Page 32 of Penned By Mr Darcy
She felt like it would burn through her. She had not dared to look at it since she had shoved the diary down there as soon as they had arrived. Worse still – she did not know why she had kept it. It would have been easy enough to return the diary to its owner. She had not stolen it, after all; she had merely found it lying discarded on the ground. Mr Darcy would have been grateful for its safe discovery, and that would have been that.
Instead, she had slipped it into the pocket of her coat and left, travelling back to Longbourn not knowing why she had chosen to do that. It had been a choice, even if she had done it without realising. Something within her wanted that diary, and now she had it.
“Lizzy, what is wrong?” Jane asked, her voice thick with sleep.
“I cannot sleep, that is all.”
“You have scarcely been able to sleep since we got back. Did you grow too used to the fine bed at Netherfield? I am sure this old thing cannot hope to compare.”
Lizzy laughed softly, shaking her head. The bed, whilst it had been very well-crafted, could never hope to compete with the well-worn comfort of the bed that she had always shared with her sister. She knew that something was amiss if even the familiar comfort of home could not ease her mind.
“Perhaps. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
“It is quite alright. I am only sorry you cannot find rest.”
“I think I will get up for a while.”
“Do not go wandering outside,” Jane yawned. “You will freeze.”
“I won’t.”
Her heart hammering, her hand slipped down the back of the bed, fumbling until she felt the hard edge of the book against her fingertips. She hooked it, dragging the book up until it was in her hands.
“What are you doing?” Jane asked.
“I…I dropped my book last night. I thought I would read a while.”
“Oh. You are behaving very strangely, Lizzy. Are you sure you are quite well?”
“I am just tired, I am sure. Go back to sleep, Jane, and I shall see you in the morning.”
Her sister mumbled a goodbye. Lizzy reached for her wrapper, carelessly flung over a chair, and shrugged into it. The morning air was chill, and she felt her feet grow cold on the wooden floor as she made her way downstairs.
It always amazed her how quiet Longbourn was in the hush of dawn. It seemed impossible that a house always so full of life, the very nature of having five girls beneath one roof, was even capable of being so peaceful. She inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of her home soothing the racing of her thoughts.
She stepped into the parlour, fingers groping through the dim for the familiar box of matches. Striking one, she lit the twin candles that always waited on the mantle, their soft flames casting a gentle glow across the room. Carrying one carefully, she crossed to her favourite chair, set the candle beside it, and sank into the familiar warmth of its cushions.
She set the book into her lap. Lizzy was not sure she even wanted to open it, for once the diary was opened, she could not in good conscience say that she had not pried into Mr Darcy’s innermost thoughts. Even the first page was an invasion.
It was not her fault; as she had walked towards the carriage, Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley occupied talking to Jane, she had seen it lying there on the gravel. It was then when she had snatched it up, pocketing it at once as though nothing was amiss.
She ran her fingers over the leather of the cover.
Why was she even tempted to read the diary? If it were Mr Bingley, she knew in her heart that she would have returned it to him at once. Mr Darcy, so aloof and disinterested, proved more of an enigma to her.
She sat there until the candles flickered and died, their glow replaced by the rising of the sun. She did not know how long had passed, too consumed in her thoughts to notice something as trivial as the passage of time. As she heard the servants begin to stir, she realised she was no clearer on what she should do.
And so, she retreated upstairs and returned the diary to its hiding place.
Jane still slept peacefully; Lizzy envied her, for her sister had always been capable of sleeping anywhere with comfort.
She dressed herself for the day, deciding that a brisk walk before breakfast was more sensible than wallowing in her own miserable self-pity for a situation entirely of her own creation. She went downstairs to put on her muddied boots (which her mother insisted be kept by the back door in the servant’s quarters) – and was accosted by their odious houseguest.
“Miss Elizabeth! You are awake very early. What a marvellous quality; the early bird catches the worm, as they say. I myselfendeavour to rise with the crow of the cockerel. Lady Catherine De Bourgh, too, rises very early. It is a most admirable trait.”
“I see.”
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked, moving closer to her.
