She smiled, shaking her head. “Not at all. I am considering how swiftly things have changed. This morning, I had no thought of announcing a courtship. And now, here we are.”
“I could say much the same,” he replied, his voice lower now, more personal. “A month ago, I was determined tokeep to myself, and yet… I am glad I failed in that.” His eyes searched hers, earnest and unguarded. “I have not felt such ease with anyone in years.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “Perhaps it is because I have never been afraid to contradict you.”
“That,” he said, allowing a trace of amusement to soften his expression, “is likely part of it.”
They spoke for a while longer—of their childhoods, of her love of long walks, of his preference for early mornings at Pemberley when the mist still lay over the lake. The conversation was gentle and private, the kind that lingered in her thoughts long after the words faded.
At last, the hour grew late, and Bingley rose reluctantly, glancing towards Jane as if hoping she might urge him to stay. Darcy stood as well, offering Elizabeth a parting bow that felt almost reluctant. The gentlemen departed into the cool night, leaving behind a hush that settled over the house.
Upstairs, the family began to disperse. Mr. Collins passed Elizabeth in the hallway with a pompous inclination of the head. “I trust there will be no further disturbances this evening,” he declared, as if his own decree could keep the wind from rattling the windows or the floorboards fromcreaking.
Elizabeth smiled faintly but said nothing, retreating to her chamber. The house soon quieted to a stillness unique to the late hours, where even the faintest sound seemed amplified.
She was only half asleep when a noise stirred her—a gentle, deliberate knocking at her door. Heart quickening, she sat up and listened. It came again, soft but distinct.
Slipping from bed, she crossed to the door and eased it open. The hallway stretched before her, dim and empty. No figure waited, no whisper of movement met her ears. Only a single candle sat on the floor, its flame swaying gently in the draft.
Her breath caught. She reached down, noting the candleholder’s age and wear, and the scent of the beeswax—distinct, warm, familiar. Memory pricked at her: her mother’s missing beeswax candles, lamented weeks ago when they vanished from her stores.
A shiver ran down her spine. The corridor’s chill pressed against her night-robe, and the faint creaks of the old house seemed louder in the emptiness. Blowing out the flame, she gathered the candle and hurried back into her room, bolting the door behind her.
Sliding beneath the covers, she drew the blankets close, the weight of the day’s warmth battling the unease prickling at her skin. Whatever its origin, the candle was now inher possession—but the questions it raised would not let her rest.
She lay in the darkness, the extinguished candle resting on her dressing table like a silent sentinel. The room felt colder than before, though Elizabeth had pulled the covers snugly about her shoulders. Her mind would not still; it darted between possibilities—had someone placed the candle there as a message? Was it some misguided jest? Or was it a trace of the petty thefts that had so unsettled the household?
Each thought led to another, and the restlessness in her chest refused to be soothed. She turned onto her side, staring into the shadows that pooled in the corners of her chamber. The faint light of the waning moon crept through the curtains, tracing silver across the floorboards. The house was silent but for the occasional sigh of the wind and the groan of the timbers.
She closed her eyes, willing herself not to think of the candle, but the image of its flame persisted, dancing behind her eyelids. At last, she deliberately turned her mind elsewhere—anywhere that might bring her peace. And so, inevitably, her thoughts wandered to Mr. Darcy.
She pictured the moment earlier that day when he had asked her father’s permission to court her—how earnest his voice had been, how unfeigned the light in hiseyes. There was a steadiness about him, a kind of moral anchor that, once she had learned to look past her initial prejudice, she found both rare and reassuring.
She thought of his quiet attentions during their walks, his habit of listening more than speaking, and the way his words, when offered, were carefully considered rather than flung into the air without thought. He was not a man to waste speech. And yet, when he did speak, the weight of his sincerity seemed to settle into her very bones.
Elizabeth recalled the moments at Netherfield when he had looked at her from across a crowded room—his gaze unwavering, as if he were trying to learn the truth of her without a single word. Even then, when she thought him the proudest man she had ever known, something in that attention had quickened her heart.
Her lips curved faintly in the dark as she remembered his unexpected humor—the wry, subtle remarks that came when she least expected them, catching her off guard and making her laugh in spite of herself. There was a tenderness in him, too, one that he seemed almost reluctant to display, as though uncertain it would be welcome.
She thought of the way he had looked at her earlier in the evening, as though he could scarcely believe she had agreed to the courtship. That look… It had settled over her like a warm cloak, making her feel, for one heady moment, that she was the only woman in the world who truly mattered to him.
Her breathing slowed. The tension in her limbs loosened. In her mind, she imagined his voice—low, rich, steady—speaking her name. She imagined walking the grounds of Pemberley with him, the lake glinting under a summer sun, the quiet between them filled with the kind of comfort one only finds in perfect understanding.
The image held her, soft and golden in her mind’s eye. And as the last of her unease faded beneath the gentle weight of these thoughts, her eyes grew heavy. The shadows in the room receded, the cool air no longer bit at her skin, and she drifted slowly into sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
November 19, 1811
Mrs. Phillips’s Card Party
Elizabeth
Elizabethhadnotbeenespecially eager for her aunt Phillips’s card party, but she had promised both her mother and Jane that she would make an effort to appear agreeable. It was, after all, the sort of evening her younger sisters adored, and where her aunt was involved, there was generally some morsel of gossip to be had.
Mr. Collins, too, had expressed interest in meeting more of his cousins' relations and had decided to attend. Mary was on his arm, and she looked rather lovely that evening. She wore a gown borrowed from Elizabeth, a rose-pink sarsenet with delicate beading. Mr. Collins smiledappreciatively when he saw her, complimenting her loudly on her loveliness. He continued his verbal praises as they drove towards Mrs. Phillips’s house, and Elizabeth turned to look out the carriage window as she made an effort to ignore his constant stream of words.
By the time the Bennet carriage rattled into Meryton, the November evening was already drawing in, the last golden light fading behind the rooftops. Aunt Phillips’s house, though modest in size, blazed with light from every window, and the sounds of laughter and the shuffle of cards drifted out even before they reached the door.
