Page 5

The snow remained.

London had not yet disappeared beneath it, but each street bore the softness of the season—white along the railings, slush at the corners, horses stepping more carefully. Gracechurch Street was quieter than usual, muffled in snow and shawls.

Inside The Silver Spoon , the fire burned steadily, and Elizabeth moved through the morning with a quiet rhythm. The tea tins were warm beneath her palms, the scent of orange peel and cinnamon clung to the air, and the click of china against oak was its own sort of music.

By now, it was almost expected. Three days a week—sometimes four—Darcy appeared sometime between two and four o’clock. He never called attention to it, never presumed. If a table was full, he waited. If she was busy, he read. Sometimes, Georgiana came too, but often he came alone.

Elizabeth had not asked why.

She had not needed to.

This afternoon, the shop was full early—perhaps the snow had drawn people inside, or perhaps the warmth of her tea and her quiet manner had become their own advertisement.

The tables were full. Laughter hummed at one, conversation rolled at another.

Sarah served with flushed cheeks and nimble hands.

Elizabeth stood behind the counter, wiping down a tray, when she saw him.

Darcy.

He stood at the entrance, snowflakes clinging to the dark wool of his collar. He looked around and, seeing no empty table, caught her eye. He offered a nod—deferential, patient—and stepped aside so as not to crowd the entrance.

Elizabeth hesitated only a moment. She left the tray, crossed the shop, and stepped up to him.

“There’s no table just now,” she said.

“I don’t mind waiting.”

“No,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Come with me.”

She led him to the back room.

It was not part of the shop proper—used mostly for storage, an occasional break, and the rare private meeting. But today, she had set a small table there, covered with a cloth, beside the old hearth.

“I meant to take tea here myself,” she said, only a small fib. “You might share it.”

He paused just long enough to make her heart flutter.

Then he said simply, “Thank you.”

She poured for them both—Darjeeling, with the faintest hint of honey already stirred in. He accepted it with a small smile, cupping the china in his hands for warmth.

“I cannot help but wonder,” he said after a moment, “if I am driving your other patrons away.”

She laughed. “Not at all. Though the widow across the street has begun referring to you as ‘the tall gentleman who stares at the teacups.’”

He shook his head with a quiet smile. “If only that were the worst of my reputation.”

“It is not a bad reputation,” she said softly. “Only… curious.”

Darcy looked at her directly. “And what do you think I am doing, Miss Bennet, sitting in your shop, week after week, nursing a second cup I never quite finish?”

She took a sip before answering. “I think you are waiting to be sure of something.”

His voice was low. “And are you?”

She set her cup down. “I am waiting, too.”

They drank in silence for a time. Not awkward—never awkward—but thoughtful. Measured.

Outside, they could hear the soft thump of feet on the snowy street. Inside, the only sound was the pop of the fire and the clink of spoons against porcelain.

Elizabeth looked over at him, and for the first time in many years, she did not see Mr. Darcy of Pemberley , the proud man who had once spoken too coldly and then written too much.

She saw a man who had learned how to wait.

And it made something in her chest warm.

When their cups were empty, neither moved to rise.

Elizabeth leaned slightly forward, her hands resting on the rim of her saucer. “Do you remember the first time we danced?”

Darcy looked at her, startled by the question, then smiled softly. “At the Meryton assembly. You refused me.”

“I did.”

“I remember the floor was uneven near the corner.”

She laughed, low and bright. “I’d forgotten that.”

“I did not. I nearly tripped.”

“You would never admit to such a thing at the time.”

“I was not in the habit of admitting much of anything.”

“No,” she agreed gently. “You weren’t.”

Their eyes met. The air between them was warm despite the snow beyond the walls.

“Why ask about the dance?” he said.

“Because I wonder if it might have all begun differently, had I said yes.”

Darcy tilted his head. “Would you have? Knowing what you know now?”

“I might have,” she said. “If I’d been less proud. If you had been less silent.”

He nodded. “We were well-matched in pride, then.”

“We were.”

“Perhaps we still are.”

Elizabeth smiled, but said nothing. Her heart was beating a little too fast.

There was a pause as Darcy’s gaze drifted to the hearth, watching the fire. The flames caught the gold in his eyes, made him seem warmer than she remembered from their Hertfordshire days. Or perhaps he had simply become warmer. Or perhaps she had.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Bennet—Elizabeth—” His voice caught slightly on her name. “I know I come here too often. That I stay too long. I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t.”

His brows lifted slightly.

She continued. “I thought, at first, that you came out of politeness. Then I thought it might be habit. Then curiosity.”

“And now?”

“Now I think you come because you wish to be near me.”

He looked at her as if he might deny it—but he didn’t. Instead, he said, very simply, “Yes.”

The word hung in the space between them, unadorned.

Elizabeth felt something loosen in her chest. She picked up her cup, took a sip—cold now, but sweet—and said, “Good.”

The door creaked open behind them.

Sarah’s voice called through. “Miss Bennet? There’s a delivery here—the sugar from Finch’s.”

Elizabeth stood, brushing down her skirt. “I’ll be right out.”

Darcy rose as well.

“Will you stay?” she asked. “There’s shortbread, if you’re inclined.”

“I’ll stay,” he said, “for the shortbread and whatever comes with it.”

She turned to leave the room but stopped at the door, one hand on the frame. She looked back at him.

“You know,” she said, “I think I would say yes now. If you asked me to dance.”

He smiled, more fully than he had in days. “Then I shall have to find music.”

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly.

Darcy helped carry crates from the back. He spoke with Sarah. He even served a cup of tea to an elderly gentleman when Elizabeth was busy refilling the sugar bins.

No grand confessions were made. No proposals spoken.

Only glances, and shared smiles, and small things that built toward something stronger.

The kind of love that does not need to be declared in haste.

The kind that is sipped slowly, like well-steeped tea.