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It became, quite suddenly, a habit.

Darcy returned the next day. And the day after.

Always near the same hour, just before the light began to shift toward evening, when the air turned golden and the corners of the shop softened into quietude.

He came with his gloves neatly folded, his coat slightly damp, and a question on his lips—not always spoken aloud, but present all the same.

May I sit? May I stay? May I know you now, as you are?

Elizabeth never refused him.

She did not ask why he came. Nor did he offer a reason.

That first conversation, tentative and brave in its honesty, remained unspoken between them, like a page dog-eared but not reread.

Instead, they spoke of other things: the books he had seen at Hatchards that week, the shape of the clouds over the Thames that afternoon, the peculiar pride of the woman who ran the stationer’s next door.

They spoke as two people who had once known each other deeply, and now met again in gentler light.

On the fifth day, he brought a book with him.

It was an old volume, worn at the corners, its leather softened with age. He set it on the table beside his teacup.

“I thought you might like this,” he said. “It was one of my mother’s.”

Elizabeth reached for it slowly. She read the spine aloud. Poems for the Hearth and Mind .

She looked up at him. “You think me in need of verse?”

“I think you might enjoy it more than you expect.”

She opened to a random page and scanned the lines. The words were quiet, unpretentious—verses about warmth, and comfort, and the small acts that tether us to one another.

“It’s lovely,” she said softly.

“She used to read it aloud in the winter. Before we had guests. When it was just us.”

Elizabeth traced the edge of the page. “Thank you.”

He shook his head slightly. “It’s not a gift. Only a loan. I would like it back.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you more than anyone. Which is why I dare let it go at all.”

That made her smile.

Later that same evening, after he had gone, she sat by the front window with the book open in her lap. The fire burned low, and the lamplight caught the gold thread still clinging to the book’s edge. She read three poems in silence, then closed the cover and held it against her chest.

It had been a long time since someone brought her something without expectation.

The next afternoon, rain streaked the glass again. The city passed by in a blur of umbrellas and hurrying feet. Elizabeth served two customers in the early hours—a young couple looking nervous, and a banker who always left without finishing his tea. By three o’clock, the shop was quiet again.

She was just reaching for her shawl when the door opened.

Darcy, again. Punctual as the light.

But this time, he was not alone.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, stepping aside, “I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve brought someone with me.”

The girl beside him looked to be no more than seventeen. Tall, fair, and shy, she offered a quick curtsy.

“Georgiana,” Elizabeth breathed. “Of course.”

“I’ve heard of your tea shop,” Georgiana said, her voice quiet but warm. “I begged him to bring me.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Then you are most welcome. Come in, both of you.”

They chose the corner table today, the one closest to the window. Darcy removed his gloves while Georgiana looked around the room with open delight.

“It smells like orange blossoms,” she said.

Elizabeth nodded. “It’s the tin on the shelf behind you—white tea and dried peel.”

Georgiana smiled. “I should like to try it, if I may.”

Elizabeth nodded and turned to prepare the pot. Her fingers moved on instinct now—one measure for brightness, one for warmth. She added a curl of dried pear, for softness.

As the tea steeped, she glanced back at the table.

Darcy was speaking softly to his sister.

Georgiana listened with that particular attentiveness only siblings can offer—part affection, part tolerance, part amusement.

Elizabeth watched the line of his jaw ease as he smiled at her.

He looked so entirely human in that moment—so different from the proud man of Meryton assemblies and carefully clipped refusals.

He had changed. Not entirely. But enough.

She set the tea before them, and when Darcy looked up, his eyes met hers.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded. “You’re both welcome here.”

The tea was well received.

Georgiana sipped with a pleased hum and declared it “the most elegant thing I’ve ever tasted.” Darcy, less effusive but no less sincere, nodded his agreement and quietly reached for the small honey pot. He added a single spoonful, then stirred without a sound.

Elizabeth took the table nearest theirs—ostensibly to prepare an invoice for a standing order, but in truth, to stay near.

She liked the feeling of their presence.

It shifted the atmosphere in the shop, softened it.

For the first time in a long while, the little room did not feel entirely hers—and strangely, she did not mind.

She watched them speak together. Georgiana’s voice grew more animated with each question Elizabeth answered. Darcy offered only occasional comments, his gaze drifting between the fire, his sister, and Elizabeth’s hands when they moved across the counter.

It was Georgiana who said it first.

“You know, I used to imagine you as a character in a book.”

Elizabeth looked up, surprised. “Me?”

“Yes,” Georgiana said, blushing faintly. “My brother told me a great deal about you—years ago. Not in the way one might expect,” she added quickly, glancing at Darcy, “but rather… in the way one speaks of someone they cannot forget.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. Darcy shifted in his seat, but said nothing.

Georgiana pressed on, quietly sincere. “You were always brave in his stories. And clever. And kind. I think I imagined you more myth than real person. But now that I’ve met you…” She smiled. “I see I was mistaken. You’re much more than any story.”

The words settled around them with strange weight.

Darcy looked as though he might speak, but Elizabeth gently interjected, not to deflect, but to soften.

“Well, I suppose I should warn you, Miss Darcy—I have not done anything particularly brave in years. Unless you count balancing three teapots on one tray last Thursday.”

Georgiana laughed, a sound like music. “I should count that indeed.”

The clock struck four. A breeze stirred the curtains near the window.

The customers began to drift in—a pair of gentlemen who came every other Thursday, a mother and daughter with matching cloaks. The room began to fill with the soft clatter of cups, the murmur of voices, and the warm hum of comfort.

Darcy and Georgiana stayed.

They moved to the smaller table by the hearth to make space, and Elizabeth brought a second pot—this time of chamomile and mint, just as the mother preferred. She served with practiced grace, but her thoughts wandered.

To Darcy’s stillness. To Georgiana’s warmth. To the way her shop had, without her intending, become the setting for something unfolding—something not quite friendship, not yet anything more.

When the last guests departed and Georgiana stood to gather her shawl, she turned to Elizabeth with a gentle smile.

“May I come again?”

Elizabeth hesitated for only a breath. “Of course.”

Georgiana turned to Darcy. “We’ll have to make this a regular visit.”

He inclined his head. “If Miss Bennet will tolerate us.”

Elizabeth met his eyes. “I’ve grown quite used to your interruptions.”

His mouth twitched—an almost-smile.

After they left, Elizabeth stood in the quiet again. The air still held the scent of mint and pear. A single chair sat askew from Georgiana’s departure.

She crossed to the table and picked up the forgotten napkin folded neatly on the edge. Beneath it sat a note. Darcy’s hand.

She opened it.

I wonder if there are second chances that are not sudden, but slow. Like water returning to the roots of a tree. You need not answer. But I will return, if you’ll allow it.

—F. D.

She folded the note with trembling hands and held it against her chest.

Outside, the clouds were breaking.