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"They are not unsettled about her character," Darcy said. "Only about my own understanding of them."

"That is a sensible distinction."

"I would not offer an attachment lightly."

"I know. You are capable of being excessively solemn about a garden walk."

Darcy almost laughed. "That accusation sounds familiar."

"It should. Richard has been making it for twenty years."

The Earl grew more serious. "Elizabeth has no great fortune, but she brings more into a household than money. I trust you already know that."

"Her fortune has never formed part of my consideration."

"Then you have the beginning of a good answer. The rest must belong to her."

Darcy left the study with less certainty about the future but much greater certainty about himself. He loved Elizabeth Bennet. The knowledge did not descend like lightning. It assembled from months of conversation, from the sight of her calming Georgiana, from the steadiness of her care for others and the delight with which she answered any challenge worth meeting. He had been moving toward it without naming it, and now the name seemed inevitable.

Elizabeth was less prepared for her own discovery. She noticed it the following Sunday at a family dinner when Darcy arrived late, having been detained by correspondence from Pemberley. He apologized to Lady Matlock and took the empty chair opposite Elizabeth. Her pleasure at seeing him made the whole room seem brighter, a circumstance so unreasonable that she was forced to examine it.

For years she had regarded Darcy as a reserved cousin of the family, kind to Georgiana and dutiful toward his relations. He had never spoken to her with Richard's easy familiarity or Saye's quiet assurance, but she had gradually come to trust him. During the past season that trust had developed into the most interesting friendship of her life. She looked forward to his opinions because they challenged her; she valued his silence because it was never inattentive. And now she found herself wondering whether a gentleman who listened so patiently to a long explanation about an obscure German poem might wish to hear her thoughts for the rest of his life.

The possibility made her put down her fork.

"Are you unwell?" Saye asked from beside her.

"Not at all. Why do you ask?"

"You have neglected the pudding. That is unlike you."

Richard leaned around his brother. "She is considering something grave. I recognize the expression from chess."

"Then you should take precautions," Saye told him. "Your king may be in danger."

Elizabeth seized her spoon and informed them both that no gentleman ought to remark upon a lady's pudding. The laughter that followed rescued her from further inquiry, but not from her own thoughts.

Several days later Lady Matlock found Elizabeth alone in the morning room, ostensibly at work upon a piece of embroidery. The needle had not moved for some minutes.

"You have been very thoughtful," the countess said.

"I have been practicing patience, Aunt. The work is determined not to resemble the pattern."

Lady Matlock sat beside her. "Then the pattern is less sensible than I supposed."

Elizabeth tried to smile and failed. Her guardian waited. At last Elizabeth said, "May I ask you something rather foolish?"

"You have had eight years of practice in asking me foolish questions and very seldom disappointed me."

"Do you suppose a gentleman might admire a young lady whom he has known since she was a child?"

Lady Matlock studied her without surprise. "People grow, my dear. One does not forever regard a woman as she was when she first entered a room."

"But one may remember her circumstances."

"One may remember them with affection rather than disdain."

Elizabeth stared at the embroidery. "He has known me as the girl your husband rescued from Longbourn. I should not wish anyone to feel obliged to offer me another kind of protection."