proof positive.
Charlotte observed with raised eyebrows. “He seeks you out, Lizzy.”
“He is merely attempting to make amends,” Elizabeth protested, though even she heard the weakness in her own defense.
At tea with the Lucases, Miss Bingley’s increasingly pointed attempts to gain his attention might as well have been directed at the furniture since Mr. Darcy chose to spend the entire visit at Elizabeth’s side.
In Meryton, when she was walking with her sisters, he dismounted from his horse to speak with her. Mr. Bingley immediately followed suit, offering his arm to Jane. Theiryounger sisters giggled and whispered while Mary begged them to regain their composure. Elizabeth barely heard them.
In the bright autumn sunlight, she could see evidence of sleepless nights in his eyes. Was he working on the drawings late into the evening? Sacrificing rest to create this for her? The thought unsettled her more than she wished to admit.
Piece Three arrived, showing both forearms clearly visible and more chess pieces dotting the board. She recognized the position, the same opening from their first game.
Piece Four prominently revealed the base of the queen piece. Hands drawing closer together.
Piece Five showed the positioning with unmistakable intimacy—two hands approaching the same space on the board.
She arranged them carefully on her dressing table each time, studying how they fit together. Missing were three pieces across the top and the center. She was unable to keep from anticipating what the image would reveal once it was complete.
What she had not anticipated was how she found herself looking for him when she entered a room. Found herself disappointed on the rare occasions when he was not present. Found herself noticing small things, how he truly listened when she spoke, as if her words mattered to him. The way he remembered details from previous conversations, the intelligence in his observations, and the unexpected humor that occasionally surfaced.
And always, always, the ink stains. Faint shadows on his fingers or a smudge on his cuff, as if he wanted her to know it was him.
“You are softening toward him,” Jane observed one evening as they prepared for bed.
Elizabeth wanted to deny it. She could not.
“He is not what I thought,” she finally said. “He is far more than the man who insulted me.”
Jane agreed. “I suppose that he has discovered that you are far more of a woman than he first thought, Lizzy. He is pursuing you steadily, and you are not running from him.”
“Not anymore,” Elizabeth whispered to herself.
The neighborhood noticed.
Her mother vacillated between delight at the prospect of Mr. Darcy’s interest in one of her daughters and frustration that it was Lizzy instead of Lydia who claimed his attention. Jane teased Elizabeth privately, though her focus was mainly on Mr. Bingley. Charlotte said nothing, but her knowing smiles spoke volumes. Even Mary, Kitty, and Lydia, usually oblivious, remarked on how often Mr. Darcy found reasons to speak with their sister.
“He is always staring at you, Lizzy,” Lydia complained. “It is most odd since Jane is the prettiest and I am the liveliest. Mama says so.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile. Trust Lydia to make Mr. Darcy’s attention about herself.
