Elizabeth turned away, restless now, crossing the small distance to the window and back again. “Then why the books?”
Her father rose once more, selected a slim volume from the shelf, and placed it in her hands.
“Because,” he said, “you will not be satisfied with being told there is nothing to see. And because if you must worry, I would rather you do so with poetry than with conjecture.”
She looked down at the cover. “You are evading.”
“I am postponing,” he corrected. “There is a difference.”
Elizabeth met his gaze. “Do you think I am in danger?”
Papa chuckled. “Mr Collins is a danger to no one, least of all himself.”
“Do you think I am imagining things?”
“No. You would conjure something more inventive.”
She wagged the book in his face. “Papa, I am being serious. Do you think there is something wrong with me?”
He smiled then—softly, unmistakably. “Absolutely not.”
She exhaled, trying to pass back the book she was holding. “And your advice, the best you have to offer, is for me to just… read.”
“I advise you,” he said, pressing the book gently back into her hands, “to be curious without being frightened. To observe without concluding. And to remember that discomfort is not prophecy.”
She hesitated. “And if the books suggest otherwise?”
“Then,” he said lightly, “we shall discuss them. Over tea. Preferably after you have slept.”
Elizabeth did not smile, but she nodded. “Very well. I shall read.”
“I thought you might.”
As she turned toward the door, her father spoke again—almost casually.
“And Lizzy?”
She paused.
“If any book makes you feel worse rather than wiser,” he said, “bring it back down. We shall put it away.”
She inclined her head and left him there, the book held carefully in both hands.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Netherfield was already alivewhen they arrived.
The carriage scarcely halted before the door was opened, voices spilling out to meet them—laughter, music tuning itself into order, the bright clatter of shoes upon glowing marble floors. Mama surged forward, issuing greetings before anyone had quite finished alighting, Lydia and Kitty close behind her, darting glances toward the lights and uniforms beyond the threshold.
Elizabeth followed more slowly… hesitantly.
Inside, the entry had been transformed. Candles burned in ranks along the walls; greenery framed the doors; the air carried warmth, perfume, and the promise of too many people gathered into too little space. A receiving line had formed near the foot of the stairs, guests pausing to offer their bows and compliments before being absorbed into the crowd.
Mr Bingley stood at its centre, radiant with pleasure and wholly unequal to the task of regulating the flow. Miss Bingley flanked him, attentive and vigilant, her smile brimming with eagerness to impress. A pace behind them—deliberately behind—stood Mr Darcy.
Elizabeth did not look at him directly, but she could feel his gaze, nonetheless.
She moved with her family through the line, offering her curtsey, accepting Mr Bingley’s welcome with genuine warmth, submitting briefly to Miss Bingley’s cool appraisal. Darcy inclined his head. Their eyes met only for a moment—long enough to acknowledge one another, no more.
