Page 30 of To Love And To Cherish
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice neutral, “you are up and about very early.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “Is there an appointed hour when ladies may rise, sir? I was inclined to read.”
His mouth curved slightly. “Yet I find you without a book. Were you reading dreams, perhaps?”
“Possibly,” she returned, her tone light but guarded. “Or deliberating what I might best enjoy. I shall leave you now, that you may resume your solitude.”
“Come now, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, with a flicker of amusement. “You came for a book. I daresay nursing your sister affords few entertainments. Please, do take your time.”
He moved to the writing desk. Elizabeth turned toward the shelves, eager to select a volume and be gone.
“I imagine,” Darcy said idly, “that a woman your age would be inclined toward literary works by Mrs. Radcliffe. If one can call those novels ‘literary works.’ They border on the ridiculous, in my view.”
His condescension nettled her. “Indeed, I do enjoy Mrs. Radcliffe, though I also read Homer and Petrarch. Odio decepcionarlo señor, pero las mujeres son criaturas racionales.”
He blinked. “Spanish?”
She arched a brow. “You do not speak it, sir? I had thought surely you would have picked up the language during your years on the Continent.”
She continued, her voice lilting in Italian. “Mi dispiace deluderla, signore, ma le donne sono creature razionali.”
Darcy squinted. “‘Rational creatures’?”
She gave him a look of mock pity. “Has your Italian gone the way of your Spanish? Shall we try German? Ich möchte Sie leider enttäuschen, Sir, aber Frauen sind rationale Wesen.”
He tilted his head. “‘Disappoint?’”
“Perhaps French, then, to restore your confidence. Je déteste vous décevoir, monsieur, mais les femmes sont des créatures rationnelles.”
His expression cleared. “Ah, yes, you hate to disappoint me, with the notion that women are rational creatures. It returns to me now, Miss Elizabeth, your flair for striking down vanity wherever you find it, particularly mine. How could I have forgotten?”
She walked toward the door and withdrew a familiar volume from the shelf.
“Perhaps I, too, will be so fortunate as to forget,” she said, voice steady, “that my beauty is so questionable you would sooner call my mother a wit.”
She regretted the words at once, for her throat thickened and tears threatened. She turned before he might see her eyes and left the room in silence.
At a quarter to eight, Elizabeth slipped softly down the staircase, careful upon the polished wood lest her footsteps should echo and betray her. The household remained hushed at that early hour. She took up her position within a shadowed alcove just beyond the library, where she could observe the approach to the main hall while remaining unseen.
Moments later, Georgiana’s familiar figure appeared at the end of the corridor. Elizabeth stepped forward from concealment and raised a finger to her lips. With a conspiratorial smile, she beckoned her friend. They tiptoed down the passage to a modest parlor at the rear of the house, evidently a seldom-used room, for the air was chill and the furnishings bore a faint film of dust.
“Elizabeth,” Georgiana whispered with amusement, “what are we doing here? The library ought to have a good fire lit by now.”
“Indeed, it does,” Elizabeth replied in a low voice, “but your brother was already there when I passed by. He had his arms full of ledgers and correspondence, so I must presume he has claimed it for his temporary study. I thought it best not to intrude.”
Georgiana nodded with understanding. “Of course. Shall we go up to my room, then? It is warm, and the fire is banked. We can easily add more wood. I shall ring for breakfast on a tray. Would you like anything?”
“Strawberries and cream, I served ours to Jane, but she only picked at them,” said Elizabeth with a hopeful smile.
They ascended together and soon found themselves curled into two generously stuffed chairs near the window in Georgiana’s bedchamber. The breakfast tray was soon delivered, and Elizabeth was delighted to find a small bowl of strawberries covered in clotted cream. While they indulged in the fruit, Elizabeth read aloud from the third volume ofThe Mysteries of Udolpho, her voice rising and falling with dramatic flair.
“I have never even heard of Mrs. Radcliffe or her mysteries,” Georgiana admitted with a wry laugh. “My father’s notions of amusement never extended beyond Greek epics and sermons. Isuppose that is why I became so accomplished at the pianoforte, pure self-preservation from the depths of tedium.”
Elizabeth chuckled, her mouth full of strawberry. “A most exemplary past time.”
Just then, the door silently swung open. Both girls started upright as Mr. Darcy stepped into the room. He stopped short upon seeing them nestled in their chairs, the novel splayed across Elizabeth’s lap, and the remnants of their feast still upon the tray.
Georgiana flushed with surprise. “Fitzwilliam!”
