“Lizzy, please sing The Elfin Knight. It is my favorite above all others.”
Elizabeth smiled at her sister, grateful to see her so at ease, so contented in Mr. Bingley’s company. Longbourn, Meryton, andMr. Goulding seemed, in that moment, like a distant nightmare. The two ladies remained at the pianoforte, and Elizabeth sang The Elfin Knight, and, at the company’s request, also sang The Three Ravens. When the final notes of the haunting melody faded, the two ladies resumed their seats. The room remained hushed, the melancholy air lingering, until Miss Bingley rose abruptly.
“I have heard quite enough. Cards, anyone?” Elizabeth observed the woman’s eyes turn imploringly to Mr. Darcy, but he turned away. It occurred to her then that the attachment might lie wholly on Miss Bingley’s side. The gentleman seemed as likely to wed Elizabeth, a veritable stranger, as to bind himself to that sour pickle.
Mr. Hurst accepted at once, and Mrs. Gardiner and Louisa joined them at the card table. Mr. Darcy withdrew to a small desk in the corner and began to write upon a clean sheet of paper. Mr. Bingley remained at Jane’s side, and Elizabeth found herself alone. She reached for a book from a nearby table and opened it.
It bore his name.
On the front cover, written in bold, dark ink, was the nameF. Darcy. Elizabeth’s interest was instantly engaged. What sort of reading might occupy so taciturn a man? Agriculture? Husbandry?
No. She held the tenth book of theIliad.
A small thrill ran through her center. They shared at least one taste in common. She, too, was a student of Homer. With care, she opened the volume and searched for a favored passage. She had scarcely begun to read when a voice spoke beside her.
She started.
“Forgive me, Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “I did not mean to startle you. Do you read Homer?”
There was a note of incredulity in his tone. Elizabeth bristled at first, then reminded herself that most gentlemen would question such a thing. She answered politely.
“Yes, sir. I have read both poems. This passage is among my favorites from the tenth book, though I confess my preference inclines toward some of the more familiar portions of the poem.”
He leaned slightly to glance over her shoulder. “Which passage is that, ma’am?”
She recited the passage aloud, “If I may choose, I will not pass over godlike Odysseus; his heart is daring, his spirit keen.”
He raised a brow. “And what is it in that line that speaks so strongly to you?”
Elizabeth smiled. “At my home, I am known as an obstinate and headstrong girl, sir. I much prefer to think of myself as Odysseus is described here, with a daring heart and a keen spirit eager for adventure.”
A smile answered hers. “So you are neither stubborn nor willful, merely a lady in search of adventure?”
“Precisely. And if such adventures lead me into trouble, as they have done, then so be it.”
“There is a story hidden here. And now I must hear it.”
“I fear it is not in any sense heroic, sir. My best friend, Charlotte, and I once took a rowboat we had been forbidden to use. We carried our father’s best fishing rods and tackle with us, and theboat did not begin to sink until we were well into the middle of the pond. All was lost. We escaped only because we are both strong swimmers, but none of the tackle could be recovered.”
“And the consequences?”
“We were punished for three full months and set to labor a few hours each day in the fields under the watchful eye of our steward.”
He chuckled. “May I ask what sort of labor?”
“We were fit for very little,” she admitted. “We drew water from the well and carried it to the field laborers, and they put us to picking first plums, then pears, and finally we finished the harvest picking apples.”
“And how did you find such work?”
She answered, laughing. “I disliked it exceedingly. It is hard labor, and I gained a proper respect for those who perform it daily. But more than anything, I detest picking blackberries. My hands and arms were scratched and bleeding by the end of it.”
“And yet you survived.”
“My mother was convinced no man would have me. She declared I would bear the scars for life, and that no man would look at a woman twice if she was disfigured as I was.”
His expression softened. “And were you marked, ma’am?”
Elizabeth extended her arm. “Not that I can see.” Then she turned it slightly and pointed to a small scar on her wrist. “Only this. I fell from a ladder while picking plums. The wound was deep, but the apothecary taught me how to dress it properly, and now it is scarcely visible.”
