Chapter 13
Thirteen
In Which Lizzie Takes a Swing and Misses
The Jeffries Print Shop was locked, with no sign of Miss Jeffries, and so Lizzie and Darcy returned to Netherfield Park, where
a new horror awaited them: a garden party.
It was Jane’s idea of a distraction. “The maids need to do a thorough clean, and they can barely manage it with us all coming
and going,” she whispered to Lizzie as she attempted to corral everyone outside. “Besides, Lydia and Kitty are growing so
restless I fear they may start jumping on the furniture.”
Which was how they found themselves in the back gardens, sitting under the shade of a large tent, enjoying a cold luncheon
spread that could have fed a small army. Everyone had been coaxed outside, even Mr. Bennet, who squinted against the sunlight
as he read his book. It was a lovely way to spend an afternoon, out of doors, and Guy was happily running through the grass,
but Lizzie was just wondering how soon she could sneak off to write to the Dashwoods when Lydia said, “What’s that?”
She turned to see Bingley standing before what looked like a set of lawn games, and groaned softly. Charlotte shot her a pitying look.
“This is a pall-mall set,” Bingley announced, pulling out a series of wooden mallets all painted with different colored stripes.
“And today I am going to teach you all how to play.”
“Is it difficult?” Kitty asked.
“I don’t know if I like sports,” Lydia said doubtfully.
“No, it’s not difficult,” Bingley said. “And all of the ton plays this game at their house parties, so it’s a good one to
learn.”
That was all the convincing Kitty and Lydia needed, and even Mary set aside her book, intrigued. Bingley looked past them
to where Charlotte, Lizzie, and Caroline were sitting in the shade. “Come on, you can’t just sit there!” Bingley called. “Come
pick your mallets, ladies.”
Lizzie glanced at her parents. Her father was reading, and her mother was dozing off in her chair. “I think I am all right,
thank you.”
“Are you afraid to lose?” Darcy asked, arching a brow. He ambled over to Bingley, who handed him a green-painted mallet.
“It doesn’t look very difficult,” Lizzie pointed out.
“Then why don’t you come show us how it’s done?” Darcy loosened his cravat and took a few practice swings.
Nearby, Caroline let out a small scoff from under her bountifully decorated bonnet. “Unseemly,” she muttered.
“Come along, Caroline,” Bingley called. “You too. You can even play with the pink mallet.”
Lizzie was shocked when Caroline stood. “Of course I will. The pink one is mine.”
“Come along, Lizzie,” Charlotte said, getting to her feet. “It wouldn’t do to be unsporting.”
“Oh no, it wouldn’t do at all,” Lizzie said as she followed Charlotte and accepted a yellow mallet. If Caroline could play,
then Lizzie could certainly learn. It was clear that this was a familiar game with Bingley, Caroline, and Darcy, and she did
her best to pay attention as Bingley explained the rules—the wickets that were arranged about the grass, and the goal of whacking
the ball through the wickets with their mallets in as few hits as possible . . . but one had to follow an order.
“Charles always makes it harder by putting the wickets as far apart as he can manage,” Caroline said.
“Not harder,” Bingley said, pointing at the various wickets in the distance. “More interesting.”
“So you say,” Darcy said, lining up his mallet to take the first swing. With a great thwack, the ball soared through the air
and bounced a bit on the springy green grass, just short of the wicket.
“Lucky shot!” Bingley cried, and gestured for Jane to go next.
They all took turns—Jane’s falling a bit short, for she was hesitant to hit the ball as hard, Caroline’s ball landing rather close to Darcy’s, and Kitty and Lydia taking a few wayward swings before each managing to hit their balls in the direction of the wicket.
Mary hit the farthest shot, overshooting the wicket by a good ten paces, but Bingley assured her that was just fine.
Bingley himself then took a shot that nudged Darcy’s ball closer to the wicket, and a confusing conversation ensued about the rules for hitting another person’s ball, and finally it was Lizzie’s turn.
She’d watched all the others go before her, and they had made it seem easy. Therefore, she made the mistake of assuming there
was no strategy or form to hitting her ball with her mallet, but when the wooden head caught the side of the ball, the force
of her exuberant swing sent her ball soaring . . . all the way over to the right. Quite far from the first wicket.
“Oh, drat,” she muttered. She turned to look at Bingley, who was struggling to suppress a laugh. “What now?”
“After Charlotte swings, you go to your ball, and you try to get the ball closer to the wicket in your next turn,” Darcy said,
not even bothering to hide his amusement.
Charlotte took her turn, and Lizzie wasn’t certain whether she’d accidentally hit her ball off to the right as well or if
she’d done it out of solidarity, but on the next round, they both ended up on the far right of the lawn, watching as everyone
else (much closer to the wicket) took their turns.
Lizzie was, by nature, somewhat competitive.
She liked having goals, and she liked them even more when she knew that someone else was also striving for the same thing .
. . and there was motive for her to accomplish it first. This drive, however, did not extend to yard games.
It was just hitting a ball with a stick!
Under the sun! And soon everyone was spread out across the great lawn, so it was impossible to hold a conversation—the others had to shout at them when it was their turn as they advanced across the green space toward the next wickets.
“This is driving you mad, isn’t it?” Charlotte asked as they both managed to (finally) nudge their balls through the first
wicket. The others cheered from the third (and in Darcy’s case, fourth) wicket, and Lizzie waved at them.
“What is even the point of a house party,” she whispered, “unless it is to torture your guests with tiresome activities and
take bets on who will leave first?”
“I believe the point is to socialize, but in a different setting,” Charlotte replied with a laugh.
“I can socialize perfectly well back home,” Lizzie grumbled, but she didn’t have it in her to be truly grumpy. After all,
Jane appeared to be smiling, and their younger sisters were entertained. Caroline wasn’t complaining for once, and it was
nice to see Bingley and Darcy ribbing each other as they continually knocked their balls into each other—Lizzie couldn’t deduce
whether that was part of the game or just how Bingley and Darcy played it.
“You are like your father,” Charlotte said. “You love the work, so it’s difficult to be away.”
Lizzie looked over her shoulder to the tent where her parents sat. “I suppose.”
“Have you forgiven him yet?”
Lizzie looked in surprise at Charlotte. “Pardon?”
“You can tell me if I am overstepping,” her friend said, “but you seem to have made your peace with Darcy. However, you’ve
hardly spoken to your father since you arrived.”
Lizzie sighed. Charlotte was right, of course. “I just . . . hate it when he makes decisions that concern me without consulting me.”
“I know. But he loves you. And he wants you to be safe. Well, as safe as you can be while still investigating various suspicious
deaths.” Charlotte nudged her, her smile teasing.
Lizzie strained to return it. Charlotte didn’t know about the letter from Lady Catherine that Lizzie had received that morning . . .
or the promise she’d extracted from Darcy to keep it secret for now. But she looked out across the lawn. Her sisters were
happy and safe. Her dog was running across the grass, tongue lolling, and Darcy was chasing him. Her mother was napping in
the shade of her married daughter’s country estate, which was quite possibly the pinnacle of all her hopes and dreams these
past twenty years.
“You’re right,” Lizzie said reluctantly, thinking for the first time that maybe it was a good thing they’d left London after
all, despite Lady Catherine’s note.
“Did you learn anything of interest this morning?”
Lizzie caught Charlotte up on their visit to the Burtons and the strange encounter between Sally and Miss Jeffries in the
graveyard, and then Mr. Oliver’s confrontation. She finished with Sally’s parting words, and Charlotte’s expression turned
thoughtful.
“What an interesting question,” she said. “What if the man from the fireplace wasn’t a guest or servant but a thief?”
“Someone from the village who wanted the Netherfield treasure?” Lizzie asked.
“Or any of the many other valuables in the estate. Think about it—even if there wasn’t a pile of silver somewhere in the house, those walls still hold a great number of easily pawnable objects.”
Charlotte wasn’t wrong—crystalware, the tea sets, the art, the many figurines and collectibles. Where had they all been while
Honoria Bingley lived out the last fifty years—tucked away, or in plain sight, under a layer of dust?
“But the fact that he was discovered with a silver coin in his pocket suggests that he did discover some silver,” Lizzie said slowly. “Unless it was planted.”
“And why would it have been planted?”
“Any number of reasons. Someone wanted to frame him. Or perhaps make it only appear as though he were a burglar.” Lizzie sighed.
“Oh, it’s useless speculating. The Burtons claim to know nothing, and Mr. Oliver says no one he can think of has gone missing.
Yet they antagonize each other in broad daylight.”
Beyond them, Bingley let out an enormous whoop of victory as he knocked Darcy’s ball farther away from the wicket, and his
own landed quite near. Darcy grimaced, and Caroline rolled her eyes at the display, but Bingley’s good cheer was infectious.
He turned to them and shouted, “Ladies, you’re up next!”