Chapter Five An Alliance on the Promenade
At precisely eight o’clock in the morning, the Forster lodging house achieved a state of grace previously considered impossible: it was silent.
Harriet Forster and Lydia Bennet were unconscious in their respective bedchambers, having danced until their slippers frayed and laughed until they had no breath left. They slept the deep, unbothered slumber of the truly oblivious—a state of being Elizabeth envied.
She, however, was awake. She sat in the small, cluttered parlour, nursing a cup of lukewarm tea and a staggering case of self-reproach.
The previous evening at the Ship Inn assembly repeated itself in her mind like a catalogue of her own failures.
She had marched into the ballroom fully intending to be the supreme guardian of the Bennet family reputation.
She had planned to stand between her youngest sister and George Wickham like an immovable human fortress.
Instead, she had been outmanoeuvred by a dowager with a passion for affordable meat.
Elizabeth rested her forehead against the cool wood of the breakfast table.
The memory was agonising. Lady Metcalf had cornered her near the refreshment table, gripping Elizabeth’s forearm with the strength of a seasoned wrestler, and proceeded to shout about the rising cost of mutton for forty-five continuous minutes.
And while Elizabeth was held hostage by the dire cost of husbandry, George Wickham had made his move.
She had seen him across the room deftly orchestrating the encounter.
He had guided Lydia into a recessed alcove, shielding her from the main floor while simultaneously blocking her escape.
He had leaned in close, murmured, and had deployed the exact charm he had used in the gardens of Hertfordshire and, undoubtedly, in Ramsgate.
Lydia had giggled, swatted his arm with her fan, and had looked at him as though he had the only acceptable face in the county of Sussex.
Elizabeth gripped her teacup until her knuckles turned stark white.
Wickham did not really want Lydia. She had no fortune, no influential connections, and an attention span shorter than a mayfly.
But she was available and she belonged to a family who would pay any price they could afford to avoid the catastrophic ruin of a public scandal.
He was building a trap, and Elizabeth had stood and watched him lay the bait.
She was an abysmal chaperone. A sentry who had politely stepped aside to let the invading army inspect the silver.
The walls of the parlour began to feel exceptionally close. Bandboxes and discarded ribbons littered every flat surface, mocking her with their frivolity. She could not remain indoors. She needed to move.
She abandoned her tea and marched to the kitchens.
The domain of the housekeeper was quiet, smelling of hot ashes and baking bread.
In the farthest corner, seated upon a wooden stool, was Winslow.
The elderly maid had the remarkable ability to exist in a state of suspended animation.
She was staring intently at a copper kettle, motionless, looking very much like a monument dedicated to the concept of apathy.
Elizabeth crossed the stone floor and did not bother to speak. Attempting to converse with Winslow was a thoroughly documented waste of breath. Instead, she reached out, grasped the maid firmly by the wrist, and hoisted her to her feet.
Winslow offered no resistance. She blinked her milky eyes, her single tooth making a brief appearance as her jaw dropped in mild surprise.
Elizabeth retrieved a grey woollen shawl from a peg by the door and threw it over Winslow’s stooped shoulders. She then fastened the ribbons of her own bonnet swiftly.
She pointed at the back door.
“Walk.”
Winslow stared straight ahead, unbothered by the command she had not heard.
Elizabeth sighed, took the woman by the elbow, and steered her out of the house like a poorly constructed wheelbarrow.
The mid-June morning greeted them clear and bright.
The wind was not the biting gale of winter, but rather a crisp, salty breeze that tugged pleasantly at the hem of Elizabeth’s skirts.
Brighton in the early hours was a fundamentally different creature than the one in the afternoon. Society had not yet awakened.
There were no brightly striped parasols blocking the view, no merchants shouting about ices. Most importantly, the town was devoid of red coats. The militia was presumably still doing drills, or still asleep, dreaming of new ways to avoid paying their tailors.
The promenade stretched out before them, a sweeping curve of wooden planks beside the pebble beach. The sea rolled inward with a soothing crash, the water glittering under the morning sun. It was peaceful. It was beautiful.
Elizabeth hated it.
She walked at a punishing pace, forcing Winslow to execute a shuffling jog to keep up. She wanted to feel the ache in her limbs, the exertion to drown out the lingering echoes of Lady Metcalf’s opinions on roasting joints.
“I have failed.” Elizabeth announced her defeat to the empty promenade, fully aware that her only companion was deaf.
Winslow continued her shuffling trot, her gaze fixed securely on the planks under her feet.
“I knew exactly what he was.” Elizabeth continued her confession, her voice rising above the crash of the waves. “I had the undeniable truth handed to me in a letter. I knew his tactics, his character. And yet, I allowed him to corner her in an alcove while I discussed sheep.”
Elizabeth released Winslow’s elbow and stopped by the wrought-iron railing, staring out at the horizon. The elderly maid immediately ceased all forward motion, coming to a halt exactly where she was deposited, swaying slightly in the breeze.
Elizabeth gripped the cold metal of the railing.
She had to devise a new strategy. She could not shadow Lydia at the assemblies; it was impossible.
Wickham was too skilled at navigating crowded rooms, and Harriet Forster was working against them by encouraging the flirtation.
Elizabeth needed a way to block him. She needed a barricade.
She needed an ally.
The thought was intensely depressing. She had no allies in Sussex. Her father was in his library reading about dead philosophers. Her mother was mentally planning a double wedding. Jane was too far away and far too good to understand the malice of a man like George Wickham.
Elizabeth was alone on the battlefield.
She closed her eyes, letting the breeze wash over her face. She would have to be better, to sharpen her elbows, to be rude to dowagers. She would shadow her sister with the intensity of a hunting falcon.
Elizabeth opened her eyes and turned back to the promenade, prepared to march the entire length of the town and formulate a flawless plan.
Her grand, solitary resolve lasted exactly thirty seconds before it was thoroughly interrupted. Walking towards her, illuminated by the morning sun, were two men.
The first was Fitzwilliam Darcy, although he did not stroll; he marched.
He traversed the length of the promenade with long, hurried strides.
He looked as though he intended to purchase the English Channel and have it drained for being too loud.
He wore an impeccably tailored coat that caught the breeze, and his expression was one of grim determination.
A single pace behind him walked the second man. He wore a sober grey coat and carried a brown paper parcel tucked neatly under one arm. He had a demeanour of such perfect neutrality that he made the wooden promenade look positively emotional by comparison.
Elizabeth’s grand plans dissolved into immediate panic. She was not prepared for a second meeting so soon. The stilted encounter by the mirror last night was still painfully fresh in her mind. She braced herself for another round of formality and dismissal of her gratitude.
Mr Darcy halted three feet away. He swept his tall hat from his head and executed a bow of such precision it could have been used to calibrate scientific instruments.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth sank into a deep curtsy, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the polished leather of his boots. “Mr Darcy. You are abroad very early.”
Mr Darcy held his hat firmly against his side. “The sea air is recommended for the constitution. I find the crowds in the afternoon to be decidedly detrimental to my patience.”
Elizabeth smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from the fabric of her glove. “Indeed. The crowds are quite overwhelming.”
The conversation perished. It lay on the ground dead and rapidly cooling. Elizabeth searched her mind for a witty remark, a clever observation about the seagulls, or even a basic inquiry about the weather. Her usually sharp tongue failed her. She was acutely aware of his eyes studying her face.
Mr Darcy cleared his throat, a rough sound that betrayed his own discomfort. He gestured stiffly to the man standing behind him. “Allow me to introduce my valet. Horlicks.”
Elizabeth blinked rapidly. Gentlemen did not introduce their valets to ladies. It was a breach of etiquette so grand it bordered on madness.
The valet stepped forward. He offered a bow that was somehow even more precise and formal than his master’s.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss.” Horlicks had a smooth, unruffled cadence.
Elizabeth nodded politely. She then watched in absolute horror as Horlicks pivoted smoothly to the immovable object draped in the grey shawl.
Horlicks offered a second, equally respectful bow to the elderly maid. “Good morning, madam. I trust you are finding the coastal breeze agreeable?”
Elizabeth raised a hand in sudden alarm.
She needed to intervene because if Horlicks expected a response, he would stand there until the autumn winds arrived.
She opened her mouth to deliver her rehearsed explanation regarding Winslow’s total lack of hearing, sight, and general awareness.
She prepared to apologise for her chaperone resembling a dormant shrub.