Strawberries & Suppositions #2
Before Elizabeth could answer, Mr Bingley came out with such open pleasure that restraint seemed unnecessary.
“There you are!” he cried, and offered his arm to Jane with a warmth that made the courtesy feel personal rather than formal.
He began at once to speak of the day, of strawberries, of how delighted he was they had come, and Jane’s composure softened under it as naturally as wax near a flame.
Elizabeth said, when she could, that they had been perfectly comfortable, and told herself not to notice how Mr Darcy’s gaze steadied upon her for the briefest moment before he turned his attention back to the business of receiving them.
Georgiana appeared almost at once behind Mr Bingley, her eyes bright with anticipation and her manner all affectionate haste.
“Mary,” she said, unable, it seemed, to bear even a moment’s delay, and took Mary’s arm with quiet decision.
Lydia and Kitty were drawn after them by the promise of strawberries and the liberty of the grounds, their steps already quicker and their voices less subdued than they meant them to be.
The little party broke apart as naturally as if it had been planned so. Mr Bingley led Jane away with easy right, Georgiana carried Mary towards the south lawn, and the younger girls followed, eager and laughing. Mrs Bennet was elsewhere, and Mr Ashton had not yet appeared in their immediate view.
Elizabeth found herself, for the smallest space of time, alone in the pause that remained.
Mr Darcy turned towards her as the others moved away. “If you will allow me,” he said, and offered his arm with a formality that did not quite conceal the attention beneath it.
Elizabeth took it, because refusal would have been absurd. His sleeve was warm beneath her hand, and his pace altered at once to match hers, neither hurried nor slow, the adjustment so exact that it seemed he had made a study of not obliging her.
“I hope,” he said, after a moment, “that you are not made uneasy by so much company.”
“I am never uneasy at Pemberley,” she answered, and immediately wished she had not.
Mr Darcy’s arm was steady beneath her hand, and he kept to the slower pace that spared her from feeling hurried.
For a few steps they said nothing, the sound of others’ voices drifting ahead of them like birdsong.
He glanced towards her, then away again, unwilling, perhaps, to press what he had no right to claim.
“You are well?” he asked at last, and the simplicity of it made the question feel less like politeness than care.
“Perfectly,” she replied, and knew at once it was not the whole truth.
They had gone only a little way when more voices rose from the approach, and the orderly quiet of Pemberley gave way to the pleasant confusion of arrivals.
The Hardings appeared among them, Mrs Harding in the lead, her bonnet ribbons trembling with her quick steps and her expression all triumph at the weather.
She greeted Mr Darcy first, with the ease of long acquaintance and the satisfaction of being expected, then turned at once to Elizabeth with a look that assumed intimacy.
“My dear Miss Elizabeth,” she cried, taking her hand, “you must come with me. Mr Darcy will not mind my stealing you away. He knows I cannot endure to see you lost in a crowd.”
Mr Darcy was left to receive the rest, and the picnic was set in motion.
Elizabeth had scarcely time to answer before Mrs Harding drew her onward, talking all the while of baskets and blankets and how charming it was to be outdoors again.
Servants crossed the lawn with hampers, and the younger party scattered towards the strawberry beds with more eagerness than discretion.
Georgiana’s laughter carried ahead, Jane’s quieter voice beside Mr Bingley’s, and Mary’s measured steps kept pace with them all.
Elizabeth was placed, not asked, into the centre of it, her shawl adjusted, her seat chosen, her attention claimed.
Somewhere behind, Mr Darcy’s voice rose in greeting to another arrival, and she told herself, absurdly, that it was a relief.
Mrs Harding had scarcely settled Elizabeth upon the rug when Mr Ashton appeared, as though summoned by intention rather than chance. He greeted his aunt with dutiful warmth, then turned to Elizabeth with that composed attentiveness which never failed him in company.
“I feared I had been forestalled,” he said lightly, taking the place beside her as though it had been reserved. “I should not like to lose my charge at so public an event.”
Mrs Harding laughed with satisfaction and withdrew, assured she had arranged matters perfectly.
Across the lawn, Mr Darcy stood engaged with Mr Harding, his posture easy, his expression unreadable. Elizabeth felt the weight of being observed and told herself she was only sitting in the sun.
Mr Ashton began at once to speak of small things, choosing harmless subjects as though ease might be manufactured by them.
He admired the weather, praised the strawberries, remarked upon how well Pemberley suited a summer company.
Elizabeth answered as she always did, with sense and civility, and tried not to hear the shape of approval in every pause.
Soon the call went out to move towards the beds, and the party rose in a pleasant disorder.
Mr Ashton offered his arm with practised readiness, and Elizabeth took it because refusal would have been remarked upon.
They walked with the others, her steps measured, his attention exact.
Lydia darted ahead with Kitty and Cassandra, already claiming the finest fruit.
Georgiana lingered with Mary, delighted by everything.
Mr Bingley stayed close to Jane, the crowd in his mind, perhaps, more likely to steal her away.
Elizabeth felt, without looking, when eyes turned towards her, and wondered whether anyone saw anything besides what they expected.
The strawberry beds were set in neat ranks, the plants low and glossy, the fruit bright against dark leaves.
Baskets were produced, laughter rose and fell, and hands that had been folded all winter reached down to summer as though it were permission.
Mrs Harding declared that no one ought to be idle, and stationed herself like a general, directing who should pick and who should admire.
Mr Ashton remained beside Elizabeth with steady purpose, selecting berries with the air of making an offering and placing them into her basket as though it were a compliment.
“You must have the finest,” he said, and smiled when she protested.
Elizabeth thanked him, and was aware of Mrs Harding’s approving glance from across the row.
A little way off, Mr Darcy stood with Mr Harding and one or two others, listening as a host must listen, his hands behind his back and his attention given where it was claimed.
Once he glanced towards the strawberry beds, and Elizabeth, catching it by chance, looked down at the leaves as though she had been studying them.
After a time, when baskets were half-filled and the sun had grown warmer upon bent backs, Mr Darcy stepped forward with the quiet authority of a man used to being obeyed without raising his voice.
“We have taken enough for the present,” he said, and the servants at once began to gather the baskets as though the order had been expected.
“The shade is better by the beeches, and the refreshments are laid there. You will oblige me by resting.” It was said to the company at large, yet Elizabeth felt the ease of it like relief, as they turned from the rows and walked towards the trees.
A table had been set beneath the beeches, with cloths pinned against the faint breeze and glasses already catching the light.
Jugs stood in a cool row, beaded with moisture, and the scent of citrus rose when a servant lifted the lid.
Lemonade, clear and sharp, had been prepared in quantity, with slices floating like coins upon the surface.
There was also barley-water for those who preferred it, and a dish of syllabub that Lydia declared unfairly tempting.
The company drew round with pleased murmurs, grateful to exchange stooping for sitting.
Elizabeth accepted a glass because it was offered, and was surprised at how quickly the coolness steadied her.
Georgiana came to her then, glass in hand, her cheeks bright from the sun and from success, the whole day seeming, in her face, a proof that she could manage it.
She did not look at her brother before she spoke.
She fixed her attention upon Elizabeth with a gentle steadiness that made the question seem simple.
“Elizabeth,” she said, lowering her voice a little, “will you and your sisters come to Ramsgate with me when we leave? I have wanted it for weeks, and I should like it so much better if you were all there.”
Elizabeth’s first impulse was to smile at the warmth of it, and to answer at once.
Then she remembered that nothing was ever answered at once, not in company, not when an answer might be repeated before dinner.
She glanced instinctively towards Jane, who sat a little apart with Mr Bingley, her expression softened by ease.
Mary was only a few paces away, in conversation with Mrs Harding and Cassandra, and Lydia and Kitty hovered near the refreshments as though the dishes might be carried off without warning.
“It is very kind,” Elizabeth began, and meant it. Ramsgate was distance. Ramsgate was sea air and space enough to think.
She lowered her voice. “We shall not all be able to accept,” she said, with a steadiness she did not entirely feel. “Some of us must remain with Mama.”
Georgiana’s expression did not fall, only softened into understanding. “Of course,” she replied at once. “I would not wish to inconvenience anyone. I only hoped.” She hesitated, then added with quiet earnestness, “I hoped you might come.”