Page 6 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

Elizabeth

J ane slept soundly that night; the same could not be said for Elizabeth, who lay awake beside her, keeping watch over her sister’s health.

When she had returned the evening before, Jane’s fever had flared again, her cough harsher than ever.

That she managed to find any rest at all seemed a small miracle—one for which Lizzy was, of course, grateful.

Had Jane required her attention, it might have distracted her from the tangle of thoughts surrounding Mr Darcy. But with nothing to do but think, Elizabeth spent long, restless hours staring at the ceiling, puzzling over his strange behaviour.

She rose before dawn, slipping into a plain gown.

She would change again before breakfast, but for now, she wished only to be presentable in case anyone encountered her at such an early hour.

At Longbourn, she would have thought nothing of roaming about in her nightgown and wrapper, but the prospect of facing Miss Bingley in a such a state of undress was too dreadful to consider.

Gently, she laid a hand on Jane’s forehead and was comforted to find it cooler. She pressed a kiss to her sister’s cheek, smiling as Jane murmured in her sleep. Then, with a final look, Elizabeth quietly stepped out into the hushed corridor.

She couldn't be certain of the hour, though she guessed it was no later than five.

The house lay cloaked in silence, still untouched by morning stirrings.

Soon the maids would be up, tending the fires.

Until then, the quiet was almost tangible.

Elizabeth made her way to the library, hoping to find a book even duller than the one Mr Darcy had suggested the day before—something dry enough to still the tumult of her thoughts.

The library greeted her like a shadowed kingdom, vast and hushed, its shelves towering in quiet majesty – somehow even more magnificent in near-darkness than in broad daylight.

As she stepped inside, she drew in a deep breath, the scent of parchment, ink, leather filling her lungs.

She sighed contentedly. It was one of her favourite smells in the world, rivalled only by the scent of the air after a heavy rainfall, and honeysuckle on a hot summer’s day.

A chill curled around her feet, and she started, realizing she’d forgotten to put on shoes. Her mind was a whirlwind; thoughts tangled in knots she couldn’t break free from.

She moved cautiously toward the fireplace, blinking in the dim light, careful not to trip over unseen furniture. Her fingers fumbled along the mantle in search of matches. Striking one, she held it up, hoping to see whether a fire might yet be coaxed from the ashes without setting a fresh one.

The match’s golden glow lit the hearth. There, nestled in the shadows of the firelight, lay a letter. It looked as though someone had meant to toss it into the fire but had missed. It had not even been singed, nor torn up. Whoever had discarded it had done a poor job indeed.

She leant forward, picking the paper up between curious fingers. She had only just begun to read when she gave a small yelp. The match had burned too low, and the flame had licked at her hand. She shook it out and struck another, using it to light a candle that sat on the mantel this time.

With the room now faintly aglow, she glanced back at the paper. She hesitated. It was wrong to read what did not belong to her. Worse still was that it had clearly been meant for destruction, and not for the consumption of another.

But really, if the writer had been so careless as to leave it behind, was it truly her fault? She read on, and with every word her mouth fell farther open.

She blinked, stunned, eyes darting back to the page as she tried to make sense of what she had just read.

A confession—not of love, no, the writer had been explicit on that point. Love had no part in it. It was a man’s voice, that much was certain. But whose? Surely one of the three gentlemen residing at Netherfield. No servant would have reason to burn such a letter here.

Mr Hurst? Unlikely. Whatever his indifference to his wife, he was married.

And this—this letter spoke of honour, of marriage, of temptation and restraint, though not nearly enough of the latter.

The language marked the writer as eligible, someone considering a match—or at least feigning the desire for one.

She read it again, slower this time, the heat rising in her face.

She knew little of desire, or of men, but she could imagine, now, what it must be like to be wanted as the author described. To be longed for with such intensity. It was thrilling. Terrifying.

Wrong. Shameful.

Because this man, whoever he was, had no intention of love, no true wish for honour. His words hinted at ruin, not romance.

What sort of man even thought in such a way?

A chill passed over her. One possibility lodged itself, cold and heavy, in her mind, of a man that could possibly be so careless as to not ensure the destruction of such a document.

Mr Bingley.

And if he had written this…

Then it was Jane, dearest gentle Jane, who was the object of those dark and reckless desires.

It could not be! Mr Bingley was bound to ask for Jane’s hand, for everything in his behaviour suggested that it was an inevitability.

Could it be possible that they had all misunderstood him so gravely?

! Was his admiration for her based entirely upon his own carnality?

She simply had to know who wrote this confession.

She folded the note, her heart hammering with every crease. She slipped it into the pocket of her dress.

She crept back the way she had come, slipping into her room.

She hurriedly retrieved the note from her pocket and searched for a place that she may hide it.

She settled upon placing it carefully between the pages of the book she had brought with her from Longbourn, selecting a place near the back of the book.

She slammed it shut; the letter sealed within far more pleasant pages.

It was not yet dawn; the maid would be in soon, no doubt, to set the fire. The room was frigid, and Lizzy returned to bed. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, she would wake to find this whole thing some terrible dream.

She pressed her eyes closed, and when she next opened them the room was filled with the soft early morning light of autumn. She sat up, seeing the fire roar merrily in its grate, and her heart leapt. It had all been a dream after all!

She reached to her bedside table, gathering the book in eager fingers. She turned the pages towards the back and…

There lay the wretched note.

She snapped the book closed again, leaning back on the pillows.

She stared up at the ceiling. How was she supposed to look any of the gentlemen in the eye, now that she was privy the innermost thoughts of at least one of them?

It was unfathomably intimate – intimacy she had not asked for and had no desire to partake in!

The burden of the secret would lay upon her for the rest of her days.

There was a knock at her door, and she called for whoever it was to come in.

“Lizzy!” Jane exclaimed, rushing forward and joining her on the bed.

“You are late to rise today. Are you unwell? I could not bear it if I had passed my illness to you, I am so sorry. Or perhaps, the reason for your headache lay within your glass at dinner last night. You would not stop giggling as you readied for the night.”

“I am quite well; I slept poorly, and must have fallen back to sleep at sunrise. I did not want to worry you.”

“Was something bothering you, sister? Normally you are the soundest sleeper of us all.”

“Am I?”

“Many nights you have closed your eyes and I have heard snoring mere moments later!”

“I do not snore!” Lizzy protested, with alaugh. “I am quite well, Jane, I assure you. It is the strange bed, perhaps. How are you feeling?”

“Very ill,” Jane sniffed. “I rose from my bed only to make sure you were well, and I am afraid I regret it already.”

Her words were punctuated with a hacking cough. Lizzy pressed her hand to her sister’s forehead, finding it burning.

“Jane! Get in the bed at once! I will fetch some water and a cloth.”

“Thank you, Lizzy. Perhaps you might read to me, if you will. Ah, of course you have a book here already! What is it?”

Jane turned to the bedside table and wearily lifted the book to her lap. Lizzy looked in horror as she began to thumb through the pages. She launched herself forward, snatching the book from her sister and slamming it closed.

“Yes! Yes, of course, I will read to you! You will disturb my bookmark, and I must start from the beginning for our reading. A moment, please.”

She turned, placing the book on the windowsill – the furthest place from the bed – in the hope that Jane would not have the strength to reach for it.

It was a terrible thing to think, but her sister could not see that note.

If it was from Mr Bingley, or if Jane believed it was, such feelings would surely terrify her!

“Are you sure you are well, Lizzy? You are behaving very strangely.”

“Quite well. I am sure I am just unsettled from my poor sleep. I shall gather your things from your room.”

She picked up the book, clutching it close to her chest, as she scurried from Jane’s room and down the corridor to hers. She gave no thought to dressing. Elizabeth barely had time to breathe before she collided with something solid in the corridor.

Strong hands grasped her arms, steadying her, and a familiar scent—clean linen, sandalwood, and something uniquely him —wrapped around her senses like a vice.

“Miss Bennet,” Mr Darcy’s voice was low, rough, as though she had startled him as much as he had her.

Elizabeth gasped, her grip on the book tightening. The damning letter, bound within the pages, burned against her palms like a brand.

She stepped back, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“Mr Darcy! Forgive me, please, I…I was not looking where I was going.”