Chapter Three A Most Inconvenient Coincidence
The Steine at ten o’clock in the morning was a monument to human vanity.
It was a swirling sea of muslin, silk, and desperate social ambition.
The Sussex sun beat down on the promenade, illuminating the absurdity of fashionable society.
Carriages rattled along the cobblestones.
Gentlemen in tight breeches strutted past like peacocks.
Ladies tipped their heads to whisper gossip behind lace fans.
Elizabeth Bennet adjusted her sensible brown parasol against the glare. She maintained a distance of exactly three paces behind her sister and her hostess. Three paces were close enough to prevent Lydia from initiating a public scandal, but far enough to avoid temporary deafness.
Harriet Forster and Lydia Bennet were a matched pair of terrors.
They walked arm in arm, creating a formidable tangle of ruffles and giggles, heedless of every passerby.
Lydia twirled her vibrant yellow parasol and laughed at a passing gentleman in a very tall top hat.
Mrs Forster spun her pale blue parasol in the opposite direction, and waved at an acquaintance across the grass.
Elizabeth sighed. The restorative sea air tasted mostly of salt, road dust, and expensive cologne. She had arrived in Brighton hoping for a measure of quiet reflection. Instead, she found herself trapped in a loud, moving circus.
“Oh, look!” Lydia stopped so abruptly that Elizabeth nearly collided with her. “It is Mr Wickham!”
Elizabeth felt her spine stiffen into a rod of solid iron.
George Wickham separated himself from the crowd outside Wright and Son’s Royal Colonnade Library.
He looked precisely as he had in Meryton: undeniably handsome, effortlessly elegant, and untroubled by his own lack of morality.
The sea breeze ruffled his fair hair in a manner that was likely practised in front of a looking glass.
He approached their trio with a smile that could charm the birds from the trees.
“Mrs Forster.” Wickham executed a flawless bow. “Miss Lydia. And Miss Elizabeth. This is an unexpected joy. The sun shines considerably brighter on Brighton today.”
He turned the full force of his charm on Elizabeth.
In Hertfordshire, this precise smile had caused Elizabeth’s heart to flutter.
In Sussex, knowing what she now knew, it caused her stomach to turn.
The contrast between his pleasant exterior and his ruined character was stark and deeply unsettling.
It was a physical exertion to remain standing before him and not scream.
Elizabeth kept her brown parasol level. She did not return his smile nor did she offer her hand.
“Mr Wickham.” She allowed the temperature of her voice to match the waters of the English Channel in December.
Wickham blinked. The effortless smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He was accustomed to adulation. He was certainly accustomed to Elizabeth’s warm regard, and this frosty reception baffled him.
“I had heard a rumour that the Longbourn party might visit the coast.” Wickham recovered his composure swiftly. “I did not dare to hope the rumour included you, Miss Elizabeth. How is your excellent family?”
“They are well.” Elizabeth maintained her icy stare. “They remain in Hertfordshire. I find I prefer to travel.”
“And we are grateful for it.” Wickham lowered his voice to a tone of intimate confidence. “I must confess, Meryton became unbearably dull after you departed for Kent. Did you enjoy your visit with your friend Mrs Collins?”
It was a calculated question. He was searching for information regarding her encounter with Mr Darcy at Rosings Park. He wanted to know if they had spoken of him.
Elizabeth gripped the carved wooden handle of her parasol.
“My time in Kent was educational.” She tilted her head slightly. “I learned a great deal about the world. I learned how very easily one might be deceived by a pleasant countenance.”
Wickham went very still.
“Indeed?” His eyes darted across her face, searching for the specific meaning behind her words. “Deception is a terrible thing, Miss Elizabeth.”
“It is.” Elizabeth took a single step closer to him. “It is also a temporary state. The truth has a rather persistent habit of revealing itself eventually. Do you not agree, Mr Wickham?”
He did not answer immediately. He looked at Elizabeth, and the easy charm vanished from his eyes when he saw the cold knowledge resting in her gaze.
He knew that she knew.
He did not know how, and he did not know the full extent of her knowledge, but he recognised the change in her demeanour. She was no longer a willing audience for his tragic tales, but an observer, a complication.
However, Wickham was a man who survived by avoiding complications.
“I have always found philosophy a heavy subject for a seaside morning.” He took a deliberate step back and turned his brilliant smile to the yellow and blue parasols. “Miss Lydia, I could not help but notice your gaze lingering on the milliner’s window across the promenade.”
Lydia trembled with excitement.
“Oh, the ribbons!” She clapped her hands. “There is a bolt of the most magnificent cherry-red velvet. I was just telling Harriet that I must have it for my new bonnet.”
“Then you must allow me to escort you.” Wickham offered one arm to Lydia and the other to Mrs Forster. “A lady should never face a milliner without the assistance of a gentleman to carry her parcels.”
Mrs Forster giggled and took his left arm. Lydia sighed dramatically and took his right.
“Are you coming, Lizzy?” Lydia glanced back over her shoulder.
Elizabeth looked at the man standing between her sister and her hostess as if he were a snake in a tailored red coat.
“I believe I shall remain here for a moment.” She pointed her parasol to a wooden bench facing the sea. “I wish to enjoy the view. Do not linger too long in the shop.”
“We shall be ages!” Lydia called out.
Wickham did not look back. He escorted his two eager companions across the bustling promenade, his head bending low to catch whatever frivolous nonsense Mrs Forster was uttering.
Elizabeth walked to the wooden bench and sat down, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. Lydia was among people and safe for the moment, but chaperoning her was going to require constant attention. Protecting her against George Wickham was going to require a miracle.
She stared at the English Channel, at the waves crashing indifferently against the shingle beach. She found the noise soothing. It was certainly preferable to the shrill laughter of Harriet Forster or the smooth, calculated pleasantries of George Wickham.
She had survived exactly fifteen minutes of Brighton society. It felt like an eternity. But she could not sit on the wooden bench forever. Her duty as a chaperone demanded action, regardless of how thoroughly she wished to avoid the objects of her supervision.
Elizabeth stood. She arranged her shawl over her arms and turned away from the sea, fully intending to march across the promenade and insert herself between Lydia and the milliner’s window.
She took one step and halted abruptly.
The universe, she decided in that precise moment, had a truly malicious sense of humour. It was not cruel, merely ingeniously vindictive.
Because there, standing not ten paces away on the crowded pavement, out of place amidst the seaside revellers, was Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, accompanied by his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Elizabeth smoothed her hands over her skirt, her brain attempting to locate a single, coherent sentence.
How do you do, Mr Darcy, thank you for saving my sister’s heart, please do not notice that my other sister is being charmed by your sworn enemy as we speak.
No. That would not do.
Good morning, Sir, what a delightful coincidence to meet the man whose proposal I brutally rejected a mere month ago, whilst standing in a town overrun by the militia you expressly warned me against.
That was worse.
She stood on the pavement, her parasol gripped tightly in her right hand.
Mr Darcy appeared equally paralysed. He wore a blue coat that must have been suffocating in the June heat, though he did not appear to perspire.
He stared at her. His eyes were wide, registering a level of shock that mirrored her own internal turmoil.
The sea breeze ruffled his meticulously arranged hair. He looked magnificent and baffled.
The silence between them stretched. It became an awkward palpable force, pressing down on the crowded promenade. Passersby flowed around them like water around two immovable stones.
Darcy opened his mouth but no sound emerged.
Elizabeth attempted a reassuring smile. It likely resembled a grimace.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped effortlessly into the void.
The Colonel had the extraordinary ability to navigate social disasters with cheerful confidence; he was, after all, accustomed to enemy fire. He observed his cousin’s transformation into a statue and Elizabeth’s wide-eyed panic. A slow, delighted grin spread across his face.
“Miss Elizabeth.” The Colonel removed his hat and executed a flawless, sweeping bow. “Upon my word. The restorative properties of the sea air are immediately apparent. It is a joy to encounter a familiar face amongst this crush.”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly and sank into a deep curtsy.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam.” She rose, focusing her attention on the soldier. It was significantly safer than looking at the tall, brooding gentleman beside him. “The joy is mutual. I had not expected to find you in Sussex.”
“The military life demands travel.” The Colonel clapped a hand solidly on his cousin’s rigid shoulder. “And occasionally, one must drag one’s relations from the gloom of London for their own health. Is that not correct, Darcy?”
Darcy blinked, seeming to recall how to operate his limbs. He removed his hat and bowed. It was a jerky, awkward movement, lacking his usual fluid grace.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
His voice was low, barely carrying over the noise of the gulls and the carriage wheels.
Elizabeth met his gaze.
“Mr Darcy.”
The hostility that had defined their interactions in Kent was absent.
It had evaporated, replaced by a shared, uncomfortable awareness.
She knew about Wickham. He knew she knew about Wickham.
And he had fixed the disaster with Jane, because Bingley was firmly settled back in Netherfield courting her.
They had an entire volume of unspoken apologies and unacknowledged gratitude resting between them.
Neither of them had the vocabulary to address it on a public walkway.
“Are you enjoying the seaside, Miss Elizabeth?” The Colonel rocked back on his heels, revelling in their mutual agony. “I was just observing to Darcy that the promenade is remarkably colourful today. A veritable rainbow of parasols and bonnets.”
“It is certainly vibrant.” Elizabeth tightened her grip on her own sensible brown parasol. “I am accompanying and chaperoning my youngest sister, Lydia. We are guests of Colonel Forster’s wife for the summer.”
Darcy flinched at Mrs Forster’s name. The movement was minuscule, but Elizabeth caught it.
“A chaperone.” The Colonel nodded solemnly, though his eyes danced with amusement. “A grave responsibility in a town devoted to distraction. Have you found the circulating libraries to your satisfaction? Or perhaps the assembly rooms?”
“I have not had time to visit everything yet, but so far, I have found the noise to be quite comprehensive.” Elizabeth offered a dry smile. “We arrived only yesterday evening. My sister is introducing herself to every milliner in the district.”
“An expensive undertaking.” The Colonel chuckled.
“I assure you, it is.” Elizabeth allowed herself a glance back at Darcy.
He was watching her with an intensity that made the June heat feel more oppressive. He was not looking down his nose, nor observing her with the critical detachment she had come to expect. He looked as though he were attempting to memorise the exact placement of every freckle on her face.
Elizabeth felt a flush creeping up her neck.
“And what brings you to Brighton, Mr Darcy?” She forced the question past the constriction in her throat. “I recall you once professing a preference for quieter surroundings.”
Darcy cleared his throat.
“I...” He glanced at the Colonel, then back at Elizabeth. “I found London to be excessively warm. My cousin suggested the coast might offer a diversion.”
“I see.” Elizabeth smiled politely. “I trust you will find the diversions here adequately engaging, Sir. The town certainly offers a unique variety of entertainments.”
“I am certain we shall remain occupied.” Darcy held her gaze.
“Well.” The Colonel clapped his hands together, startling a nearby pigeon. “We must not keep you from your duties, Miss Elizabeth. Mustering younger sisters is a tactical manoeuvre requiring vigilance.”
Elizabeth realised with a jolt of panic that she had forgotten her sister and her friend.
She glanced hastily around her. The crowd was thick, a shifting mass of colours and fabrics. Wickham, Lydia, and Mrs Forster could be anywhere. They could be purchasing ribbons or arranging private meetings for all she knew.
“You are correct, Colonel.” She took a hasty step backward and executed a swift curtsy. “I must depart before my sister buys all the ribbons of Brighton and bankrupts our father.”
The Colonel threw his head back and laughed.
Darcy offered a small, crooked smile that was infinitely more devastating than his usual scowl.
“We shall not delay you, Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy bowed again, this time with a measure of his customary elegance. “I trust we shall encounter you again during our stay.”
“Brighton is small, Mr Darcy, despite the crowds.” Elizabeth met his eyes one final time. “I imagine it will be quite impossible to avoid one another.”
“I certainly hope so.”
The words were spoken so quietly Elizabeth almost did not hear them over the crash of the waves.
She turned quickly, her heart hammering an erratic rhythm inside her chest. She marched to the row of shops lining the opposite side of the Steine.
She needed to find Lydia and drag her back to their cramped lodgings. She needed to sit in a dark room and think of the fact that Fitzwilliam Darcy was in Sussex and was looking at her as though she were the only woman remaining on the earth.
This was no longer simply a long summer. It was rapidly becoming the most complicated season of her entire existence.
Elizabeth gripped her parasol like a weapon and waded into the throng, her eyes desperately searching the crowds.