Page 215 of What Change Entails

He closed his book. “Come into the library, Lizzy.”

She obeyed.

The library smelled of leather, paper, dust, and her father’s pipe. It should have comforted her. Rather, it emphasized how far she had come from Pemberley’s great library, where Mr. Darcy had reached a book from a high shelf and touched her hand over it.

Mr. Bennet shut the door. The volume Elizabeth had purchased in Lambton now rested open upon his desk, having been pressed into his hands scarcely an hour after her return to Longbourn. He had accepted it with an enthusiasm that delighted her, retreating to his library almost at once, and nearly half its pages already bore penciled observations in his familiar hand.

“The previous owner possessed respectable taste,” Mr. Bennet remarked without looking up. “His notes, however, have been considerably improved by mine.”

“Now,” he said, settling into his chair, “shall I ask questions or pretend not to have any?”

“Pretend, please.”

“A difficult request. My curiosity is one of my few remaining virtues.”

Elizabeth sank into the chair opposite him. “Then preserve it a little longer.”

He regarded her for several seconds, his expression more gentle than his words. “Very well. But if a tall gentleman from Derbyshire appears at my door, I reserve the right to be unsurprised.”

Elizabeth looked down at her gloves.

Mr. Bennet opened his book again, though she did not think he read.

She missed Mr. Darcy with a constancy that made ordinary conversation feel oddly strenuous.

For three days, Longbourn continued as Longbourn always had.

Mrs. Bennet spoke of neighbors, gowns, nerves, and the shocking failure of any gentleman to call within an hour of their arrival in the neighborhood. Kitty demanded more details of Derbyshire until Lydia, for once, grew selective. Mary practiced solemn pieces in the parlor and occasionally informed Lydia that friendship with a young woman of fortune carried responsibilities beyond laughter. Lydia told her that laughter was a responsibility if one’s friends had been tragically deprived of it.

Elizabeth walked.

She walked the lane toward Meryton, then turned back before reaching the village. She walked through the shrubbery, along the edge of the fields, and once as far as the little rise beyond Longbourn where she could see Netherfield in the distance.

Empty still.

On the third afternoon, she escaped to Oakham Mount.

The path rose through grass browned by sun and late summer dust. The air held the hum of insects. A lark rose from a field beyond the hedgerow. Elizabeth climbed without haste, one hand gathering her skirts when the ground grew uneven. By the time she reached the top, the breeze had loosened several curls at her temple.

She stood facing the direction of Netherfield.

The eye could not travel where the heart insisted upon going. Still, she looked.

Three days.

A week since Pemberley.

Long enough for a man to receive a letter and respond, if roads and weather and circumstance allowed, and if his business matters were resolved quickly.

Too soon for despair.

Too long for ease.

She pressed one hand against the rough bark of a nearby tree and breathed in the dry summer air.

A sound came from below.

Hooves.