Could Mr. Darcy have had a hand in the lieutenant’s sudden disappearance? Her chest tightened. Had he acted upon what she told him? She recalled their conversation in the drawing room but a day earlier—his stricken look, as though guilt or his late father’s memory pressed upon him. She had not believed he would not stir himself to intervene in his former friend’s affairs. Yet it seemed he had already fulfilled that vow. Once more, she had misjudged him.
Elizabeth's thoughts returned to the fans, now hidden with the other tokens of affection she had received. Seven days. Seven thoughtful gifts. Seven moments of wonder, confusion—and hope. She could not name her admirer. But with growing certainty, she knew who she wished him to be.
Later that evening, Elizabeth sat at her writing desk intending to write in her journal, one of the gifted quills in hand, but no words came. The candle beside her guttered low, throwing wavering shadows across the page, while the paper remained untouched. The day had left her unsettled, not with alarm, but with a restless mingling of thought and emotion that would not be stilled.
Her eyes drifted toward the wardrobe. Almost without thought, she rose to retrieve one of the gifts. Her fingers closed around the ivory fan—the one adorned with a pastoral scene painted with such delicate strokes that the tiny shepherdess beneath the tree seemed to move in the candlelight. Elizabeth carried it back to her desk and unfolded it, the whisper of silk on polished sticks soothing her mind.
The fan, with its tranquil scene, set her to picturing Pemberley as she had heard it described—broad landscapes, ordered and serene, echoing a world of taste and stately grace. Such a house, she mused, must surely reflect the character of its master—controlled, elegant, and deeply thoughtful.
She held the fan close to her face and let her fancy wander. She saw herself at an assembly, standing amidst a glittering throng, catching Mr. Darcy’s eye across the room. Would he notice the fan in her hand and know it as his gift, if indeed it came from him? Would he allow the barest hint of a smile? He looked so handsome when he smiled.
The notion made her blush. She snapped the fan closed, the warmth rising in her cheeks not unwelcome. She had not sought his attention—not at first. Now, with each passing day, her feelings shifted like the tide, slow but inexorable.
If it was Mr. Darcy—if he truly stood behind the twelve days of Christmas—what then? Could such careful tokens be a silent courtship, a way of proving not only his affection, but his constancy and depth?
Her thoughts were a blend of wonder and trepidation. She had long prided herself on her discernment, her wit, her independence. Yet as she reflected on all her suppositions regarding him—his pride, his arrogance, his cruelty—it was with a sense of humility that bordered on awe.
She had been mistaken. Not merely in him, but in herself. She had let first impressions, wounded pride, and the words ofa charming deceiver sway her judgment. But now…now she saw more plainly. In the steadiness of Mr. Darcy’s manner, in his efforts to make amends, in the quiet strength with which he bore himself even among her family, she saw a man deserving of her esteem, perhaps even of her affection.
She smiled to herself, her heart warming against the chill. She could not be certain of the sender. No name, no confession, no signature betrayed him. But her heart whispered a name nonetheless—not with assurance, but with yearning.
Elizabeth turned her eyes back to the sheet of paper before her. It remained blank, though her mind was crowded—with questions, with possibilities, and with desires newly awakened. She dipped her quill, but still she did not write. Instead, she leaned back, looking through the window, where stars pricked the winter sky and the moon laid silver across the fields.
Seven gifts had come. Each more personal than the last. And with each, her defenses had fallen, like leaves fading in autumn.
One truth was clear now: her heart was no longer indifferent. And perhaps the finest gift would not be the seventh nor the eighth, but the last. For that gift might hold more than a token—it might bring her the answer. And just maybe, it might bring him.
Chapter Seventeen
January 1, 1812
Longbourn
Elizabeth
TheparcelawaitingElizabeththat morning was heavier than any she had yet received. She paused as she lifted it, her arms straining beneath the weight, curiosity piqued. As always, a neat billet awaited her, the elegant hand she now knew so well, lay atop the brown wrapping as before:
On the eighth day of Christmas,
With words soft and sweet,
Eight books of poetry,
Bound in gold leaf.
Her eyes widened. With careful fingers, she untied the twine and peeled back the paper. Within lay a breathtaking collection—eight volumes of poetry, each bound in rich, supple leather, the titles gilded upon the spines, every one adorned with a ribbon marker of a different hue. A delighted gasp escaped her as she traced her fingers along the golden script with a reverent touch.
She read each title aloud, almost as if invoking them.
“Lyrical Balladsby Wordsworth and Coleridge…The Works of Alexander Pope… The Poetical Works of Thomas Gray… Poems in Two Volumesby Wordsworth—how generous!...The Taskby Cowper…The Seasonsby James Thomson…The Works of John Milton…and—oh!—Poemsby Charlotte Smith.”
Within each cover, she discovered a bookplate, delicately secured, blank save for a flourish that seemed to beckon her to inscribe her name. Her hand trembled as she opened the last volume and turned to a familiar piece.
She released a long breath. “Beautiful,” she murmured, overcome not merely by the verse but by the thoughtfulness of the gift. Surely, only one who knew her heart could have chosen such titles, and bound so exquisitely that they were works of art in themselves.
Jane entered, halting mid-step at the sight of books arrayed across Elizabeth’s lap. She pressed a hand to her mouth, astonishment written plain upon her features.
“Good heavens, Lizzy. These must have cost a small fortune.” She moved forward, bending to examine them more closely. “They are bound like presentation copies. I should think the set might fetch five or even ten guineas; they must be very dear indeed.” She lifted one and smoothed a hand across the leather, admiration plain in her manner.
