Page 50 of What Change Entails

“I do,” she said.

Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes moved toward her, but she did not object. Miss Darcy had already captured Lydia’s attention with the promise of showing her the music room later, and Mr. Gardiner was asking Mrs. Reynolds about a carved mantelpiece. It was all proper enough. Doors stood open. Servants passed. No one could accuse them of secrecy.

When Elizabeth followed Mr. Darcy down the corridor, every step felt unaccountably significant.

The library doors were tall and dark, set beneath a carved arch. Darcy opened one and stood aside.

Elizabeth entered. For several seconds she forgot him. The room was not merely large. It was alive with books. Shelves rose higher than she had expected, interrupted by windows that overlooked the gardens and the falling ground beyond. A ladder stood near one wall. A globe occupied a table beside a leather chair worn at the arms. Another table was scattered with newspapers, a folded map, and several volumes left open in evidence of actual use. Sunlight poured across the floor in wide rectangles and touched the gilt lettering on the shelves until names glimmered and vanished as one moved.

This room had not been arranged merely to impress visitors. Someone read here. Many someones, perhaps, over many years.

Elizabeth stepped farther in, her fingers hovering near the back of one chair without touching it. “Oh.”

It was a foolish response. It was the only one available.

Darcy remained near the door. “I hoped it might please you.”

She rotated slowly, taking in another wall of shelves. “This is beyond pleasing.”

His offered a tentative smile before shutting the door partway, leaving it open enough to satisfy propriety. “My father added greatly to it. My mother had the catalogues reorganized after their marriage. Georgiana has claimed the smaller writing table near the window, though she mostly leaves music there and forgets to retrieve it.”

Elizabeth moved toward the table he indicated. A few sheets of music lay in a neat pile, held down by a small bronze weight shaped like a sleeping dog.

“Horace?” she asked.

Darcy’s expression transformed into amusement. “A predecessor. Equally ill-mannered, by all accounts.”

She laughed, then examined the nearest shelf. Poetry, histories, essays, sermons, novels not hidden but shelved openly enough to suggest no shame in them. Her hand touched the spine of a volume of Shakespeare before she could stop herself.

“You may take it down,” Darcy said.

Elizabeth stared at him with a teasing look on her face. “You trust me among your books?”

“I would sooner trust you among books than Miss Lydia among banisters.”

The answer startled a laugh from her, genuine and ill-timed enough that she covered it with one hand.

Darcy’s expression warmed, then checked itself. There it was again. He remained where he was, neither advancing nor retreating, and made no attempt to turn her laughter into advantage. He simply waited, allowing her to be pleased without claiming the pleasure for himself.

Elizabeth removed the Shakespeare and opened it.

The pages had been read. A few notes appeared in a firm hand along the margin, not many, but enough to show attention. She recognized Darcy’s writing from the letter.

Her fingers stilled.

He must have noticed. “That was impertinent of me when I was nineteen. I believed every printed opinion required correction.”

Elizabeth studied the page. “And now?”

“Now I correct fewer in ink.”

She raised her head, unable to help it. “But not in conversation?”

“When my vanity prevails.”

The admission sat between them without ornament.

Elizabeth closed the volume gently. “Mr. Darcy, I have wished to say… I do not know how to say it without making us both uncomfortable.”