“But far less amusing. Hedgehogs have such indignant expressions. Thomas could commune with it over the injustices of the world.”
Darcy’s lips curved—that almost-smile she was learning to read, the one that meant he was pleased but would not permit himself to show it fully. “You are good for him, Elizabeth. I hope you know that.”
The words were simple, but his tone lent them unexpected weight. She turned to him, meeting eyes so intent that her breath faltered.
“And you,” she said. “Am I good for you?”
The question hung between them. Bold, perhaps. Too direct for the careful courtship they had agreed upon. But she needed to know—needed to hear him say it, or admit that he could not.
“Yes, Lizba, you are… essential.” His voice was rough with a sentiment she had never heard from him before.
From behind them, Georgiana let out an audible squeak of romantic satisfaction. Prue, more discreet, merely cleared her throat in a manner suggesting she had witnessed everything and would be noting it for future embellishment.
Elizabeth found she did not care. Let them watch, let them speculate, let the county amuse itself with tales of Mr. Darcy’s astonishing affection for his new wife.
She reached out and took his hand—a bold gesture, here in the farmyard with servants and neighbors as witnesses. His fingers closed around hers immediately, as though he had been waiting for the invitation.
“Essential,” she repeated, tasting the word. “That is perhaps the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“I am not… I have never been skilled at romance.”
“On the contrary.” Elizabeth squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of him, the steadiness, the barely leashed wanting thatshe was only beginning to understand. “You are rather better at it than you suppose.”
He said nothing, but Elizabeth could feel his shy smile as she turned toward the lane with him—toward home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OF JOURNALS AND LITERATURE
A few daysof fever and a puppy’s presence had left Elizabeth remiss in her duties, and not solely those Mrs. Reynolds would have sanctioned.
She sat in the drawing room, her writing desk precariously balanced on her lap, the green leather journal open to a page she had not visited since her earliest days at Pemberley. She nibbled the end of her quill, suppressing a smile at her own first impressions. Beside her, a sheet of stationery waited, displaying nothing butDear Janein her tidiest hand.
Observations of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the heading read. Beneath it, her earlier entries now seemed charmingly naïve:
He adores his sister and tolerates her impetuous behavior. She has not had the guidance of a mother since she was six.
He performs reserve for his household, practicing his scowls in the mirror. He told me not to smile at Mrs. Reynolds.
The half-brother’s name is George. He is not to be mentioned. But Georgiana will talk, and so I will know.
Apparently, the story is that I am Darcy’s secret lover. I suppose I must be pleased that Mr. Darcy has asked me to dance on at least two occasions. That is more than any other female can claim.
Elizabeth reread the last entry, her cheeks warming. She had written it with such arch detachment, as if reporting the habits of an exotic jungle creature she meant to observe from a safe remove. It was most inconvenient, then, that the creature in question had since declined to remain at any distance at all.
She dipped her quill and added, in handwriting that she refused to admit had grown rather less steady.
He whistles before breakfast. Georgiana reports this as unprecedented. The household staff confirms with expressions suggesting they have witnessed a miracle and are uncertain whether to genuflect.
He smiles when he forgets to guard against it. The trick, I had written, was to make him forget more often. I appear to have succeeded beyond all reasonable expectations. He has smiled at me eleven times in the past three days. I have counted. I do not know what this signifies about my character, but I suspect nothing flattering.
Across the room, Georgiana sat on the carpet—entirely improper for a young lady of her station—with Thomas curled against her side, both absorbed with the puppy’s antics. Harley had wedged himself beneath the settee and was refusing to emerge, his ridiculous ears pooling on the floor, his expression suggesting that settees were fortresses and he intended to hold this one until relieved.
“Harley, come,” Thomas shouted. “Sidney wants you.”
He held up the wooden soldier as an enticement. Harley’s tail thumped twice, but he did not move.
“He is sulking,” Georgiana informed him. “You must coax him with something he wants.”
