Page 58 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
It was a great deal to sort through.
The games, the riddles, the underlined words in the margins of books—they were a reprieve, a delight, a glimpse into something thrilling and new. But they were not enough. Not anymore. And if he wanted to ask Elizabeth the question, he had to be prepared.
Darcy pressed his palms against the mattress, pushing himself up slowly, carefully, ignoring the muted protest of his still aching back. He sat up, reached for the writing set Anne had used, and dipped the quill into the ink with slow, steady fingers.
He had to write to Bingley.
Miss de Bourgh entered Elizabeth’s chamber without ceremony.
Elizabeth, who had been idly tracing the pattern on her coverlet, straightened. She did not ask. She did not need to.
Her hostess tilted her head slightly. “He has sent his answer.”
“And?”
Miss de Bourgh’s lips quirked at the corner. “His answer to your conundrum was, as you expected, ‘E.’”
Elizabeth smiled to herself. Of course he had solved it.
“But,” Miss de Bourgh continued, with the faintest glint of humour, “he has sent another in return. Would you like to hear it?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught just slightly. “I would.”
Miss de Bourgh unfolded a piece of paper and read the riddle, her voice smooth and deliberate. At the end of each verse, she paused to allow Elizabeth to think through the clue. When Elizabeth thought she had it, she nodded at Miss de Bourgh who then continued.
Fiddle. Eel. The letter Y. Her fingers curled slightly against the coverlet. She swallowed.
“Fidelity,” she murmured.
Miss de Bourgh inclined her head. “I thought you would understand it.”
Elizabeth glanced down at her lap, pressing her lips together. Her heart felt full. She ought to laugh. Ought to dismiss it as mere idle sport, a diversion devised to entertain two restless minds confined within the walls of Rosings Park. It would be safer.
But she could not.
Elizabeth stared at the pattern in her coverlet, her fingers idly smoothing the fabric, though her thoughts were anything but idle.
Fidelity.
Of all the riddles he might have chosen, he had sent that one.
The word curled into her mind like the edges of an old parchment, soft yet indelible, a truth she could neither ignore nor explain away.
She knew, of course, that it was only a game. That he could not possibly have meant to pledge his fidelity to her. But he was in general so very serious a man that her heart wondered.
Miss de Bourgh regarded her with quiet amusement and held out the page. “Shall I take your answer to him, then?”
Elizabeth forced herself to look up, to meet that sharp, unreadable gaze.
She had meant to offer something light-hearted, a jest to dispel the sudden heaviness in her own thoughts. But the words would not come.
Instead, she shook her head, her voice quieter than usual. “No.”
Miss de Bourgh tilted her head. “No?”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, as if that might ease the unfamiliar tangle of emotions tightening in her chest. “Not this time.”
There was no rule that demanded she reply, and for once, she did not wish to continue the game simply for the sake of playing.
