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As Fitzwilliam Darcy prepared to leave his home in Mayfair for the short trip to Meryton, the gentleman glanced over the gifts his housekeeper made available for his infrequent visits into homes of acquaintances.

Invitations to a weekend at a country estate required the gift of some luxury item–chocolates, wine, or brandy.

Today, he would begin an extended stay in the country with Charles Bingley at his leased estate, Netherfield, and the guest should arrive with a gift.

Darcy understood from his last letter from Charles that his friend would attend an assembly early in the week as an introduction to the families in the neighbourhood.

With Louisa and Geoffrey Hurst present and his second sister, Caroline, to act as his hostess, Bingley would invite families to dine or take tea.

All such invitations must be issued by his hostess, Miss Bingley.

After rejecting the usual assortment of gifts the housekeeper made available, Darcy decided, ‘I must not arrive with chocolates or wine; otherwise, Miss Bingley will declare us engaged at supper. I need something mundane that will bore her and drive notions of matrimony from her head. But what?’

Then Fitzwilliam had a notion.

‘Miss Bingley obsesses about proper appearances,’ he remembered. ‘ I shall visit a mercantile in the village…she will be offended with a local gift and voice her opinion of me loudly for everyone to hear.’

~~~

It took three hours on the rough roads to travel from London to the village of Meryton, and when his carriage-and-four passed the local shops, Darcy tapped on the compartment roof, his usual signal for the driver to stop.

Not waiting for assistance, the gentleman opened the carriage door and found himself in front of the typical row of shops in a village–a cobbler, tailor, seamstress, and mercantile.

The recent rains meant the typical muck was present, and Darcy made one step in the mud before his boots were on the wooden walkway in front of the shops.

He was surprised to find a selection of book titles in such a small village.

And even more pleasing, Fitzwilliam could wander about the shop for a moment without being approached by the proprietor–the man dealt with a woman with an order for several lengths of cloth.

This allowed the latest customer to glance over the shelves of teapots, porcelain plates and bowls, and tools without interruption.

There were glass front cases with sewing needles, thimbles of thread in every colour in the rainbow, buttons for a man’s shirts, pants, and coats, and ten times as many for a lady’s garments.

Retracing his steps back toward the front of the store, Fitzwilliam Darcy found a young woman looking over the titles of the books on the shelf. At first, he thought she was very young because she stood with her hands clasped behind her back as though afraid to touch anything.

“The Gibbon is extensively detailed,” he said, referring to the multiple volumes of the series titled The Collapse and Fall of the Roman Empire. “But it will take a year to make your way through them all.”

She turned her head toward the man, and their eyes met–her dark brown eyes sparkling with life met his blue eyes filled with strength and power.

After a moment, the young woman said, “Indeed, it took me a full year to make my way through them, but my father said my many questions slowed my progress.”

“Have you read the Gibbon? All of it?” asked Darcy incredulously.

Her eyebrows rising at the man’s tone of voice, the young woman replied, “I have indeed. Do you think a woman cannot read, understand, and discuss the man’s ideas for the reasons behind the decline of the Roman Empire?”

“Forgive me. I was surprised that a girl as young as yourself had read such a work,” the man said but stopped when he realised that she had the figure of a grown woman. “I understand now; the way you stood in the sunlight made me think you were but a girl.”

Displeased to be mistaken for a child, the young woman explained, “My father and mother require me to clasp my hands behind my back while wandering through the mercantile. As a child, I tended to touch things, and they meant for me not to break items. Holding my hands in this manner is a habit that I continue, especially when viewing books on the merchant’s shelf. ”

Before Darcy could reply, an imperious voice demanded, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet! Why are you speaking with this stranger? Your mother and father will be displeased when they learn of this.”

Glancing toward the voice, Elizabeth said, “Lady Lucas…”

But the gentleman interrupted her. “Madam, I am a stranger to Meryton, and the young lady was educating me on the topics Mr Gibbon presented in his voluminous work on the decline and fall of the Roman Empire.”

“Sir, unknown gentlemen, do not impose themselves on proper young ladies!” the matron declared.

Being true to her nature, Elizabeth asked, “But Lady Lucas, did not Charlotte and Maria speak to Mr George Wickham on the street last week without an introduction?”

Turning toward the stranger, Elizabeth explained, “Charlotte and Maria are the daughters of Lady Lucas.”

Her attention returned to Lady Lucas as she continued, “I believe they invited him to the assembly and gave him the ticket he used that night. My mamma reported that Mr Wickham dined at Lucas Lodge the other night.”

“Mr Wickham is a polite gentleman of business visiting Meryton,” Lady Lucas replied with some coldness. She considered it a feather in her cap to have had the handsome man visit her home first.

Hearing the name George Wickham, the new gentleman remained silent but examined each person again carefully.

The proprietor was a man of middle age, dressed in sturdy, relatively clean clothes; his face was friendly as a shopkeeper’s appearance should be.

The matron was a woman dressed warmly with a bonnet upon her head.

The basket on her arm was full of the cloth she had just purchased, and she held the handle tightly as though afraid someone would snatch it away.

And the third person in the shop–the young woman–smiled gently at the older woman and the proprietor.

She was dressed warmly for an early autumn afternoon in a print gown, bonnet, shawl, and boots that provided evidence she had walked along the muddy roads around Meryton.

But her eyes remained bright with mirth viewing the current situation.

“There is a sudden influx of young men in Meryton,” the store proprietor said as he directed Lady Lucas out of the store. “First Mr Bingley arrives, then Mr Wickham appears as if by magic along with the militia officers, and now this third gentleman.”

Lady Lucas took her purchases and left the store; she would have new gossip to share at several houses between the store and the edge of the village.

Once the matron was on her way, the proprietor closed the shop door, turned to Darcy, and asked, “Sir, I am George Rockland, and this is my establishment. How can I assist you this afternoon?”

Darcy doffed his hat and said, “Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire. I have come to visit with Mr Bingley at his estate…Nonefield is it?”

“The estate is named Netherfield,” Mr Rockland said to correct the gentleman.

“Yes, Netherfield,” Darcy replied though Elizabeth thought the man had known the proper name throughout the conversation. “I must arrive with a gift for the hostess, but I wanted something that was not personal.”

“Were you considering a book, sir?” asked the young woman, now named Elizabeth Bennet.

“A book is a personal gift; do you not think?” he asked in a serious tone, dismissing the girl from his thoughts.

However, she continued to engage him in conversation by replying, “Yes, and much appreciated if the recipient enjoys reading. My father and I regularly exchange books as gifts.”

Mr Rockland grinned and said, “Indeed. When new titles arrive, I always send a note to Mr Bennet, and that brings Miss Elizabeth to visit within a day or two.”

“Perhaps the Gibbon would make a good gift for Mr Bingley at some point,” Mr Darcy said. “He must accumulate a suitable library to be a landed gentleman.”

Turning his back on the girl to dismiss her, Darcy looked at the shop owner and asked, “Now, tell me, what would make a suitable but innocuous gift for my arrival at Netherfield?”

From over his shoulder, Darcy heard Elizabeth say, “A package of fresh tea leaves is welcome in every home.”

“That is true, Miss Bennet,” Rockland agreed. “And I do not remember if Mrs Hobbes ordered any tea leaves since the arrival of Mr Bingley and his party.”

Seeing the question in the man’s expression, Rockland explained, “Mrs Hobbes is the most excellent housekeeper at Netherfield. She has managed the manor as long as I can remember.”

“And do you believe a gift of fresh tea leaves would be appropriate?” asked Darcy as he considered gifting the staple pantry item to the hostess at Netherfield.

“Hereabouts, the gentry appreciates the taste of fresh leaves for tea,” Elizabeth interjected again from further away. “It is a sign of favour when visitors are served fresh tea.”

The young woman continued, “And every housekeeper and cook have their own receipts for brewing tea and how to reuse the leaves. Many ladies instruct their cooks to dry and chop the leaves coarsely before brewing the second time. Then they dry the leaves again, combine them with others, and chop them finely for a third time in the teapot. And it does not matter if you strain the tea, some leaves slip through.”

“That would explain the occasional leaves at the bottom of the teacup,” Darcy admitted, turning back to the girl who was close to the door.

“Were you unaware of the practice?” asked Elizabeth. She stopped her steps, considered the tall gentleman again and asked, “Sir, does your household reuse tea leaves?”