“Oh yes, the discussion is usually very complimentary.” He tugged on his coat sleeves, unable to look at her. His heart raced, and he longed to gather her in his arms and kiss her passionately.
“Usually?” she repeated, skeptical. “Very well. I shall have to be satisfied with that.” Elizabeth rubbed her hands together. “Well, I had best return to Longbourn. Good day, sir. I expect we will see you tomorrow?”
“Indeed, or whenever Bingley chooses to call.” He bowed. “Goodbye, Miss Elizabeth.” He watched as she gathered her basket and set off down the hill. He did not look away until she was out of sight.
Chapter Twelve
December 29, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Asshehadonevery other morning, Elizabeth went at once to the table beside her chair to retrieve the day’s gift. This time, a long, slender parcel awaited her and was done up in the usual brown paper and twine. She opened it to find a note with two lines written for the fifth day laid atop a long wooden box.
On the fifth day of Christmas,
I penned thee a line,
And presented five quills,
Gilded and fine.
Inside were five handsome quills, their feathers plucked from either a swan or a goose; Elizabeth could not be certain which of the two. At the bottom of the box lay an elegant pen knife, perfectly suited for trimming and sharpening nibs. Nestled on top of the quills was another note.
Forgive me for purloining another’s words instead of penning my own. Perhaps this verse will not starve your affection as one of my own might.
The words struck a familiar chord, though she could not recall the conversation to which they alluded. But where was the poem mentioned? Elizabeth rifled through the box until she found it—another paper, folded and tucked beneath the quills. She opened it cautiously and began to read, instantly recognizingShe Walks in Beauty1 by Lord Byron. Though she knew the poem by heart, she read it through, aware that her mysterious admirer had chosen it because he thought ofherin this light.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweetexpress,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
