“I know,” Elizabeth groaned, throwing up her hands. “Believe me, I have argued the matter with myself for days. Yet secret admirers are not unheard of.”
Marry’s disapproval remained. “What if it should prove someone unsuitable? A married man, as Charlotte suggested?”
Elizabeth held up a hand. “Then, as Papa says,‘a girl likes to be crossed in love now and then. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among her companions.’I have chosen to no longer torment myself. If the man reveals himself, and if his intentions are honorable, he already holds some part of my esteem—he has gone to great effort, and each gift has been thoughtful and personal.”
Mary pursed her lips but offered no further censure on the matter. At length, her eyes fell to her hands resting on her lap. “Do you think Mr. Sanderson truly admires me? I know I am not the prettiest Bennet sister, nor the most clever.”
Elizabeth left her place at the window and sat beside her sister, slipping an arm gently around her shoulders. “If he is playing with your heart, Mary, I shall march to Meryton and tell the whole regiment of his misdeeds.” Mary managed a small smile. “But in truth, I believe he does admire you. I have never seen you glow as you do when he speaks to you.”
Mary’s smile broadened, and the reserve she usually carried seemed to lift. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Now,” Mary said briskly, rising with renewed purpose, “let us choose something for you to wear for supper. We must find a gown that best becomes your trinkets and baubles.”
Elizabeth laughed, light and genuine. “Yes, by all means—let us dazzle.”
Together they moved to the closet, the easy companionship of sisters blossoming in the aftermath of secrets shared and worries eased.
Chapter Eighteen
January 1, 1812
Longbourn
Darcy
Bingleychatteredenthusiasticallyasthe carriage rolled toward Longbourn. Darcy listened with but half an ear, his mind dwelling upon Elizabeth and what her reaction to the eighth gift had been that morning.
“You may cavil at Mrs. Bennet all you like, Darcy, but you must allow that she sets a fine table. I can scarce wait. Meat pies, pastries, rolls, preserves, pheasant, duck, goose, venison—I have never quitted her table unsatisfied.”
“What?” Darcy looked across the carriage toward his friend. “Forgive me. I was not attending.”
Bingley laughed. “And here I thought your silence as proof of disdain.”
“I have endeavored to behave better these last weeks.” He shifted in his seat. “Mrs. Bennet has grown kinder toward me—surely you have marked it.”
“Indeed, I have. I meant no offense. The neighborhood takes pleasure in our company, and I have no cause to repine. Pray, forgive my jest.”
“Think nothing of it. I must also agree with you. Mrs. Bennet lays a fine table. She would rank among London’s most notable hostesses, had she the means. Indeed, the fare at Longbourn rivals my Aunt Catherine’s.” His aunt’s dishes, in truth, often left Darcy ill, their richness lying heavily upon the stomach. In contrast, Mrs. Bennet saw to it that her guests departed gratified rather than burdened.
The carriage drew up, and Bingley sprang out. Darcy descended at a more deliberate pace. The shadows of late afternoon had long since melted into darkness.
In a moment, the gentlemen were announced. As they entered the drawing room, fire and candlelight created shifting patterns across the floor. From beyond came the clatter of dinner preparations, yet here there reigned only the rustle of pages and the murmur of low conversation.
The two youngest Bennets shared a settee, whispering together over fashion plates, unheeding of the gentlemen’s arrival. Miss Mary sat at the pianoforte playing a sonata, while Sanderson dutifully turned the leaves.
Bingley went directly to Miss Bennet, who rose to receive him with warmth, smiling as he placed a gallant kiss upon her hand. Darcy scanned the room until his eyes rested on the lady he most longed to see.
Elizabeth, who had yet to look up, sat near the window, where the glow of candles lent auburn fire to the darker shades of her curls. Her hands held a volume Darcy recognized asLyrical Ballads.Her fingers traced the fine paper, her whole mannerintent, as if savoring each word by touch alone, her lips parted in silent contemplation. The shawl about her shoulders slipped as she turned a page, the fringe brushing her wrist in a delicate fall.
He remained at a distance, hesitant to intrude upon her contemplations. He had come to Longbourn intent on speaking with her, on strengthening whatever sentiments she might have begun to feel for him, on inspiring in her a tenderness to equal his own—to love him as he loved her.
Something in the hushed intimacy of the scene held him still. The very air seemed alive with unspoken feeling, and his heart quickened as he yearned to remain within its spell. At length, he made his way to her.
“Good evening, Miss Elizabeth.”
She raised her eyes from the book with a smile of gentle surprise.
“Mr. Darcy! I was so engaged with the page that I could not lift my eyes sooner.”
