Page 20 of Penned By Mr Darcy
“You are always in the library, I think. As though it were your own private domain.”
His lips twitched, almost—a flicker of amusement gone as quickly as it came.
“Not always. But I value solitude.”
“Tell me something, Mr Darcy—do you keep a diary?”
The change was immediate. He stiffened, his expression guarded, his eyes suddenly wary.
“I do,” he said, carefully.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in curiosity.
“I thought as much. With your preference for solitude, you strike me as a man who prefers to commit his thoughts to paper, rather than speak them aloud.”
He said nothing. She felt entirely bare under his gaze, for he seemed to stare into her soul. He was certainly not talented at conversation – it was unsettling to be looked upon in such a way. She did not feel special, for he seemed to do it to everyone he spoke with. She wondered if it was his intention to stare them into submission, ensuring that nobody spoke to him for too long – and that few wished to repeat the experience.
She would not be beaten.
“I do not mean it as criticism,” she continued. “There’s something admirable in it, really. To look inward and make sense of yourself on the page.”
Still nothing. Only that intense, unreadable gaze.
“I wonder,” she said, her voice softer now, “if you write the way you speak—measured, careful, never more than necessary.”
A flicker—something passed through his eyes, too fleeting to name.
“You seem to have made quite the assessment of me, Miss Elizabeth. Do you truly think that of me?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
“I do not know,” she replied, holding his gaze. “Perhaps I only wonder what a man like you allows himself to say when no one is listening.”
A moment passed. Long. Loaded.
“There are some things,” he said slowly, “that are easier to face in the silence of one’s own confession.”
Their eyes met. And in the stillness of the hall, with the house asleep around them, Elizabeth felt the breath catch in her throat.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” she whispered. “Only to understand you.”
He turned his face away slightly, the motion quiet but telling.
“I did not think you would care to. Indeed, few of our mutual acquaintances seem inclined to.”
“Then perhaps they did not try hard enough.”
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “if you are truly hungry… come. I will show you the way to the kitchens.”
She hesitated. Then nodded.
“Thank you.”
He turned, and she followed, unsure if it was food or something else entirely that now stirred her appetite.
She swallowed; her feelings were not true. She had been influenced by that discarded letter – which she still could not prove belonged to Mr Darcy, and even if it had…
Oh, it filled every romantic notion to be written about in such a manner, as well as inflame every sensibility she possessed. What sort of man held both desire and utter rejection of such?! It was an insult.
She followed him down winding hallways until they reached the kitchen. He knew the way around Netherfield remarkably well for one who seeemed to so often hide himself away; did he make a habit of straying below stairs? Did he lord himself above the servants as he did those in his company? Such a man could not help but assert his superiority, she supposed.
