“I value it,” Elizabeth corrected gently. “There are very few circumstances in life that remain as one expects them to be.”
“That is true.”
She shifted the book in her hands, her expression thoughtful. “Though I will concede that some portions of the narrative require a generous imagination.”
Darcy’s smile deepened slightly. “Then we are not entirely at odds.”
Elizabeth laughed softly, the sound light and unguarded. “I should hope not.”
They fell into a more natural conversation then, moving from one observation to another with a growing ease that neither sought to restrain. Darcy found himself engaged in a way that required no effort, her thoughts meeting his own with a clarity that surprised him less now than it might have earlier.
“You read often?” he asked at length.
Elizabeth hesitated, though only briefly. “Not as often as I would like.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened. “No?”
She shook her head slightly, her fingers resting against the edge of the book. “The print is often too small,” she said. “And too much effort tends to bring on a headache. I must be…selective.” There was no self-pity in her tone, only a matter-of-fact acknowledgment.
Darcy considered her words. “And does that prevent you from reading entirely?”
“No,” she said. “Only from indulging in it as I once did.” Her expression softened, though there was something beneath it that suggested a quieter frustration. “I have learned to manage it,” she added. “As one must.”
Darcy inclined his head, though his thoughts had already moved beyond the simple statement. “You speak of managing your circumstances,” he said. “As Crusoe does.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I suppose there is some similarity.”
Darcy watched her for a moment before speaking again. “And what would you choose,” he asked, “if circumstance were no obstacle?”
Elizabeth’s expression shifted, not in discomfort, but in consideration. “That is a difficult question.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Because it invites speculation where there is little use for it.”
Darcy did not immediately accept that answer. “You would not wish to see more of the world?” he asked.
Elizabeth’s smile returned, though it held a trace of something more restrained. “It does not seem likely.”
“Surely,” Darcy said, “you do not intend to remain always at Longbourn.”
Elizabeth’s gaze dropped briefly to the book in her hands. “My future seems fairly certain.”
Darcy studied her. “In what respect?”
She lifted her head again, her expression composed. “I shall remain where I am most useful.”
Darcy felt a faint tightening in his chest. “And what of when you marry?” The question was asked without calculation. It was, perhaps, the most natural extension of the conversation.
Elizabeth’s reaction was not what he expected. She looked at him, not with embarrassment or coyness, but with something closer to confusion.
“Marry?” she repeated.
Darcy held her gaze. “Is that not your expectation?”
Elizabeth was silent for a moment. Then she shook her head. “Gentlemen do not wish for a wife who cannot manage the simplest of things without consequence.” Her tone remained steady, though there was a firmness in it now that had not been present before.
“How am I to entertain guests,” she continued, “when I cannot always see who stands before me? How am I to manage household accounts when too much focus brings pain? A man does not seek such disadvantages in a wife.”
