Page 63 of A Practical Man
“Excellent,” I said, leading her towards the window of a jewellery shop a few steps away. “I wonder—do you prefer pearls or diamonds?”
“Both, Mr Darcy,” she said with a gurgle of pleasure. “Heaps and heaps of them on my tiaras and draped around my neck, and,” she said, holding up her hands to the light as if to admire them, “I must have rings on every finger.”
“I wish at least once today you would be serious.”
She grinned up at me, and with her eyes alight, she scoffed, “Serious? About the subject of ornament? Impossible. I should perhaps explain that upon some incidental mention of one of Miss Darcy’s bracelets after my return from Pemberley,my youngest sisters became quite interested in the subject of gemstones.”
“I take it you did not join them in their studies?”
“They had some wild notion we should know a diamond from glass, which—Mary claimed, and I could not but agree—is a distinction that is quite useless to us. But I digress. The real reason why I cannot be serious about jewellery is that their determination to be experts led to one of the most absurd arguments I have ever witnessed. Evenyouwould have laughed when Kitty found an object on the floor, raised it to the light and cried, ‘Look what I found! This must be a rough emerald or at the very least a peridot!’
“It was, in fact, only a dried pea, but in fairness, it was so desiccated it did look like a green pebble in need of faceting and polishing. Poor Kitty’s belated arrival at this embarrassing conclusion was, however, so dramatic for her—and Lydia laughed so hard she nearly made herself ill—even my mother could not excuse their noise and sent them to their rooms.”
“You are free to try all you like to make me despise your family, Elizabeth,” I said gently, “but you cannot do it.”
I was close enough to see her sharp intake of breath, and because she still had her hand on my arm, I felt her go still. After a painful pause and with her lashes lowered and a most delicate shade of pink infusing her cheeks, she said, “I am beginning to suspect you are a very stubborn man, Mr Darcy.”
“You have no notion of just how stubborn I intend to be for your sake, Elizabeth. So what is it to be? Sapphires? Rubies? Diamonds?”
“If you must have a serious answer to your question,” she said quietly, “the truth is that I prefer my grandmother’s garnets to anything I see in that case.”
And then, in a mannerism so typical of a woman who was determined to be happy, she lifted her face to me and smiled. “And you, Mr Darcy? Do you prefer pearls or diamonds?”
“If I am honest,” I said, looking pointedly at the glint of gold on her neck, “I too am becoming quite partial to your grandmother’s garnets.”
CHAPTER 43
Unfortunately, I could not keep Elizabeth to myself for long, and when Georgiana returned to collect her, she was swept along to join her sisters.
Upon returning home, our guests were properly spent, and after dinner and a subdued gathering in the parlour, they began to excuse themselves in ones and twos.
“Will you go up?” Georgiana asked me.
I glanced at Elizabeth, who stood beside her, and said, “Not just yet. I think I might sit in the library for a while.”
There was little possibility this ploy would yield a private meeting, yet to my gratification, it did. In less than twenty minutes, I heard soft footsteps on the stair, and then Elizabeth peeked into the room.
“Would you like me to help you find a book?” I asked upon standing.
“That is my excuse, yes,” she said in a hoarse whisper, “but I have had such a disturbing thought just now that I felt I must speak to you.”
I stepped forwards in alarm. “What is it? What has upset you?”
“I am anxious that at any moment, Mama will demand you take us to the exclusive, private ball of some grand lady or other, and in your determination to win this silly game we are playing, you will indulge her. Please, I beg you for my sake, do not give in to her!”
I paused for a moment longer than I should have, and when I spoke, my words were both fierce and tender all at once.
“I am not playing, Elizabeth. Are you?”
She looked askance at the floor. “Y-you have discomposed me—again—and,” she raised her eyes to mine and said, “I-I do not know how to do this, Mr Darcy.”
I stepped even closer. “Do what? Fall in love?”
“Oh no. I have done that already, months ago,” she said impatiently. And then as if the answer suddenly came to her, she said, “I do not know how to put myself in your power—I am afraid of feeling so…”
“It is like a death to give yourself wholly to another.”
“Are you not afraid?”
