Dear Reader,

Okay, so this is a scene and I'm not sure I've done it justice (but I don't want to put any critical ideas in your heads). I suspect this scene will be expanded and enriched as I write more of the book. This is where plot gets tricky as somehow things (magically) unfold that become useful in other parts of the book (at least I hope so anyway). But any comments would be helpful. Thanks for reading as always.

Best,

Grace

The next afternoon the skies darkened and threatened rain. Jane seemed better and slipped into a peaceful afternoon nap, so Elizabeth crept down to the Netherfield's library to return the philosophy tomes and–hopefully–find a book that might interest her more.

She heard Mr. Bingley's braying laughter and the others playing cards in the next-door sitting room, and though she did not pass directly near the room, she tread lightly in her slippers so they might not hear her and feel obliged to ask her to join them.

The quiet peace of the library fell immediately comforted her, as did her favorite scent of cool paper and old books. Alone in the library, she bit her lip in anticipation at her luck. Somewhere outside, thunder rumbled ominously. She crossed the room quickly, eager to linger over Netherfield's tall, well-stocked rows of books. Looking up and down the gilt-edge spines rapturously, Elizabeth relished her solitude.

"Are you looking for anything in particular or might I recommend something?" Mr. Darcy's deep voice startled her and she turned quickly, hand on her pounding heart, to see him sitting near the fireplace in a chair that had been previously turned away from her.

"Mr. Darcy! I did not see you sitting there."

For a moment she swore his lips quirked up in a momentarily half-smile at her discomfort, which was exceedingly ungentlemanlike. "My apologies, Miss Bennet. I did not mean to startle you. It seemed it may storm, and I was looking for a quiet space to read." And as though he had conjured it, thunder rumbled outside again.

"A brilliant choice for such activity," Elizabeth turned back to the stacks, annoyance warm in her cheeks.

He was almost certainly giving her that exasperating half smile again. Well, she would ignore it. She focused on the rows of book spines before her but found focusing on them impossible with him sitting there, watching her.

Oh, he was ruining the library for her. She considered leaving but did not wish to give him the satisfaction. She stood, rooted to the spot, pretending to concentrate on the book titles, running an index finger over the spines. He was still watching her. She heard thunder again.

"What's that you're holding?"

She had forgotten the books in her hands.

"I am returning the books from Jane's bedside."

"Yes," Darcy said from his seat. "I know you are not a great lover of philosophy."

"That is not what I said." She turned away from him sharply. Would he ever stop talking?

Behind her, she heard him get up from his chair. Oh! Would her mortifications ever end?

After a moment she turned and found him standing annoying close, leaning against a bookshelf, still so tall she had to crane her neck to look up at him. From the window, lightning flashed, making his shoulders appear very broad in the dark.

"It will storm soon." He still wore the maddening smile.

"What marvelous prognostication," she said tartly. "You should consider fortune telling."

Darcy's smile widened, and he glanced at the book spines. "Do you like Scotch Poetry, Miss Bennet?"

One of the gold book titles became clear to her. She was looking at a section of Scottish poetry. "Are you a Robert Burns enthusiast?"

She tightened her jaw with annoyance. She decided she should leave then. No book was worth such an impertinent inquisition. Ironically, she did like Burns's poems very much. But she did not say so.

Then–to her horror–Mr. Darcy began to quote poetry. She always had a personal dislike for men who quoted poetry. It struck her dreadfully unoriginal.

"Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes/flow gently, I'll sing a song in thy praise," he recited one of her favorites. He had a surprisingly good voice for poetry, which only irritated her more.

She interrupted him. "I do know Burn's poems very well. No need to recite them."

And yet he kept speaking. "My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream/flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream."

"Oh, that thou might stop talking," Elizabeth said.

Finally, she met his eyes. Mirth flickered in their grey depths.

"Please do stop," she said.

A crack of thunder sounded and they both looked at the tree branches blowing outside the window. The wind was increasing. "I know English poets are considered superior, yet I find Burn's work very…resonant. I'm similarly drawn to other Scottish stories. I particularly like Macbeth."

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Interesting, I find Burns overpraised."

"Just like Aristotle?" Mr. Darcy seemed to enjoy her discomfort. More thunder boomed louder above them.

"Exactly." She said. "I've no wish to disturb you. I'll leave you alone with Scotland."

As she turned, a small book with gilt lettering at the end of the shelf caught her eye. Its cloth cover was worn and threadbare, though the gold in the lettering flickered in the candlelight. Small and seeming handmade, its title was written in a faded flourishing script. "Gaelic Incantations, Charms and Blessings of the Hebrides."

She reached out her hand and touched the fabric of the book, and felt its worn, browning edges, cracked with age.

Elizabeth handed the book to him. "I've found something you might enjoy."

"What is that?" Darcy asked, turning the book over. He read the title, "Tsk, tsk. Scottish spells are nothing to be trifled with, Miss Bennet," he said but she could tell from his voice he was amused.

"I am not the one trifling with them," Elizabeth said and moved on to a different shelf.

Mr. Darcy thumbed through the book while following her. "Ah, here's a prayer for protection from the Evil Eye and from the hurt of the faeries. That may be helpful."

She did not look up. "Yes, I imagine you inspire the Evil Eye frequently from others."

"Only here in the country," he said smoothly. "Here's a spell to cure a toothache."

Elizabeth pointedly looked away. "I'm not concerned about toothaches, Mr. Darcy."

Outside, the wind picked up still.

"Then I shan't read it to you. I find old superstitions charming. Here is a spell to allow people to see out from another person's body. How odd."

Elizabeth finally looked at him, now exasperated by his attentions. She was going to say something to ask him to leave her alone. Then the sound of thunder cracked just above them and she jumped, startled.

"Are you all right?" His hand touched her arm. She leaped back from his touch.

"I am perfectly fine, Mr. Darcy."

"You seem startled. It sounds wicked outside, but I'm sure we are safe inside a large old house like this." His lips curved up again. "Are you afraid of a storm?" Outside, the skies seemed almost black.

"Of course not."

"You do not seem to be someone who would fear storms."

Her chin lifted.

He looked down at the book, and she noticed his thick dark hair as he read:

"Nine knots upon this thread. Nine blessings upon thy head.

Blessings to take away thy pain. And to see anew a-gain."

He looked up at her. "Now you must say, 'see anew again' or the spell won't work," he said playfully.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "I do not wish to play."

"You need only say, 'see new again.'"

"No, Mr. Darcy…." She decided then to quit the library. She scanned the book titles for something of interest she might take with her. Finally, she grabbed a book of Burn's poems.

"Excellent choice."

"I do not recall asking for your opinion."

"True enough. You did not." Still, he thumbed through the book. "Here is an incantation that allows one to see out of the eyes of a raven. I wonder how one ensures the cooperation of the bird?"

Finally, she had enough. "Mr. Darcy, I do not care."

"Truly? Because that seems like a useful skill." He closed the book and looked at her calmly. "Trained bird and all."

"You are enjoying bothering me."

There was the half smile again. What kind of gentleman enjoyed teasing ladies? Her heart pounded in her ears.

"I am sorry," he said softly. Thunder again rolled overhead."Hertfordshire is very...damp."

"Surely no more than London."

"It feels wilder here."

The wind increased and howled, now tree branches shook against the nearby window.

"I suspect Miss Bingley would agree with you."

He smiled again. "I'll not tell her that."

"Mr. Darcy, I must check on my sister. You'll excuse me."

He nodded. "You did not let me finish the spell."

She sighed. Her irritation flared again. "Fine. What must I say?"

He glanced down at the book. "To see new again."

"To see new again. Is there anything else?"

Another crack sounded overhead and Elizabeth winced. For a moment, the entire house seemed to shake, the candles flickered dark a moment. She heard Bingley call out, "Good Lord!" from the other room.

To her annoyance, Darcy still smiled. "Sound and fury, signifying nothing," he quoted Macbeth. Did he suppose she would not recognize it?

"And told by a fool." She smiled at herself; she could not help it.

They heard nothing for a moment.

Then a great shush of rainfall fell outside like a whisper.

"There, see? Our spell worked," Darcy said as Elizabeth curtsied to him before turning away.

"It was not a spell to induce rain," she said as she walked away.

"No, but you'll see the magic we've conjured here," Darcy said and watched her walk away.

"I shan't hold my breath," Elizabeth said walking out the door.