Mrs Hurst's fingers wandered listlessly over the keys of the pianoforte, producing a melody so lacking in conviction that even her own attention wavered. Her husband, undisturbed by such trifles, lay sprawled upon the sofa, his snores punctuating the languid atmosphere of the drawing-room. Mr Bingley sat near the window, his elbow upon the arm of his chair, fingers idly tracing patterns upon his chin, while his gaze, unfocused, rested upon the sodden landscape beyond. His thoughts, no doubt, were far removed from the rainy afternoon.
Caroline Bingley, however, knew no such repose. Her silk skirts rustled as she moved across the room, each measured step a declaration of her restless dissatisfaction. She had watched Mr Darcy for some time—his stillness, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his eyes, fixed upon the pages of his book, betrayed not the slightest awareness of her presence.
Mr Darcy was deeply immersed in the book, or at least he appeared to be so, as his restless mind had been agreeably engaged with thoughts of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, which prevented him from attending to it properly.
Exasperated by the gentleman's disregard for her person, Miss Bingley moved towards his chair and glanced over his shoulder, inquiring what he was reading.
"Wordsworth," said he without averting his eyes from the book.
Caroline's lips curved into what she must have deemed a charming smile. "Ah! I do so adore poetry!" cried she merrily. "Perhaps I will join you, Mr Darcy."
With this announcement, Miss Bingley moved past his chair, ensuring that the hem of her gown brushed against his leg ever so lightly. She saw the faintest colour rise to his face and, mistaking its cause, inwardly congratulated herself.
Selecting a book from the table, she arranged herself opposite him with an air of practised elegance, casting covert glances over the pages.
Mr Darcy looked up, curious to see what title she had chosen, and found himself struggling to suppress a laugh. Mastering himself, he addressed the lady, "Are you enjoying your book, Miss Bingley?"
Delighted at his address, she declared she was enjoying it immensely.
"I am very glad to hear it, for I did not know you could read upside down."
Miss Bingley looked down at the opened book, and a flush crept over her cheeks. Her fingers tightened around the book as she closed it with a forced laugh. "I declare a lady should study all manner of literature," said she, rising swiftly to her feet.
Darcy offered no response, merely inclining his head before returning to his book.
Unwilling to accept his persistent neglect of her person, Miss Bingley continued, "Truly, I cannot imagine what literature Miss Eliza has had the opportunity to read. Surely, the education of such a country girl from a savage little nothing of a town must have been severely limited without a governess and tutor. Her father prefers his books and port to his family, and her mother is vulgar and ignorant." She paused and regarded Mr Darcy to see how he had borne the truth. "I declare Miss Eliza has few accomplishments and less education, and she should stay within her sphere of society."
Darcy's fingers tightened around the spine of his book. His jaw was clenched. There was a pause—then, with a decisive snap, he shut the volume and rose to his feet.
"Pray excuse me," said he, his voice cool and measured though his eyes held a warning. "I have pressing matters to attend to."
Miss Bingley, startled by the suddenness of his departure, watched him stride from the room, his footsteps echoing as he disappeared into the hallway. Her lips parted, but no words followed. She turned back towards her brother, who remained lost in thought, oblivious to the exchange.
Mrs Hurst's fingers drifted from the keys, the final note hanging uncertainly in the air. Then, with a sigh, she resumed playing as if nothing of consequence had transpired.
Darcy stepped into the foyer and turned towards the corridor leading directly to the library. He soon found the room's wooden door and pushed it open. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and polished wood, the quiet hum of solitude settling over him. Yet as he entered, his breath caught—he was not alone.
Elizabeth Bennet stood near the bookshelves, her lovely silhouette illuminated by the flickering glow of candlelight. The golden light softened the sharpness of her features, casting her in a warm radiance that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He swallowed, composing himself.
"Miss Bennet," said he, his voice even.
Elizabeth turned at once, her expression shifting from surprise to polite indifference. She dipped in a measured curtsy, offering only a simple 'Mr Darcy' before turning her attention back to the rows of books.
He observed her fingers gliding idly over the spines as she moved along the shelves. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"
She hesitated, debating whether to respond at all.
"No," said she at last. "I am merely looking."
He stepped closer, conscious of the faint rose tint that warmed her cheek. Was it the candlelight, or was it something else?
He forced himself to focus. "I am better acquainted with Mr Bingley's library. I might recommend something."
Elizabeth arched a brow, half-inclined to refuse. His presumption ought to have annoyed her, yet something in his manner—an uncharacteristic gentleness, perhaps—made her relent. "Very well, sir. What do you suggest?"
He moved along the shelves with slow deliberation. "What have you read of late?"
She tilted her head, considering. "Thomas Gray."
Darcy paused, turning back to her with a look of interest. "I confess, I admire your taste in literature, Miss Bennet."
Elizabeth, momentarily astonished, studied him. She had expected condescension, not approval. "You surprise me, Mr Darcy. Most gentlemen do not value women's interest in books."
His gaze did not waver. "Then most gentlemen are fools."
She blinked. But before she could respond, he continued, "I dare say a woman ought not to be regarded merely as an ornament for a man's amusement. Society insists on certain accomplishments—embroidery, music, dances—but not all men desire endless discussions of such trifles. An educated man should prize in his wife the ability to engage in stimulating, witty discourse, just as she, in turn, should find her mind continually enlivened by him. A husband ought to consider his wife his equal, not a mere servant or another possession among his belongings …" Darcy trailed off abruptly, turning his attention back to the bookshelf, feeling a warmth rise to his cheeks after such a loud and foolish display of his thoughts.
Silence fell over the room, filled only with the quiet crackling of the fire.
Elizabeth was utterly astonished that Mr Darcy held such a favourable opinion of the hierarchy within marriage, and such thoughts brought an unexpected blush to her cheeks. Conflicting emotions rose in her mind, which she endeavoured to grapple with.
Darcy was still appalled by his wretched tongue, which had betrayed him. Good God, he might as well declare himself after revealing his sentiments in such a way! How did he allow himself to get into such a situation?
He cleared his throat, desperately trying to sound normal. "Just before I came here, I was reading Wordsworth's Lucy poems. I would dearly like to know your opinion of it."
Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow at him. "Do you enjoy exploring tragic, unrequited love, Mr Darcy?"
"Lucy's tragedy is not merely one of love, Miss Bennet, but of love fleeting as the seasons. The poems speak of the quiet passing of beauty, of a life that fades unnoticed. There is a melancholy in them, but also a truth that cannot be ignored."
Elizabeth studied him thoughtfully. "A truth?" said she. "Then you believe sorrow to be inevitable?"
His gaze lingered on her as if weighing his answer. "At times, it is."
She tilted her head, her expression keen with curiosity. "You surprise me, Mr Darcy. I thought you a man of strong will, one who does not yield to the whims of fate."
His lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile. "Even the strongest will is powerless against the passage of time. We may struggle against certain endings, Miss Bennet, but that does not always prevent them."
Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond but found herself at a loss. Something in his tone—something restrained yet almost confessional—unsettled her. She looked away, tracing her fingers absently along the spines of the books before her.
"I cannot say I share such a fatalistic view," said she at last. "Though I do see the beauty in melancholy, I should not wish to dwell in it."
Darcy inclined his head slightly. "Then you prefer poetry that offers hope?"
"I prefer poetry that offers truth," said she with a small smile. "But I suppose I have not yet decided what I believe that truth to be."
He studied her with quiet intensity, admiration flickering in his dark eyes.
She continued her leisurely stroll along the bookshelves and reached for a volume. A smile graced her lips as she recited a passage from Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew:
"Fie, fie! Unknit that threatening unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor."
Lowering the book, she glanced at him archly. "I wonder, Mr Darcy, do you think Kate spoke these words in earnest?"
Darcy caught the challenge in her voice and, without hesitation, responded, "She spoke them, Miss Bennet, as any woman of understanding would—when she knew they would serve her purpose."
"Then you admit that submission may, in fact, be wielded as a weapon?"
"Not submission," said he, amusement dancing in his gaze. "But performance."
She considered this. "Ah. So you believe, as I do, that Kate remained untamed?"
His smile was subtle but unmistakable. "A woman of spirit does not surrender so easily."
Elizabeth's brows lifted. "Then you do not hold with those gentlemen who claim a wife's chief virtue to be obedience?"
Darcy's amusement gave way to something more thoughtful. "A husband and wife ought to be partners in understanding, Miss Bennet. A woman should not be made to obey, nor should a man expect it. If there is any virtue in marriage, it must lie in mutual respect."
Elizabeth was momentarily struck silent. The words were spoken with such conviction, such quiet certainty, that she could not think of a single witty retort. Her own father—so clever, so independent of mind—had never respected her mother the way he ought to have.
Regaining herself, she folded her arms with mock gravity. "And yet, sir, Kate does say, 'Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper.' Would you have me believe that even this is but an artful display?"
Darcy rested lightly against the shelf, considering her with an air of quiet amusement. "Perhaps it is, or perhaps it is the declaration of a woman wise enough to know that power is most secure when freely given."
Elizabeth shook her head, laughing. "You argue with such ease, sir, that I begin to suspect you have defended such views before."
"Not at all. But you inspire a formidable debate, Miss Bennet, and …" He trailed off, distracted by the female voices emerging from outside the opened door.
Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst were coming down the hallway towards the library.
Blast! The last thing Darcy desired was to be caught alone with Miss Elizabeth, as it would undoubtedly provoke even sharper remarks from Miss Bingley. Besides, he had endured enough of Caroline Bingley's company that day.
His restless gaze swept across the room in search of refuge until it settled on the remotest corner, where bookshelves shrouded in darkness offered a perfect hiding place.
Without time for further consideration, he swiftly grasped his companion's wrist and pulled her in that direction. Of course, his actions were utterly irrational—a fact he realised too late. There was absolutely no reason to drag Miss Elizabeth along—except, of course, for the undeniable desire to have her close, in spite of every rational thought that should have dissuaded him.
The suddenness of his movement left Elizabeth no time to react. Her breath caught in her throat in astonishment as she was abruptly pulled towards the bookshelves and drawn close to him without any chance of protesting. Her feet barely managed to find stability before she disappeared into the shadows, pressed between towering bookshelves, which, in this vast library, seemed to loom more numerous than the volumes they housed.
A shiver ran down her spine, born of pure astonishment. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest at the strange, unfamiliar closeness that now enveloped her. Mr Darcy was still holding her wrist—his warm, firm grip allowing her to feel the rapid pulse of his fingers. Her skin tingled where he touched her, and the faint trace of sandalwood and spice clung to him, unsettling her in a manner she could neither ignore nor comprehend.
Thus, they stood as the two sisters entered the library.
"How strange," said Miss Bingley. "I was told he was here."
"Apparently not," said Mrs Hurst.
"Perhaps he is in Charles's study. But where can she be, then? Miss Bennet said Miss Eliza had gone to the library."
"Caro, whatever are you doing?"
"What do you think, Lou? That provincial upstart is nothing but trouble!"
"Calm down, sister!"
"Do not tell me to calm down when that scheming girl seeks to entrap Mr Darcy into marriage, while I have pursued him these three years! And I was so near to success before Charles committed the most unimaginable folly and chose to settle here!"
Elizabeth nearly gasped aloud, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound. Their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and Darcy glanced at her, pressing a finger to his lips to signal her to stay quiet.
They stared at each other with wide eyes as Caroline continued her tirade against Elizabeth.
She stomped her foot and cried out in anger. "I must find out where she is at once!"
"Caroline."
"You must see it, Lou, how she ensnares him with her gaze and her impertinent remarks. And he keeps looking at her! She is drawing him into her trap!"
Darcy flinched slightly, his hand momentarily tightening around Elizabeth's wrist, and he moved closer, as though his presence could somehow ease her distress, shielding her from further slander.
However, his nearness unsettled her all the more. Elizabeth blushed from head to toe and bit her lip hard, trying to steady her trembling body and the tightness in her chest. Never before had she stood in such close proximity to any gentleman save her father. And Mr Darcy was exceptionally tall and broad-shouldered, his intensely masculine scent affecting her more than she cared to admit. She was acutely aware of it. Her heart pounded, and her knees weakened. She felt his breath, uneven and warm against her ear, heightening her awareness of their mutual proximity.
Elizabeth leaned against the bookshelf, not merely to steady herself but to avoid the greater calamity of a scandal that would surely breach the walls of Netherfield and ruin her reputation. Dazed, she reflected that her mother's smelling salts might be of great use at this moment.
Perceiving her unsteadiness, Darcy placed a steadying arm about her waist, but the gesture only heightened her trembling, sending a most unwelcome thrill through her frame. Her head grew light as she became acutely aware of the firm strength enclosing her, awakening within her a most unfamiliar—and undeniably improper—sensation.
"Caro, perhaps you are over-interpreting things. Let us not forget that Mr Darcy has a mind of his own. He will make his own decisions."
"I have spent years—years!—cultivating this acquaintance, trying to spark his interest, and what has it brought me? Nothing!" Miss Bingley took a deep breath, her voice lowering though frustration still simmered beneath it. "And now that cunning Eliza, with her … her cleverness and manners, comes here pretending to be the epitome of modesty, but I know her true intentions."
Indignation flared within Elizabeth, yet she bit her lip, refusing to betray the slightest sign of vexation. And to the truth, her mind was too occupied with other things. Mr Darcy's closeness that had once seemed almost repellent now was—intoxicatingly alluring. She was acutely aware of every detail: the soft brush of his coat against her sleeve, the elusive yet compelling scent of him...
Her body, still held in his arms, trembled. She felt his muscles tighten. Did he, too, feel unsettled by their closeness? Was he engaged in an inner struggle she had no right to intrude upon?
Miss Bingley's voice pierced the air once more, distant yet still seething with fury. "If I do nothing, that shameless Eliza certainly will!"
Her indignant footsteps echoed down the corridor, her ire still hanging in the air. Louisa's softer, hastening voice followed, no doubt attempting to soothe her sister's wrath.
A long silence fell. Though the voices of the two sisters still echoed faintly in the distance, neither Elizabeth nor Darcy stirred. Neither spoke, scarcely daring even to draw breath. They remained concealed within the shadows of the bookshelves, hidden from view, yet impossibly near—as though caught in an unspoken contest of wills. Neither would yield nor could they bring themselves to acknowledge the truth of the moment between them.
Darcy's gaze remained fixed upon Elizabeth, his arm still resting at her waist. Her nearness—the warmth of her body but a breath away—sent his heart racing. His breath came faster than it should have. He was loath to release her—not yet.
The intoxicating nearness of her, mingled with the delicate trace of her fragrance, unsettled him beyond reason. Yet the weight of consequence pressed upon him, and with a reluctant sigh, he forced his thoughts back to reason. He regained a semblance of control, though not without a painful sense of regret for the restraint it required. The temptation to draw her nearer, to claim the kiss he had so often imagined, was near insurmountable. But the consequences—those cursed consequences—flashed before his eyes, forcing him to control himself.
Darcy finally recalled to the full impropriety of their situation. He straightened and stepped hastily back.
His voice, unsteady with both surprise and regret, faltered. "Miss Bennet, I—I beg your pardon. I ought not—"
But before he could finish, Elizabeth hastily withdrew as though determined to flee him and the suffocating air. Her movements were hurried, and her gaze was averted. Her hands trembled as she smoothed the folds of her gown, striving for composure.
"There is no need for an apology, Mr Darcy," said she, her voice carefully even. "If anything, I should thank you for your discretion. I had no desire to encounter Miss Bingley, too." Saying that, she turned swiftly towards the door, eager to escape both the moment—and him—before she lost all command over herself.
Darcy saw her hastening towards the exit and rushed to stop her. "Allow me to ensure the way is clear."
Elizabeth hesitated, and Darcy stepped past her, casting a swift glance into the corridor to ensure they were alone.
Once he was certain the hallway was empty, he turned back to Elizabeth. "It is safe for you to go now."
Elizabeth nodded. There was no time to lose. She had to leave. Yet, as she passed him, her breath quickened, and she chanced one last glance in his direction.
He remained motionless, his features taut with an emotion she could not name, his hands clasped before him as though awaiting—a response, perhaps.
However, she could not summon the courage to speak. Thus, she turned and rushed down the corridor, fleeing from his overwhelming presence.
Upon reaching Jane's room, Elizabeth closed the door softly behind her and leaned against it. The cool wood at her back did little to steady her breath. Her heart yet raced, her mind a tumult of bewilderment and conflicting feelings.
She raised her hand—the very one Mr Darcy had held—and pressed it unconsciously to her breast. The memory of his touch lingered, a curious warmth spreading through her, unsettling yet not unwelcome.
"Lizzy?" Jane's soft, concerned voice interrupted her thoughts, prompting her to lower her hand at once, as though it burned.
Jane sat upon the bed, regarding her sister with a mingling of concern and curiosity. "What has happened?"
Elizabeth hesitated. "Nothing of consequence, Jane."
Jane did not look convinced. "Where were you?"
"In the library, of course."
"Did you encounter Miss Bingley? She was seeking you."
"N-no."
"I had thought you went in search of a book. Yet you have returned with no book in your hand."
Elizabeth coloured and crossed the room, carefully avoiding her sister's scrutinising gaze before seating herself at the edge of the bed. Jane continued to watch her, her brows slightly furrowed in curiosity and mild concern.
"Mr Bingley's library is somewhat limited, and I found nothing of particular interest."
Jane regarded her with raised brows. "Lizzy, are you quite well?"
Elizabeth felt the heat rising in her cheeks again. After a brief hesitation, she said, "I encountered Mr Darcy in the library, Jane."
Jane's eyes widened as she studied her sister's face, noting the nervousness written there.
"Mr Darcy?" said she in surprise. "Did something transpire? Did you quarrel?"
Elizabeth answered at once—perhaps too hastily. "No, certainly not. Nothing of the kind."
"Lizzy, you are blushing!"
Elizabeth laughed, though somewhat uneasily, which only heightened Jane's suspicion.
"Very well, Elizabeth—what have you done?"
"Heavens, Jane! Surely you do not imagine I have acted improperly?"
"Of course not, Lizzy. Yet you appear most discomposed."
"Perhaps I am. You see, while Mr Darcy and I were engaged in a most—yes, most—agreeable conversation, we heard Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst approaching. And as neither of us had any inclination for such a dreadful encounter, we took refuge behind the bookshelves."
Jane gasped, pressing a hand to her lips.
"But rest assured, Jane, nothing scandalous occurred." Or, at least, very nearly nothing. "Aside from Miss Bingley's dreadful insinuations, claiming I sought to ensnare Mr Darcy whilst he stood," and very near indeed, "behind the shelf."
"Surely she did not!"
"Oh, indeed she did. And if I do not depart soon, I dare say she shall see me removed herself!"