“I am not always right, Miss Bingley,” Darcy interrupted. “My errors are many.” Looking back at Elizabeth, he said, “Perhaps you would prefer to spend your time with your sister reading. Bingley’s library, though modest, has some interesting volumes.”
“I would very much enjoy a new book,” Elizabeth said, grateful for the reprieve from Miss Bingley’s barbs.
“Then allow me to show you to the library. I am familiar with Bingley’s collection and can make a recommendation to suit your tastes.” He extended his hand to help her rise. Elizabeth took it without thinking. His fingers were warm, steady, and for a moment, neither moved.
“How very attentive you are, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley’s voice was strung tight. “Though surely a servant could…”
“I am happy to be of service,” Darcy said, still not looking at Miss Bingley. He led Elizabeth to the door.
As they stepped into the corridor, they heard Miss Bingley’s sharp exhale of frustration.
“I apologize for Miss Bingley’s behavior. She can be…thoughtless.”
“You defended me,” Elizabeth said, surprised by how much his words had affected her. “You did not need to do that, especially to her.”
“I did need to,” he said simply. “I highly approve of your decision to walk to Netherfield to care for your sister. I could not stand by and hear you criticized.”
They walked in silence down the corridor. She was acutely aware of his presence beside her, of the inches between them that were charged with possibility.
“The library is ahead,” he said as they rounded a corner. “There is something I should tell you first.”
“What is that?”
He stopped walking, turning to face her. In the dimly lit corridor, his eyes were almost black, intense, and searching.
Elizabeth’s heart raced.
“My project. For you. I…” He paused, mustering his courage. “If you permit it, I would very much like to show you.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “Show me what?”
“Come with me,” he said. “Please.”
Without quite knowing why, Elizabeth followed him deeper into Netherfield.
He did not leadher to the library. Instead, he stopped before a door near the end of the corridor, one she had not noticed before. His hand hesitated on the handle.
“This is Bingley’s study,” he said. “He has allowed me to use it during my stay. My valet, Parker, is inside, so we will not be alone.” He cleared his throat. “I have been…” He paused, struggling for words. “I have been spending my evenings here.”
He opened the door, and Elizabeth entered. An older man sat reading in the corner, not looking up when they walked in but clearly aware of their presence.
The room was small but comfortable, lit by several candles clustered on a large mahogany desk near the window. When Elizabeth saw what lay on the desk, she could only stare.
Drawing paper. Dozens of sheets, some completed, some half-finished. Others crumpled and discarded. Ink bottles in various shades sat next to pans of paint. Fine brushes arranged with careful precision. In the center of it all was a drawing in progress.
The chessboard.
Turning to face him, she asked, “Why?”
He stood just inside the doorway, his expression unguarded.
“I needed to show you because I could not find the words I needed to say.” He gestured to the scattered papers. “That morning, when you defeated me, forcing me to see myself clearly, changed everything. You changed everything.”
Elizabeth’s hand went to the desk, steadying herself. Among the chaos, she spotted earlier attempts. Some had her wrist in the wrong position. Others showed the proportions of herfingers wrong. Proof that he had worked and reworked each piece until it was exactly right.
She glanced at him, puzzled by the depth of emotion in his voice.
“I could not stop thinking about you. About that morning. About the way you held yourself with dignity even in your anger. About how you gave me exactly what I deserved and somehow made me grateful for it.”
