Elizabeth accepted her own small parcels with gratitude, though her attention wandered more than once.
She felt him before she saw him.
When she turned, Mr. Darcy stood near the doorway.
Georgiana was beside him, her expression bright with anticipation, her regard for Elizabeth now entirely free of the shyness that had once defined it.
Elizabeth’s heart lifted at once.
“Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Merry Christmas,” Georgiana said warmly, stepping forward.
“And to you,” Elizabeth replied, taking her hands.
There was genuine affection between them now, one that had grown naturally from shared time and sober understanding. Georgiana’s ease in her presence had become one of Elizabeth’s greatest comforts, and she found herself returning that affection with equal sincerity.
Darcy’s gaze rested upon her.
There was something in it.
Something steady.
Something certain.
“May I speak with you?” he asked.
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
“Yes.”
He did not take her far.
Only to the edge of the room, where the others remained fully visible, their attention otherwise engaged.
From within his coat, he drew a parcel. It was not large. But it was thoughtfully wrapped. “For you.”
Elizabeth took it with hands that felt suddenly less steady than they had been a moment before.
“You need not—”
“I wished to.”
She did not argue further.
Instead, she untied the ribbon, her fingers moving tentatively, and unfolded the paper.
Within was a thick book. It was bound in deep red leather, the surface smooth beneath her touch, the edges of the pages gilt in a manner that caught the light even in the dimness of the room. It was beautiful.
Her breath stilled. “Mr. Darcy—”
“Open it.”
She did. And then— She saw. The print. Large. Clear. Perfectly spaced.
Her vision did not strain to make sense of it. The words did not blur together. They did not demand effort. They simply… were.
