She allowed a small smile. “Yes. For instance, my sister Mary. I once thought her overly solemn, pedantic even. Yet of late she seems transformed.” Elizabeth turned slightly, her eyes falling upon Mary.
Darcy followed her glance. Mary had gone to sit near the pianoforte, her posture easier, her features touched with something almost tender.
“There is a gentleness in her now,” Elizabeth continued. “She smiles more freely. She listens before she speaks. ‘Tis…remarkable.” Truly, Mary had never looked better. Even her attire was altered; instead of drab gowns, she wore delicate colors, likely long neglected in the back of her closet.
“Love,” Darcy observed, the word falling from his lips with unguarded warmth, “can have that effect on a person.”
The remark startled her, and Elizabeth tilted her head. “You believe her in love?” She herself believed it, though if Mr. Sanderson simply trifled with Mary’s heart, he was unworthy indeed.I pray for Mary’s sake he is not such a man.
“I do. I have become more observant of late,” he added sheepishly with a rueful smile.
Elizabeth studied him closely. There was something beneath his words, something withheld. He was not merely reflecting on Mary.Could he be reflectingonhimself?His manner had altered so greatly since November. Perhaps he had examined his behavior and found it wanting.
She felt the weight of his gaze; the silence between them charged with a meaning neither was ready to reveal. “Speaking of love,” she ventured, “Miss King has not been so fortunate in that regard. Wickham is gone.” In expectation, she willed him to answer.
“Yes, I had something to do with it,” he admitted without hesitation. “I offered him an opportunity he could not refuse. I pray he finds contentment in his new life.”
Before she could make a reply, Mrs. Bennet’s voice rang from across the room, shattering the spell. “Gentlemen! You must return for dinner this evening! I insist!”
Mr. Bingley laughed and turned toward the door. “It would be our pleasure, Mrs. Bennet.”
Darcy looked away from Elizabeth, inclining his head towards her mother. “We are at your service, madam.”
Elizabeth clutched her book to her breast once more and allowed herself an unspoken thought.He is watching. And he sees me now.Something within her longed to reach for his hand, but she resisted.It is him. It must be.The idea that her admirer could be anyone else was intolerable.But does Darcy know me so well?She could not be certain.
The gentlemen departed after tea with a promise to return for dinner that evening. Mrs. Bennet’s praises of Mr. Bingley flowed unrestrained—indeed, they pursued him, and Mr. Darcy as well, out the very door of Longbourn, trailing after them like overexcited hounds in full cry. Her volume and zeal were such that Elizabeth felt certain the gentlemen heard her acclamations well into the lane.
Elizabeth remained at the parlor window, feigning interest in the waning light, but in truth she inwardly recoiled from the memory of her mother’s exclamations and her sisters’ poorly concealed giggles. Mortification washed over her in waves. Never had she been so acutely aware of her family’s failings. Not even at the Netherfield ball, when Lydia had danced too freely and her mother had proclaimed Jane’s prospects so openly, had she felt such humiliation.
When the gentlemen’s carriage vanished from view, Elizabeth pled fatigue and withdrew upstairs. Once within the sanctuary of her bedchamber, she sank into the window seat, her shawl draped loosely about her shoulders, and stared out at the wintry garden below. Her thoughts ran in restless circles.
Why did her mother’s behavior wound her so keenly? It was nothing new. She had grown accustomed to it. And yet…it mattered now as it had never done before. She did not need long to find the reason.
Her feelings for Darcy—once denied, then scorned, and at last reluctantly acknowledged—had taken root. And now those roots twisted with unease.What must he think of us?Of me?
With a determined shake of her head, she strove to cast the thought aside. It was foolish to dwell on it. She could not be certain of Darcy’s affections; he had not declared them. And yet, she could not help but hope.
The creak of her door roused from her reverie. Mary entered, crossed her arms and lifted her chin with purpose. “I am ready, Elizabeth,” she said with arch precision, and perched plump on the edge of the bed.
Elizabeth blinked. “Pardon?”
“I am ready to hear your explanation for possessing the book you were reading before the callers arrived—Lyrical Ballads,was it? I did not recognize the binding. Meryton’s bookseller would never stock such a fine volume. Did Uncle Gardiner bring it from Town?”
Elizabeth felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “No,” she admitted slowly.
Mary’s air turned inquisitive. “Then from whence did it come?”
Elizabeth sighed and gestured with the book. “Very well. But you must promise not to tell Lydia. Or Kitty. Or Mama.”
Mary inclined her head solemnly. “You have my word.”
Thus compelled, Elizabeth unfolded the tale: the first unexpected gift with its accompanying verse, then each new token in turn, culminating in that morning’s treasure trove of poetry. Mary’s countenance shifted as the story progressed—from suspicion to surprise, from doubt to dawning wonder.
“And there has been no hint of the sender?” Mary asked, voice hushed.
Elizabeth shook her head.
“It is highly improper,” Mary muttered, frowning. “A gentleman ought not to send a lady anonymous gifts—it borders on scandal.”
