“If you brought a chair, you could sit and keep me company.” Elizabeth meant to alleviate her host’s uncertainty, and he nodded. He disappeared into the study for a moment and returned with two sturdy wooden chairs. They did not appear particularly comfortable, but they were light enough to be easily moved. He dropped one near where the colonel habitually rested, then drew the other up to her bed, just far enough away that they might converse comfortably.
“I must ask you, sir,” she said as she dipped her fork into the eggs, “how is it you have a secret hideaway behind your books?” She slipped a bite into her mouth.
“It was originally a storage room of sorts.” Mr. Darcy leaned forward a little. “I believe there were a mountain of trunks kept here when my grandmother was alive. She loved to remake her favorite gowns as the fashions changed. Any material or lace or other embellishments that might one day be useful were packed and left here. She did not like to clutter up her dressing room.”
Elizabeth laughed merrily. “So she cluttered your grandfather’s study instead?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “My grandfather, I believe, was more than pleased to allow it, given how much money she saved him by reusing items rather than insisting upon new. My own mother was not raised to be so thrifty.”
“Did it shock your father,” she asked lightly, “to be required to supply his wife with a new wardrobe every year?”
He glanced at her askance, and she nodded encouragingly in response. It was nice to hear a little about Mr. Darcy’s family. It made him less intimidating.
“He loved my mother,” Mr. Darcy informed her gravely. “Whatever he was able to offer for her comfort, he was pleased to provide.”
“He sounds like an excellent husband. Was it a love match, then?” Elizabeth asked, taking a small bite of the ginger cake. Her hunger was such that it was difficult not to pick it up in her hand and stuff it into her mouth, but she refrained.
There was just enough light through the closed shutters to see Mr. Darcy’s pensive expression. She noticed that his eyelashes were long and very dark.
“Eventually,” he said, sounding rather far away. “My father was in love first, but he managed to persuade my mother that she ought to love him in return.” He paused, interlacing his long fingers. “She was the daughter of an earl. He was the son of a gentleman. My father was a wealthy man in his own right and heir to a great estate, but he was untitled.”
Elizabeth finished her eggs and reached for her tea. She kept one eye on Mr. Darcy as she sipped it. He was watching her, as he always did, but this time his eyes spoke of kindness.
“Is the tea to your liking?” he asked.
“Everything is very good, Mr. Darcy,” she assured him.
Mr. Darcy observed as she ate the cake in small, proper bites, savoring the sharp sweetness on her tongue. When her appetite was at last satisfied, she placed the fork down.
Mr. Darcy blinked and then continued his story. “My grandfather Matlock was not wild for the match, but neither was he averse to it. He had arranged a marriage for Lady Catherine, my aunt, to a baronet, and I have no doubt my mother wished to outdo her elder sister. It took the better part of a year before she reconciled herself to the attentions of an untitled suitor.”
“She had other admirers, I imagine,” Elizabeth prompted him when he fell silent once more. Now that her stomach was satisfied, she could feel how her head ached and her throat tickled. She reached for her teacup.
“A few,” he admitted. “My mother once told me that it was my father’s constant heart that won her. She desired a title, but in the end, she was unwilling to sacrifice her happiness to gain one.”
“A wise woman,” Elizabeth said, finishing her tea and wishing her own mother might be as perceptive. “Is she still with you?” All of Meryton knew that Mr. Darcy had already come into his inheritance, so she did not inquire about his father.
“Sadly, no. She died when I was a boy.”
Elizabeth began to feel something like real compassion for Mr. Darcy. “I am sorry to hear it,” she said sincerely.
Mr. Darcy nodded, but said nothing more. Instead, when Elizabeth had returned her cup to its saucer, he stood. “May I take that, Miss Elizabeth?”
She thanked him, and as he disappeared through the door, Elizabeth determined that she rather liked this Mr. Darcy. He was quiet but attentive. Had he shown this side of himself to her when he first arrived in Hertfordshire, she might easily have lost her heart to him. It was a shame that he had revealed himself to her only when it was too late to do anything about it. Or perhaps her current situation had simply rendered her so far beneath his notice that he felt his kindnesses could not be mistaken for anything but pity.
Darcy swept out of the darkness of the hidden room into his study and blinked in the light. He sat with Fitz as his cousin finished enough food for two active men. When at last Fitz tossed his napkin over the tray, Darcy gathered the plates and unlocked the door. Pratt was waiting with a footman, who took the tray while Pratt handed him a note.
“For the colonel, sir,” he said placidly.
Darcy took the note and closed the door, locking it behind him.
“Now that you have played the servant, what is our course of action, cousin?” Fitz asked. He had resettled near the fire, his boots on the ottoman, a toothpick hanging from his mouth.
Darcy dropped the note in Fitz’s lap and waited as Fitz read it. “Has your man determined whether the house is being surveilled?”
“It does not appear to be,” Fitz told him with a frown. “It makes no sense.” Fitz did not like things that made no sense, and his dark expression confirmed his unease.
“Have you already sent a rider back along the route?” Darcy inquired.