Get thee to a bookseller.
It was a fine sunny afternoon, with a stiff breeze that kept him from getting sweaty on the ride from Netherfield to town. Mr. Darcy was, let us confess it, thinking upon what he might say about books to entertain Miss Bennet when he called upon her father the next day. A most enchanting creature, a fact which combined with the fragility and vulnerability she had shown when they spoke upon the dark balcony had left this woman far more on Darcy’s thoughts than she ought to be.
If our Darcy was a different sort of man, for example if he had been raised solely by an atheistic uncle with open and scandalous relations with his many mistresses, Darcy would have been wondering after just the one meeting if he might convince Elizabeth Bennet — a woman who had already engaged in a similar sin — to become his mistress.
However such did not even occur to our Darcy. Instead his thoughts dwelt on her eyes, and on a concern for her wellbeing and happiness. He felt simply protective towards her.
Darcy brought his horse to a stop on the cobblestoned road in front of the bookseller’s blue doored entrance. The sign displayed a painted pile of enticingly large books, and a smaller sign under the eaves with letters proclaimed that the shop sold and bound books, in addition to having a finely stocked circulating library.
A young apprentice boy walked past on the street as Darcy read the note, followed by a small brown and white spotted mutt. The dog stopped for a moment to relieve himself against a wall, and the apprentice scratched its ears. “Good boy, good, good boy. Who’s a good boy?” Then standing up again the boy made a click and said, “Come on, boy. Come on.”
They walked off, the dog running at the boy’s heels.
Darcy tied his horse to the wall and opened the door to this desperately needed source of fresh printed materials.
As the bell announcing his entrance reverberated, Darcy stared transfixed.
She stood there, having turned her head to look at him.
Elizabeth Bennet. She stood by the counter. She was small, short and perfectly formed, her hip leaning, almost seductively, against the wall, and a book bound in calfskin held open in her hand with a small smile.
The bespectacled bookseller with a neatly trimmed beard had been talking to Miss Bennet, and he turned to Darcy. “Allo, sir, allo. I’ll serve you in just a moment. Just a moment— ” Then as Mr. Darcy approached them, he turned back to Miss Bennet.
“Trifling book. Trifling. I attempt to read at least some of every book I receive. I only carry those by ‘A Gentlewoman’ because they keep getting borrowed. Silly girls like them, but her work is quite below what a woman with your sense of taste should read.”
“Oh, I agree entirely,” Miss Bennet said with that entrancing laugh on her voice. “A trifling book.”
“It shocks me exceedingly that your father buys every book released by the authoress, has them bound and all — his taste in every other respect is entirely superior to such a work.”
Miss Bennet laughed and catching Darcy’s eye, she said, “Mr. Darcy! Here to purchase a low novel to while away the hours between fox hunts and pheasant shoots? — You confessed you read, on occasion, such material.”
Their eyes met, and she looked at him with a frank and open smile.
Darcy’s stomach leapt up, and he had no choice but to smile widely back at her pert and mischievous face. Delicate cherry lips, a straight pretty nose, freckled skin and one adorable dimple. A brown curl that glimmered in the sunlight from the window fell fetchingly over her cheek, but the rest of her hair was kept in a neat bun. Darcy forced himself to step forward and greet Miss Bennet despite a sudden stab of anxiety, like she would know he admired her if he was too friendly.
Darcy had felt nothing like this since his first year or two at his university.
It was fortunate for him that Miss Bennet was so completely unsuitable; were this woman only a little unsuitable, he would be tempted to throw aside the rest of his carefully thought through list for her.
“What book do you both speak slightingly upon?” Mr. Darcy smiled at her. “Let me see.”
Miss Bennet handed him the novel in her hand. It was a favorite of his sister’s, who adored the author. Her books were quite popular, though often disdained by those of more uplifted taste.
“I cannot agree,” Darcy said. He opened the book and leafed through the stiff, fresh pages. “Loyalty to my sister requires I defend her favorite author—”
“Your sister’s favorite author!” Miss Bennet exclaimed, with a surprising enthusiasm, as she had a moment before castigated the book as trifling. “A wonderful choice.”
The bookseller huffed. “Young girls, of little sense, like most of their sex, adore these books. But the rake is such a silly character. No woman would fall for him.”
“I assure you my sister is a woman of good sense,” Mr. Darcy said stiffly.
The bookseller, showing a surprisingly weak concern for appeasing a customer waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, partiality. Simply partiality and prejudice. But I am sure, sure she is very clever, and sensible, and an excellent woman in all respects except for her taste in books.”
Miss Bennet laughed. “A woman cannot like A Gentlewoman and still have good taste?”
“Well, if she knows that it is a trifling book, as you do — if a person has poor taste, and knows that their taste is poor, and has the good sense to at least be a little ashamed of taking such pleasure—”
“No shame on my part,” Miss Bennet replied. She caught Darcy’s eye, as if asking him to share in the joke that amused her. “I am delighted that I can gain trifling pleasure from trifling books, and I recommend to all my friends that they do the same.”
The bookseller rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean, Miss Bennet — but fine, sir, Mr. Darcy I believe Miss Bennet said your name was. That Bingley fellow’s friend?”
Darcy nodded in acceptance of being identified.
“What would you wish to purchase? I can tell you are an intelligent man of good taste. Something by Shelley? One of Sir Walter Scott’s? We have many books scientific and upon natural philosophy with fine plates in them. Any book you wish in my possession is at your service.”
Darcy knew it was a game on the part of the bookseller that he did not immediately ask if Darcy would wish to borrow a book from the lending library, as the fee from a sale was of a much greater value than that from a rental.
Miss Bennet laughingly interrupted the bookseller’s question. “No hurry, Mr. Martin. Do not focus upon business so soon — Mr. Darcy will make his purchases in time enough — I have a question I must ask him first — have you read the novel? It was her first, and the one which has sold, I believe, the most.”
“I perceive you are an enthusiast of the ‘A Gentlewoman’?”
“Both an enthusiast and, I like to think, her greatest critic.”
“Fah!” Mr. Martin the bookseller said. “You and your father both. Expected better, Miss Bennet—” He turned to Mr. Darcy with an exasperated voice. “When a girl, before she rolled off to London, Miss Bennet was a great reader. Clever as her father — with sensible words upon every book she read. The best taste.”
Elizabeth laughed. “And I am afraid for you that my taste has changed, I confess it. And wholly for the worse — I can assure you both, I have not a tenth part of the discernment I did ten years ago.”
Mr. Martin shook his head. “Too clever, Miss Lizzy. You are too clever. Your sex makes no excuse. Too clever by far for these trifling tales — but at least you still also read sensible books written for sensible men.”
“Which is strange, as I am neither sensible nor a man.” Miss Bennet looked at Mr. Darcy and smiled brilliantly at him. Darcy flushed.
“I can only confirm that you are not a man,” Darcy replied, with a feeling like he wanted to say something flirtatious, you are far too exceedingly pretty to be a man? I am most sensible of how you are not a man? Something of that sort. But he was frightened that he woul
d sound ridiculous. “For I have only heard sense in what you say. I have read this book, and another by the author when they were published, my sister was yet of the age that I considered it my duty to read anything she wished to read before permitting her the pleasure.”
“And you allowed her to suffer the corrupting influence of the gentlewoman authoress and her sordid tale of the rake’s blandishments resisted?”
Darcy looked at Miss Bennet, with a serious mien. “It was precisely the novel she ought read at such a… age — it was salutary for her to read, and spoke to her. We talked something upon the topic of my sister’s education at the ball.”
It took Miss Bennet a moment to catch his meaning, the reference to her nearly having eloped with Mr. Wickham. But then she suddenly smiled brilliantly, with something almost teary in her eyes. It made something catch in Darcy’s chest. “Did… did… she like it? Like it very much?”
“Exceedingly so. There is meaning and sense in this novel. The trifling matters are the superficial; the deep matter deals with an important issue, that of mistakes, and reputation, and trust in oneself. I would like, were my sister ever to be abandoned by society, for her to find such a well of certainty and strength in herself as the heroine of Fashion Exposed did.”
“I thank you—” Miss Bennet shook her head and smiled. “I am glad to hear such praise spoken of this author.”
There was something in her voice that made Darcy wonder about an impossible speculation. He pushed the unlikely idea away. “Would you recommend I read another of her books?”
“All of them. Fervently.” Elizabeth laughed at a joke Mr. Darcy could not understand.
“In truth?”
“I have,” Elizabeth said with her wry smile, “read every book written by this author more than once — they have been a great comfort to me in times when I was unhappy or desolate.”
Mr. Martin shook his head. “Nonsense. Each of them. But even clever men can choose to waste their time freely — I do have all her books.”
“Then, if Miss Bennet recommends them so strongly, package them all for me. Except I have already read Marigold, and Fashion Exposed. Which would you recommend next?”
Elizabeth shook her head. Her face was flushed, almost anxious. “I do not — those are generally considered her best works — In truth I do not know that Maria or Lord Nottingham are so very worth reading. I would recommend Hartfield Wilderness. A favorite of mine, though not a book that sold well.”
“Oh, we do not stock that one.” Mr. Martin apologized as he gathered all of the other books up. They were all calfskin bound, which Darcy considered unfortunate, as he would have preferred printer’s blocks that he could have bound to his own specifications. “Only the one copy sold, to your father. It was read a bit from the circulating library, but,” he shrugged, “Maria Lucas claimed it to be much inferior to the rest of the author’s work. And when Maria did not like it, few of her friends borrowed the rest. Sat on a shelf for two years before I traded it off to a shop in London for barely anything a year past.”
“Oh. Maria was disappointed?” Miss Bennet said rather cheerlessly. “I knew that one lacked much popularity.”
“For myself, I wondered if it might have any value, since the silly girls did not like it — but I lacked sufficient curiosity to risk a read.”
Miss Bennet laughed, cheering up. “Quite the right choice to not venture such a risk.” She looked a bit wistful and shrugged. “So it happens.”
Mr. Darcy looked at her seriously. He perceived that the author of these novels held more than usual importance to Miss Bennet. “I shall order Hartfield Wilderness from the publisher in London — or borrow from my sister who also must have a copy.”
“No, no, don’t go to so much effort. You plan to call on my father, to return his call?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Then I shall lend you his copy.”
Mr. Martin laughed. “Loaning Mr. Bennet’s books for him? Mr. Bennet is not a man who happily allows his books to leave his hands — here they are, Mr. Darcy. Five books each in three volumes, the total will be eight and seven.”
Miss Bennet bit her lip as she looked at him. “You perhaps should not purchase all of them… not on my recommendation at least.”
“I promise I shall like your favorite author, Miss Bennet.” Darcy said, “She is also my sister’s favorite after all.”
Miss Bennet laughed with a strange hint of nervousness. “Books are quite expensive.”
“As it happens, and you may despise me for saying so much openly without disguise, I have a great deal of money — can you send the bill up to Netherfield?”
“Certainly, Mr. Darcy. Certainly.”
Elizabeth kept chewing her lip as Darcy signed the note promising to pay.
He did keep some small cash upon his person, but it was generally simply easier to have shops that knew him and recognized him to send the bills for the accounts to be settled by his butler, and then he’d review the numbers every week to ensure no one sought to perpetuate a fraud.
Normally when Darcy purchased books he received them as a block which had not yet been bound and covered, and there was a man on his estate who bound up books purchased for the Pemberley library in matching blue leather with the Darcy coat of arms embossed upon the back. In London the bookseller he patronized would bind the books exactly to his specifications; for those books that were to belong to his townhouse library, those were bound in red so that it was easy to know when he took a book with him while travelling which library it was to be returned to.
He placed the books under his arm, and to his delight Elizabeth followed him out, after having borrowed her own book from the circulating library and paid the fee. She stood there as he quickly untied his horse, and took to lead him by the halter, wherever Elizabeth would go.
The two looked past each other a little awkwardly. Darcy opened his mouth twice, trying to find something to say. He had a terrible sudden temptation to turn sharply and walk away. He knew he was acting in a remarkably stupid manner, and he was more polished around pretty girls in London.
Say something.
“Ah, Mr. Darcy. I was delighted to run across you once more. And to see you prove yourself a reader.”
“I did not claim such an august title,” he replied gallantly, “merely in hope of impressing you, but rather—”
“Ah, wait.” Elizabeth waved her finger in his face. “I must inquire specifics — you did also claim such in hopes to impress me.”
She beamed at him, her dimple showing widely.
Darcy flushed. He knew that he was supposed to say some gallant nonsense about being pierced by her looks, and of course desiring to present himself in the manner most suited to win the gentle admiration of the gentle lady. Or something.
Instead Darcy coughed.
“Well?”
Darcy stood taller.
He was Fitzwilliam Darcy. It was beneath him to become so shy with a woman. Even a fine woman, who had startling eyes, and a bright smile with a dimple. And whose bosom curved… “Very much so,” Darcy said firmly. “Very much—”
“Very much what?”
“My thanks for the recommendation of novels — I will borrow Hartfield Wilderness from your father if he permits, and read and return quite promptly.”
“Yes my recommendation.” Miss Bennet shrugged, smiled wryly. “Any woman loves to hear her views taken so seriously.” She then looked to the side and made her cheek balloon up with her tongue, in a way that was quite adorable. Then with a shrug she leaned closer to Darcy’s ear. He cooperatively inclined his head towards her. She said with a lowered, almost conspiratorial voice, “I have a confession to make.”
“A confession?” Darcy smiled back at her, liking the way she leaned towards him. It was as though they were boon companions sharing some deep secret. Her freckled skin glowed, from within, in the sunlight.
“A confession — my recommendation of ‘A Gentlewoman’s’ work
was not entirely disinterested… you see, well, I am the author of her books.”
Darcy blinked at Miss Bennet and then shook his head. “Truly?”
Somehow this did not surprise him. He smiled at her. “Extraordinary, Georgiana will be delighted to hear I have made your acquaintance.”
“Come now! I expect more shock when I make such an admission.”
“Ah! My apologies.” Darcy stood back slightly, adopted a haughty expression and said firmly, “Incredible — I expect the strongest proof of such an extraordinary claim — can you provide it?”
Miss Bennet giggled and clapped. “Thank you very much — though a gentleman should not question a lady’s word.”
“I cannot achieve victory in conflict with you, can I?”
“There is little hope of that — but I do have copies of the working manuscripts, should you doubt.” She smiled at him impishly. “And the statements of account from my publisher.”
“You really must meet my sister. She is a great enthusiast of yours. But I have already said that.”
“You are not deeply shocked and unwilling to continue our acquaintance now that you know I engage in such an unsuitable profession as that of a low scribbler?”
“No, you are of certainty a high scribbler.”
Miss Bennet laughed, her eyes delightfully squeezing together. “I shall say that to my father next time he mocks me — I beg you, sir, do not spread around to everyone in town. I prefer them…” She shrugged. “I prefer not to be exposed here.”
By unspoken agreement they walked together out of town, Darcy followed Miss Bennet along the path that he believed led up to her father’s estate. He was unwilling to leave her side and end the conversation between them before he was dismissed directly.
He also was trying to remember more of the details of Fashion Exposed.
If he’d known he’d have purchased Fashion Exposed and Marigold so that he could reread them also. Somehow it changed both his sense of Miss Bennet, and his image of the book to match the writer to the book. But he had read that novel five years before, and not since, and he had no clear memory of the text.
Writerly Ambitions Page 8
