Page 1
The bell above the door gave its usual soft jingle, but no one entered.
Elizabeth Bennet—now simply Miss Bennet to her regulars—did not look up at the sound.
She had grown used to the teasing sigh of the spring breeze slipping through the cracks of the old shopfront, stirring the bell just enough to announce a ghost. She finished wiping the rim of a pale blue teacup, the glaze smooth beneath her cloth, and set it gently on the tray beside its mates.
The steam from the kettle curled in soft spirals, perfuming the small shop with notes of lavender and lemon peel.
It was nearly four o’clock. The lull between the luncheon crowd and the evening samplers. Her favorite time of day.
Gracechurch Street moved on outside the fogged windows—carts trundling, boys shouting, a news vendor barking headlines—but inside her shop, time slowed.
That had been the point of it. To offer people a quiet corner of the city.
A place for two cups and a conversation, or solitude steeped in warmth.
The name on the hanging sign simply read The Silver Spoon . Her own name did not appear anywhere.
She liked it that way.
A familiar laugh drifted from the back room.
Sarah, the young woman who helped her during the busiest hours, was preparing to leave for the day.
Elizabeth heard the clink of a tea tin being returned to its shelf and the thud of a broom settling against the wall.
Then the creak of the floorboards as Sarah appeared in the doorway, brushing flour from her apron.
“I’ve left the blackcurrant cakes cooling, Miss Bennet. Shall I come in early tomorrow to frost them?”
Elizabeth smiled. “You are not to come in early on your birthday, Sarah. I shall manage.”
Sarah flushed, tucking a curl behind her ear. “You remembered.”
“I remember all my girls’ birthdays. Go on, now. If you’re late to supper, your grandmother will assume I’ve worked you to death and march in here with her walking stick.”
“She’d do it, too.” Sarah grinned, then paused. “You’ll be all right this evening?”
“I always am.”
Still, the girl hesitated. Elizabeth tilted her head toward the door. “Go.”
With a final, grateful curtsy, Sarah disappeared into the dimming day, leaving Elizabeth alone with the clatter of distant hooves and the slow hiss of her kettle.
She moved to the window and touched the glass. Rain. Barely a mist now, but the clouds overhead were thick and sullen. It would be a quiet night.
She didn’t mind. Quiet suited her these days.
It had been nearly four years since Longbourn had ceased to be hers, or any Bennet’s.
Mr. Collins had inherited as expected, and Elizabeth had made her peace with that long before her father’s final illness.
Jane, now in Surrey with Bingley and two little ones, had offered her a home more than once.
But Elizabeth had declined—kindly, firmly.
She did not wish to live off another’s charity, even that of a beloved sister.
And more than that, she had wanted a life that felt her own.
The Silver Spoon had begun as a whim, a fantasy whispered between her and Aunt Gardiner over kitchen tea one winter. It had become reality by spring.
The shop was not grand, nor particularly profitable, but it sustained her. And it was hers. The little table by the hearth, the mismatched china, the lace curtain she had sewn herself—all of it bore the mark of her hand, her taste, her care.
Occasionally, when she passed her reflection in the dusty glass of the counter, she barely recognized the woman who gazed back.
Her gowns were simple now, the fine muslins gone.
Her hands bore the faint calluses of labor, her eyes a thoughtful crease at their corners.
She did not often smile without cause. But when she did, it was genuine.
She had known comfort once. Then loss. Now she knew contentment, which was quieter, but truer.
A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, and she reached for the latch to secure them. The street had thinned. Lamps were being lit. The light in her shop turned golden, catching in the curls of steam from the teapot on the counter.
Elizabeth poured herself a cup and carried it to the front table—the one with the old ivy plant and the silver bell used for service. It was her spot when the day waned. Her watchpost. From here, she could see the door, the world, the softness of the hour.
She sipped. The blend was a new one—jasmine and bergamot. She had not yet decided if she liked it.
It was then the bell above the door chimed again.
But this time, someone stepped inside.
Elizabeth turned. Her cup stilled halfway to her lips.
And there he was.
Mr. Darcy.
He stood just beyond the threshold, rain flecking the shoulders of his greatcoat, the air behind him still wet and cold from the street.
He did not move immediately, nor did he speak.
For a moment, he simply looked at her—as if uncertain whether the vision before him could truly be Elizabeth Bennet.
She had set her cup down. She rose with practiced calm, though her fingers trembled faintly at her sides.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice level.
He blinked, as if startled to hear his name. “Miss Bennet.”
The sound of it— Miss Bennet —struck something old and warm inside her. She had not heard it in his voice for years, and yet it carried the same strange weight it always had. There was something reverent in the way he spoke her name, something careful.
“You are far from Derbyshire,” she said after a beat.
“As are you, I think.”
“Yes,” she allowed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “For some time now.”
He stepped inside fully then, removing his hat and closing the door behind him. The bell gave a soft farewell chime. Rain smeared across the glass, and the world outside vanished into grey.
Elizabeth gestured to the room. “Please—have a seat, if you like. Would you care for tea?”
Darcy hesitated. He glanced around the small shop, his gaze moving across the ivy, the shelf of tins, the faintly crackled paint on the walls. It was clear he had not expected this. Not her in this place. Not like this.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “If it’s no trouble.”
“None at all.” She turned, grateful for the task.
Her hands knew what to do. Boil the water again. Select a cup—one with a soft green rim she thought he might like. Choose a blend—simple, grounding. Not the jasmine. Something familiar. She set it before him with a saucer and a small spoon. Sugar on the side.
He watched her, his brow furrowed faintly, not with disapproval, but with something quieter. Something that made her heart beat in her throat.
“You keep a shop,” he said after a moment.
“I do.”
“And live above it?”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly. “It’s… pleasant. Warm.”
“I prefer it that way.”
“I might have known,” he murmured, half to himself.
She folded her hands in front of her, studying him. The years had refined him, not aged him. His face was perhaps a little more lined, but the set of his mouth was gentler now. He carried the same proud stillness—but it seemed tempered, softened by time or solitude. Or both.
“What brings you to Gracechurch Street?” she asked.
He looked at her then, and for a moment, she thought he might say you . But he did not.
“My sister is visiting friends nearby. I arrived in Town this morning. I happened to be walking this way when the weather turned.”
A pause. Then: “And then I saw your name. In the window.”
She smiled faintly. “I don’t believe my name is in the window.”
His eyes met hers. “No. But I saw you .”
She looked away, pretending interest in the kettle. “And you thought to come in?”
“I thought…” He exhaled. “I wasn’t sure what I thought. Only that I could not walk past.”
The silence stretched, but it was not empty.
Outside, the rain turned to a steady rhythm. Inside, the air warmed.
Darcy stirred his tea but did not drink it.
“You look well,” he said at last.
“As well as any shopkeeper,” she replied lightly.
He did not smile—but something in his eyes shifted, like a flicker of remembered warmth. “Better than most, I would say.”
Elizabeth felt a flush creep up her throat. She looked down.
“I had heard… nothing,” he said.
“I imagine not.”
“I did not expect to see you again.”
“No,” she admitted. “Nor I you.”
She gathered her courage, then looked up. “I’m glad you came in.”
This time, his gaze did not falter. “So am I.”