Papa’s library held ahaze of dust and something faintly resinous from the fire. Elizabeth had always liked the room best in the evenings, when it seemed to withdraw from the rest of the house and become its own quiet territory.
He was standing at the shelves when she entered, with one hand braced against the bookcase, and several volumes already pulled free and stacked on the table behind him. She recognised them at once—not by title, but by association. The books he had sent to Netherfield. The ones she had returned with thanks and no questions. She had not realised until this moment that he had kept them together.
“Shut the door, if you please,” he said mildly. “Your sisters are inclined to believe any conversation behind a threshold belongs to them by right.”
Elizabeth did as he asked. The latch clicked softly into place.
“Sit,” Papa added, nodding toward the chair by the desk.
She obeyed, though she did not settle easily.
Papa turned then and regarded her over the rims of his spectacles. Not with alarm. Not with indulgence. Simply with attention.
“You left the table in some haste,” he said. “Was that deliberate, or did you miscalculate?”
Elizabeth considered the question. It was framed as though either answer would be acceptable.
“I miscalculated,” she said at last. “The conversation proved… longer than I had anticipated.”
“Hm.” Papa reached for one of the books and opened it without looking at the title. “You have endured worse.”
“I have,” Elizabeth agreed. “But not recently.”
That earned a faint lift of his brows. “Was it fatigue? Or merely irritation?”
Elizabeth hesitated. She disliked both options equally. “I thought it was fatigue. At first.”
Papa nodded, as though she had answered a different question entirely. He closed the book and set it aside, then picked up another, this one thinner, its spine creased from age rather than use.
“You were unwell at Netherfield,” he said. “And then you were not.”
“Yes.”
“And now you are again.”
Elizabeth frowned despite herself. “I did not say that.”
“No. You did not.” He gestured toward the stack of books. “These were gifts, but you returned them to me.”
“I did.”
“Did you read them?”
“I only cracked one of them. I was not equal to reading. But there was another I fancied very much, and I should like to attempt it again if you do not object.”
Papa chuckled. “My dear, I never asked you to return them. I would rather you read them all, many times if you pleased.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Indeed? Then I shall start with that small one, the one with the silly rhymes and ballads that you found in Meryton.”
Her father passed her the book and watched her thumb the pages without comment. After a moment, he asked, “What was that about at supper?”
Elizabeth shifted in her chair. “Tonight was… a little conversation-heavy.”
He smiled then, briefly. “Yes. Your cousin has that effect.”
She exhaled. “It is not merely him.”
“Is it not?”
