"Very well," Darcy capitulated, straightening his shoulders as if preparing for battle. "Hatchards. But we are not stopping for tea, and if I see anyone we know, I reserve the right to pretend I do not see them."
"Agreed," Georgiana beamed, and for a second, the shadows in the room seemed to retreat.
Thirty-five minutes later, Darcy was helping his sister to the carriage waiting for them outside Darcy House in Grosvenor Square. The ride was quiet, which allowed him to observe his surroundings. London in December was a besieging of the senses. It was cold enough to freeze the breath in one's lungs, grey enough to make the sky indistinguishable from the cobblestones, and loud enough to induce a headache within minutes.
And yet, as he stepped out of the carriage onto Piccadilly, he had to admit his sister was right. The air, thick with fog and the scent of coal smoke, roasted chestnuts, and expensive horseflesh, was better than the stagnant gloom of his study.
He adjusted his beaver hat, pulling the brim low. He was wearing his dark blue greatcoat with the velvet collar—a garment that usually made him feel invincible. Today, it just felt like armour against a world he didn't really want to engage with.
"It is busy," Georgiana murmured, clutching his arm through her muff. She was dressed in a heavy pelisse of slate grey, a matching bonnet framing her face. She looked lovely, wealthy, and terrified.
"Stay close," Darcy said, placing his hand over hers. "We shall be in and out. A swift foray. Books for Aunt and Uncle, something military for Richard, and something with few words and big drawings for Robert."
"Robert reads Latin for fun, William."
"I know. It is annoying."
They navigated the pavement, which was crowded with the holiday rush. Fashionable ladies in velvet coats navigated the slush with impressive dexterity, while gentlemen in top hats nodded to one another with varying degrees of sincerity.
"Darcy!" a voice called out from a passing curricle.
Darcy immediately developed a fascination with a streetlamp and did not turn.
"That was Lord Ponsonby," Georgiana whispered.
"I have gone deaf," Darcy replied. "Tragic accident. Just happened."
"He is waving."
"Then he is waving at a deaf man who is rapidly losing his eyesight. Come along."
He steered her purposefully towards the green-fronted sanctuary of Hatchards. The shop windowwas glowing with warmth, piled high with leather-bound volumes that promised escape, knowledge, and most importantly, silence.
As he opened the door, the bell chimed—a cheerful, welcoming sound that usually heralded a pleasant hour of browsing. Today, Darcy viewed it as the starting bell for an ordeal.
The interior was crowded. The smell hit him instantly—old paper, binding glue, leather, and the faint, dusty scent of intellect. It was a smell he usually loved. It was the smell of Pemberley's library.
And, unfortunately, it was the smell of the library at Netherfield. The memory assaulted him without permission.
He saw the room at Netherfield, the firelight dancing on the walls. He saw a pair of fine eyes darting across a page. He saw Elizabeth Bennet, ignoring him, ignoring Bingley's sisters, ignoring the world in favour of a book. She had looked up, caught him watching, and offered him a challenge wrapped in a smile.
"William?" Georgiana tugged his sleeve. "The history section is this way."
"What?" Darcy blinked, the image of Elizabeth fading but leaving a physical ache in its wake. "Yes. History. Uncle Matlock likes battles."
"And Aunt likes travel," Georgiana added, guiding him through the press of bodies. She was doing a valiant job of navigating, her chin up, though he could feel the slight tremor in her hand when a boisterous group of young men laughed too loudly near the counter.
Darcy moved instinctively to shield her, his broad shoulders creating a barrier between his sister and the world.He glared effectively at the young men, who quieted down immediately. The famous Darcy glare was still functional, at least.
"We shall find a travel journal for Aunt," Darcy stated, trying to focus. "About the Mediterranean. She is always complaining about the damp."
"And for Richard?"
"A treatise on strategy. Or a fictional account of a soldier who is not annoying."
They moved deeper into the stacks. The shop was a labyrinth of shelves, a heaven for the literary elite of London. Darcy nodded stiffly to a few acquaintances—Sir William, Lady Metcalfe—offering the bare minimum of civility required to avoid being labelled a recluse.
He just wanted to buy the books and leave. He wanted to go back to his study and think about why he had left Hertfordshire, and whether he was the biggest fool in England.
