"Yes, thank you."
They traversed corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors and landscapes that spoke of generations of wealth and taste. This time, Elizabeth noted the portrait of a grey-haired gentleman in military dress, the long gallery with windows overlooking the south lawn, and the crossing where three corridors met. She would need to learn this house, every room and passage, if she were to fulfil her duties properly.
The library, when they reached it, proved worth the journey—a magnificent room lined floor to ceiling with books,their leather spines creating a tapestry of burgundy and forest green and midnight blue. Tall windows admitted generous light, and a fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth despite the autumn sunshine. The scent of old leather and paper filled the air, along with the faint aroma of beeswax polish.
Mr Darcy stood as she entered, setting aside the volume he had been reading. "Thank you for coming. I hope you slept well?"
"Very well, thank you. And the breakfast was excellent. You were kind to arrange it."
"I thought you might prefer to ease into the day gradually, rather than immediately facing all the demands of the household." He gestured towards a pair of comfortable-looking chairs positioned near the fire. "Please, sit. Unless you would prefer to return to your rooms? I do not wish to impose—"
"Not at all. This is lovely." She settled into one of the chairs, noting how the leather had been worn smooth by years of use. Someone—his father? Perhaps even generations of Darcys before that?—had sat in this very spot, reading by firelight. "You have a remarkable collection."
"My father was an avid reader. As am I, when time permits." He reclaimed his own seat, but his posture remained somewhat formal, as though he were not entirely certain how to proceed. "I hope you will make free use of the library. Everything here is at your disposal, of course."
"Thank you." An awkward silence threatened, and Elizabeth rushed to fill it. "Your note—you signed it 'Fitzwilliam Darcy.’' May I... that is, would you prefer I call you by your first name? I confess 'Mr Darcy' feels rather stilted under the circumstances."
Something in his expression eased, the tension in his shoulders relaxing slightly. "I would like that very much. And may I call you Elizabeth? Or do you prefer Lizzy, as your family does?"
"Elizabeth, please. Lizzy is rather informal—my father uses it mostly when he is about to tease me, and my mother when she is scolding."
"Elizabeth it is, then,” he responded with a smile. “‘I’ll admit I am uncertain how to proceed with this... courtship? Is that even the right word, given that we are already married?"
"I'm not certain there is a right word for our situation. Perhaps we should simply converse as we might have done had we been granted the luxury of proper acquaintance. Tell me, what are you reading?"
He glanced at the book he had set aside. "Milton. Paradise Lost. Rather heavy going, but I find the language compelling. The rhythm of it, the way the words build upon one another."
"I prefer his shorter works myself. While I appreciate the ambition of Paradise Lost, I find the theological arguments somewhat tedious when sustained over so many verses. By the fifth book, my attention began to wander."
He leaned forward with evident interest, his eyes lighting with enthusiasm. "You have read it, then? Most ladies of my acquaintance claim to have read Milton but admit they found it incomprehensible. Or they abandon it after the first book."
"I found parts of it incomprehensible," she responded honestly. "But I struggled through regardless. My father always encouraged me to read widely, even when I did not fully understand everything I encountered. He said comprehensioncould grow with rereading, but the initial exposure was what mattered most."
"A wise philosophy. I suspect my father and yours would have got along well—mine held similar views about education." He rose and moved to one of the shelves, running his fingers along the spines with obvious familiarity. "What do you prefer, then? If not Milton's epics?"
"Poetry that speaks of human experience rather than grand theology. Shakespeare's sonnets. Cowper's reflections on nature and domesticity. And novels—I confess a weakness for novels, though I know they are often considered frivolous."
"I do not find them frivolous." He pulled a volume from the shelf, examining it thoughtfully. "However, I prefer history and philosophy to fiction. There is something satisfying about facts, about arguments built on reason rather than emotion."
"Because they deal with truth rather than fabrications?"
"Because they illuminate principles through reasoned argument rather than through manipulation of sentiment." He caught himself, his expression turning apologetic. "Forgive me. I did not mean to disparage your preferences."
"You did not offend me." Elizabeth felt a spark of amusement. "I merely find it interesting that you equate emotion with manipulation. Can fiction not illuminate truth as effectively as philosophy? Sometimes a well-crafted story reveals more about human nature than any number of treatises on ethics."
He considered this, his brow furrowing in that way she was beginning to recognise as deep thought rather than displeasure. "I had not considered it in those terms. You makea compelling argument—that narrative might serve as a form of reasoning, illustrating principles through example rather than through direct statement."
"Precisely. I had not articulated it quite so elegantly."
"The substance was yours; I merely provided the formal structure." He returned to his chair, his gaze steady on hers. "I quite like that you are willing to express your opinions, even when they differ from mine. The conversation is far more interesting than polite agreement would be."
Elizabeth felt her cheeks brighten and hoped the effect was not too obvious. "I was raised to think such opinionated speech a liability. My mother often despaired that I would never marry if I did not learn to be more agreeable and less argumentative. She said gentlemen prefer ladies who know how to hold their tongues."
Fitzwilliam's laugh surprised her—it was unrestrained in a way she had not heard from him before. "Clearly that prediction proved incorrect."
"Circumstances rather forced the issue," Elizabeth reminded him, though she smiled as she said it.
"True. But I cannot regret those circumstances if they brought me a wife who challenges my thinking rather than merely echoing it."
