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The next morning, Elizabeth stood behind the counter, her hands deep in the tin of Darjeeling she kept for the more particular customers.

She worked by touch as much as by scent—familiar with the silky dryness of the leaves, the slight resistance they gave against her fingertips. She had not spoken much since opening.

She told herself it was the rain. It made everything slower, quieter. Even her customers spoke in hushed tones when the skies were grey. But she knew it was not the weather that kept her thoughts occupied.

Mr. Darcy had come into her shop.

He had sat where the old widow from across the lane usually did. He had sipped her tea. He had looked at her in that still, intense way of his, as though seeing something important and yet unknown.

And he had left with a promise—softly spoken, but understood. May I return? he had asked.

She had answered only with a nod. But in her chest, something had stirred that had been quiet a long time.

The door opened just after the bells in the nearby church struck noon. Not Darcy. A man in his fifties, round-faced and cheerful, who always ordered Ceylon and took a biscuit for his pocket. Elizabeth smiled and served him without thought.

But all the while, she was listening for the bell again.

He did not come at one o’clock. Nor at two.

By three, she had nearly convinced herself that he would not return. That he had meant the visit only as a courtesy. That perhaps it had been nostalgia, nothing more—a moment’s indulgence in the familiar past.

She was wiping down a tray when she heard it: the faint chime. The door opened.

And there he was again.

He looked the same as yesterday—coat dark, hair damp, presence quietly arresting—but this time he removed his gloves as he entered, as though planning to stay longer.

Elizabeth said nothing at first. She waited. He stepped forward.

“I hope I am not intruding.”

“Not at all.”

“I’ve been walking again,” he said. “Though I might pretend the weather was a surprise.”

“You do seem to enjoy being caught in rain.”

He almost smiled. “Only when there is a warm place to wait it out.”

Elizabeth reached for the kettle. “The usual, Mr. Darcy?”

He hesitated. “What would you recommend today?”

She glanced over her shoulder, thoughtful. “Something softer, perhaps. Chamomile with rose.”

“Please.”

As she prepared it, she could feel his eyes moving about the shop.

They always did that at first—guests, particularly those not used to the city.

They took in the smallness, the age, the quiet signs of care.

But Darcy did not linger on the shelves or the furniture.

His gaze returned to her, as it always had.

When she set the cup before him, he nodded once. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

He drank slowly. She watched his face as he tasted it. When he looked up, his expression was unreadable.

“I don’t know why this surprises me,” he said. “But it’s very good.”

“I should hope so.”

“No, I mean—it’s you who chose it. Blended it, even.”

“Do you doubt my ability to measure dried petals, Mr. Darcy?”

He shook his head slightly. “No. Only that… you have always surprised me.”

That gave her pause. “Is that meant kindly?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

They did not speak for several minutes. She moved behind the counter, attending to trays and cups, while he sat at the same table as yesterday, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his saucer.

Finally, he said, “I did not know you were in Town. No one I asked had heard your name.”

“I left Longbourn the year after my father died. We had no claim on the estate, as you well know. Jane and Bingley offered their home, but I—” She shrugged. “I wished to earn my own living.”

He nodded, solemn. “And you have.”

She met his eyes. “Do you find it so surprising?”

“No,” he said again. “I don’t believe you’ve ever failed to do what you set your mind to.”

Elizabeth folded the cloth in her hand. “Thank you.”

They stood in that silence again—comfortably, this time. The shop was empty but for them, and outside, the rain had softened into a steady tapping on the glass.

He finished his tea. She offered more. He declined with a shake of his head—but did not rise.

Instead, he said, “May I ask—have you ever regretted it?”

“The shop?”

“No. Leaving Hertfordshire. Leaving what might have been.”

Her breath caught. It was not an accusation. Just a question, dropped gently between them.

She thought of answering lightly, but something in his voice stopped her.

“I regret some things,” she said. “But not my independence.”

He nodded. “And not… not turning me down?”

That startled her more than it should have. “Mr. Darcy—”

“You need not answer.” He rose at last. “I have asked too much.”

“No,” she said quickly. “You haven’t. Only…” She looked at him. “You chose a poor place for such a question. I’m afraid the walls here remember everything said in them.”

He smiled faintly—this time, fully, if only for a moment. “Then perhaps I shall return tomorrow, and choose my words more carefully.”

Elizabeth felt warmth rise in her chest.

“I’ll keep the kettle ready.”