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And across the front, in the strong, even hand I have watched cross page after page at Rosings all spring, while I wondered to whom he could possibly be writing, is my name.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Chapter Two — Darcy

Be not alarmed, madam.

I write the words, and look at them, and the candle gutters, as though it too has an opinion.

It has been that sort of evening. Everyone has an opinion. The lady has several, and she was good enough to give me all of them.

It is past midnight. I walked the park until I could trust my face, came in just as the Collinses were taking their leave, and went straight up the stairs without a word to anyone, pausing only to tell the footman on the landing that I wanted the black saddled at first light. I did not say why. I did not know why. I knew only that I could not bear to be indoors in Kent one hour longer than I must.

Below me, my aunt held forth in the drawing room until eleven. I heard every word through the floor and recall none of them. There is only one voice in my head tonight, and it does not belong to Lady Catherine.

Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.

I write a second line. I read it back. It is stiff, and cold, and precisely the tone of the man she described.

I crumple it and drop it among the others.

"It will not do," I inform it.

Nine sheets on the floor. I once settled a boundary dispute with the Duke of Devonshire's agent in a single letter, and dined afterwards with an excellent appetite.

I begin again.

Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you.

Disgusting. It is her word, or near enough. I leave it. Let her see that I was listening.

Someone knocks.

I turn the sheet face down. "Come."

It is Fitzwilliam, in his shirtsleeves, with a candle and the expression of a man who has been lying awake on another man's account and resents it.

"I saw your light under the door," he says. "Half the house could see it. You are burning enough wax to light a cathedral."

"I am writing."

"So I observe." He comes in without being asked, which is the privilege of cousins, and surveys the floor. "Nine sheets. Is this a letter or a siege?"

"It is business."

"You have never in your life had business that wanted nine drafts. You wrote the lease for the Lambton mill in a quarter of an hour and asked what was for dinner."

"This is different business."

"Evidently." He sets his candle on the mantel and leans beside it. "You missed a magnificent evening, Darcy. Our aunt explained to Mrs. Collins how a chimney ought to be swept. Mrs. Collins listened as though she had never seen a chimney in her life. I have the highest opinion of Mrs. Collins."

"I was walking."

"Not for long, I think. You came in just as the Collinses were taking leave, looking like a man who had been shot, and went up without a word to anyone. Our aunt remarked upon it. At length. I told her you had letters to write." He glances at the floor again. "It seems I am a prophet."

"It seems you are."

"Miss Bennet was not at tea either."