Page 110 of What Change Entails

“Oh,” she said, quite inadequately. “Yes. This is the very one.”

Mr. Darcy watched her, his expression altered in a way that made her conscious of how fiercely she held the volume.

“I shall buy it,” she said.

“Of course,” Mr. Alden replied, satisfied. “And for yourself?”

“For myself?” Elizabeth asked, still half-distracted by her good fortune. “I had not thought so far.”

“Dangerous words in a bookshop,” Darcy said.

Mr. Alden nodded solemnly. “Very dangerous.”

Elizabeth wandered deeper among the shelves while Mr. Darcy spoke quietly with the proprietor about binding repairs. She found histories, essays, volumes of verse, a few novels tucked in among moral works with no apology for their presence. On an upper shelf, just beyond comfortable reach, she saw a title she had wanted for months: a travel account of the Lake District she had once borrowed in part but never finished.

She stretched, failed, and felt absurd.

“Allow me.”

Mr. Darcy was beside her before she could protest.

He reached above her and drew the volume down easily. He did not crowd her. He need not have come close enough to affect her senses, and yet the narrow aisle did not permit much distance. The sleeve of his coat brushed the edge of her shawl. The scent of rain-damp wool and clean linen stirred faintly as he lowered the book.

“Is this the one?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth took it.

Or meant to.

His hand remained on the cover a moment too long. Or hers did. Perhaps both.

Elizabeth raised her head.

His eyes had darkened. Not dramatically. He simply held her attention with a focus that made the cramped shop, the dusty shelves, Mr. Alden’s quiet movements near the counter, and all of Lambton beyond the window recede for one dangerous second.

Elizabeth became aware that she was still holding the book between them and had forgotten to breathe sensibly.

Once, when thinking of Mr. Darcy, she had felt mortification first. Then regret. Then gratitude complicated by pride, pride complicated by embarrassment, and embarrassment complicated by every new kindness he displayed.

None of those old arguments comforted her much anymore. She was very close to loving him. The realization arrived so abruptly that she nearly dropped the book altogether. Instead, she let her fingers remain where they were, near his on the book’s worn cover.

Charlotte’s voice came to her from months earlier: Jane should have shown more affection, more certainty, more encouragement. Elizabeth had laughed then, partly because Charlotte’s views of marriage were always practical to the point of alarm and partly because Jane’s heart had never needed theatrical display to be real.

Perhaps a gentleman could be forgiven for requiring some sign.

Mr. Darcy, of all men, had already been refused once.

He would not presume easily again.

Elizabeth drew the book toward herself, slowly enough that his fingers slid away from the cover rather than released it.

“I have wanted this volume for a long while,” she said. “You have brought me to exactly the right place.”

His expression changed slightly. Hope, quickly checked.

“I am glad.”

“I am too.” She held the book against her waist and forced herself not to look away. “Very glad.”