Elizabeth gave a breathless laugh. “Whoever sent them must know me well indeed, Jane. This is my dearest gift by far—and one Lydia will never contrive to pilfer. I may display them openly…unlike the rest.”
Their shared laughter lingered as Elizabeth bore each volume to her modest bookcase beneath the window. There, nestled among well-thumbed essays, novels, and books of travel, the new treasures found their place. She stepped back to regard the transformation. Her little library had never looked so elegant.
“Now, let me help you dress,” Jane offered kindly.
Elizabeth allowed herself to be fussed over, stepping into her long-sleeved morning gown of sprigged muslin. She drew a warm shawl about her shoulders, its cream fringe trailing, while Jane arranged her hair into a neat chignon.
While Jane worked, Elizabeth’s thoughts wandered—to a pair of proud eyes, to the warmth of a hand at Lucas Lodge, to the reverence with which he had once spoken of poetry. Mr. Darcy—no, Darcy—for the man who had written such verses and chosen such thoughtful gifts could hardly be the same proud gentleman she once dismissed. This was the name her heart had begun to whisper.
“Did you hear me, Lizzy? You are woolgathering,” Jane teased, smiling as she fastened the final pin.
Elizabeth started from her reverie. “I beg your pardon—what did you say?” Heat touched her cheeks.Stop this folly.You do not even know if it is him.
“I asked if you thought the gentlemen would call. It is the first day of the new year.” Jane stepped back to admire her work.
Elizabeth looked to the window, the frost at its edges giving way to beads of melting dew. “I cannot say,” she replied truthfully. “But…I think I should like it if they did.”
The breakfast table at Longbourn was in its usual state of morning commotion. Lydia and Kitty were engaged in a spirited debate on the relative merits of the officers quartered in Meryton. They bickered at the end of the table, scarcely attending to their breakfast.
“Colonel Forster is far more handsome,” Kitty declared, spreading jam upon her scone.
“He may be handsome,” Lydia retorted, “but he is alsomarried.Besides, Lieutenant Pratt has five hundred a year and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. And he danced with me twice.” She released a sigh, her gaze dreamy as she absentmindedly forked a bite of egg.
Mary, who had been silently stirring her tea, lifted her eyes. “I dare say such trifles are not the best measure of a gentleman’s character or suitability—”
“Oh, do not speak of suitability, Mary,” Lydia broke in with a scoff. “Just because Sanderson has shown you the smallest notice does not mean we wish to hear your opinions on love or courtship. You are such a dull, colorless creature!”
Kitty giggled into her teacup. “Yes, it is not as if you are an authority now.”
“Kitty, Lydia,” Jane interposed gently, “that is unkind. Everyone deserves to be heard, regardless ofyouropinions.” Ever the peacemaker, Jane’s tones did not rise above their usual calm measure. She buttered a muffin and added preserves, pausing only to lift her eyes in gentle reproof at her younger sisters.
Mr. Bennet glanced up from his plate, amusement glinting in his eyes. “I begin to suspect I am breakfasting with a gaggle of geese, all honking over one another without pause.” He laughed at his own joke before folding his newspaper and rising. “If you will excuse me, I find the morning news may be enjoyed in a quieter corner than this menagerie.”
As he quitted the room, Mrs. Bennet, seated at the opposite end of the table, called after him, “Mr. Bennet! I intend to have Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy dine with us this evening.”
From the hall came his indifferent reply. “Invite the whole county, my dear, so long as the meal is as delicious as ever.”
After breakfast, the family repaired to the drawing room. Elizabeth excused herself and ascended to her chamber, where she retrievedLyrical Balladsfrom its new place in her bookcase. The navy leather cover gleamed in the morning light, its gilded edges and title shimmering with subtle splendor. A crimson ribbon slipped from between its pages like a whisper of hidden ardour, and she lingered a moment, stroking its silken end.
Book in hand, she hastened to the drawing room, where her sisters and mother were occupied with their customary pursuits, from embroidery to the trimming of bonnets. Drawing her shawl close about her shoulders, Elizabeth seated herself by the window and opened the volume where it chanced to fall to a poem she had read before. But the lines seemed altered, as though a shift within her heart allowed the words to strike deeper root.
“Lizzy?”
She looked up to see Mary standing before her, curiosity evident.
“That book—I have never seen it in your keeping. I do not recall it from Papa’s library.” Mary’s manner was even, though her eyes behind the spectacles were wide.
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed. “No,” she answered too quickly. “You have not.” She closed the book with deliberate care, tucking the ribbon within, then clasped it to her breast.
Mary’s lips pressed together, her dissatisfaction plain. Before Elizabeth could frame a plausible explanation, Hill appeared and announced, “Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy, ma’am.”
Elizabeth rose as the gentlemen entered. Mr. Bingley’s gaze flew at once to Jane, his countenance bright with unstudied affection. Darcy’s eyes, however, sought Elizabeth, and he advanced toward her with deliberate grace. She was struck afresh by the distinction of his figure—tall and broad-shouldered, with hair of deep brown touched by the natural curl where it brushed his collar. Upon his finger gleamed a heavy gold signet ring, one she marveled she had not noticed before.
Presently, he stood before her. “It gladdens me to find you well, Miss Elizabeth.”
She still clutched the book of poems. “Indeed, I am quite well, thank you. I have been reflecting on the nature of misjudgment.”
His gaze sharpened. “Have you?”
