Chapter Six The Philosophy of the Fiddler #2
“He has her captivated,” Darcy observed, his voice dropping to a low register. The sheer audacity of the man standing there, operating his schemes in broad daylight, caused a familiar, burning anger to ignite within Darcy’s chest. “We must separate them.”
“Wait.” Richard gripped Darcy’s sleeve. “The situation is developing. The secondary target has entered the field.”
Darcy followed his cousin’s gaze. The glass doors of the library opened, admitting a young woman of perhaps nineteen years. She had a sweet, open face, devoid of guile, and she was draped in fabrics that screamed of wealth. Miss Clara Jenkins.
Wickham’s reaction was instantaneous. The moment Miss Jenkins stepped inside, his stance altered. He straightened his shoulders, his eyes locking onto the heiress. He offered Miss Lydia a hasty, dismissive bow and began weaving his way through the crowded room.
“He is making his move,” Richard hissed. “The scoundrel is pivoting. What do you think? Shall I throw a book at his head?”
“Not yet, Richard.” Darcy’s eyes darted to the poetry section. Elizabeth had slightly lowered her volume. She caught Darcy’s eye across the crowded room. She gave a shake of her head. Wait.
Wickham reached the newly arrived lady and executed a bow that was a masterpiece of elegance. He deployed the smile that had ruined half the maids in Derbyshire, and opened his mouth to deliver what was undoubtedly a rehearsed compliment to Miss Jenkins.
He never had the opportunity to speak, because a shadow fell over him.
It was not a metaphorical shadow. A woman of extreme proportions stepped out from behind a shelf of encyclopaedias. She wore a turban adorned with a single, aggressive ostrich feather, she had the jawline of a bulldog, and the eyes of a hawk.
Lady Agatha Clement had arrived.
Lady Clement examined Wickham from the top of his pomaded hair to the scuffed tips of his boots. The assessment took exactly three seconds.
“You are blocking the light, Sir.” Lady Clement spoke with a voice that could shatter granite.
Wickham offered his most engaging, tragic expression, and pointed to his left. “A thousand apologies, Madam. I was admiring the cartography. The rendering of the Italian coast is quite exquisite.”
Lady Clement tapped her cane against the wooden floorboards.
“That is the coast of the West Indies, you simpleton. Remove yourself from my vicinity before I instruct the porter to toss you into the street.”
Wickham gasped.
“Shoo.” Lady Clement waved her cane in a dismissive gesture. “Go find a barmaid to impress. My niece requires intellectual stimulation, not the company of a man whose debts likely exceed his vocabulary.”
Wickham’s smile cracked. He bowed stiffly and turned away.
Darcy felt a sense of respect for the woman in the turban.
“I think I am in love.” Richard whispered the sentiment with sincerity. “I wonder if Lady Clement requires a suitor.”
“Come along, Clara,” Lady Clement was saying. “I need a new volume of sermons, and I refuse to breathe the air near the romance section. It smells of cheap cologne.”
Miss Jenkins, bewildered by the exchange, was swept away by her aunt.
But Wickham was not one to be defeated easily. He smoothed the lapels of his red coat, adjusting his features back into the mask of the injured gentleman, and set his sights on the philosophy section.
“He is going back to Miss Lydia,” Darcy stated, his voice tight. The amusement of Lady Clement’s victory vanished as the reality of the threat returned. Wickham could not have Miss Jenkins, which meant Lydia Bennet was in severe peril.
Darcy looked across the room. Miss Elizabeth was staring at him. Her eyes were wide, conveying a clear command. Do something.
Darcy did not hesitate. He abandoned his cousin, he abandoned his dignity, and strode directly to the philosophy section, preparing to execute the most absurd act of his life. He kept his gaze fixed on the feathered monstrosity adorning the hair of Lydia Bennet.
He arrived the moment Wickham leaned forward, a sickly, sympathetic smile on his face, prepared to resume his campaign of manipulation.
Darcy stepped between them before Wickham had the opportunity to complete his exhalation. Darcy reached out and selected a volume from the shelf beside Miss Lydia’s shoulder without reading the title. He merely opened it to the middle and turned to her in scholarly inquiry.
“Miss Lydia,” Darcy said, his deep voice carrying a tone of such urgency that Miss Lydia startled, nearly dropping her reticule.
Wickham jerked backwards, his smile freezing into shock, staring at Darcy as though he were an apparition.
“Darcy! I did not know you were visiting Brighton.”
“Now you know, Wickham.” Darcy did not even glance at him.
“Mr Darcy!” Miss Lydia blinked rapidly, her eyes darting from his tailored coat to the massive book in his hands. “I... I did not see you coming. Are you searching for a book? I assure you, this section is terribly dull. There are no pictures whatsoever.”
“I am aware of the lack of illustration, Miss Lydia.” Darcy held the volume outward, presenting the dense, impenetrable text to her.
“However, I find myself in a state of deep intellectual perplexity, and I recalled your great understanding of... societal constructs. I need your immediate assistance.”
Wickham let out a sound that was half a cough and half a strangled gasp.
He stared at him, his mouth slightly open, unable to process the absurdity of Fitzwilliam Darcy requesting intellectual guidance from a girl whose primary academic achievement was identifying the regimental facings of the local militia.
Miss Lydia’s vanity, however, rendered her immune to sarcasm. She puffed out her chest, a delighted smile spreading across her face. “My assistance? Well, I am always happy to help a gentleman in distress, Mr Darcy. What is the difficulty?”
Darcy glanced down at the book. He had accidentally selected a volume of classical Latin translations. He pointed blindly to a paragraph concerning the nature of stoicism.
“I am struggling with this interpretation of virtue,” he lied.
“The author posits that true virtue is achieved through the total suppression of emotion. Yet, I find this contradicts the... the passionate nature of a country dance. How, Miss Lydia, do you reconcile the philosophy of the ancients with the modern necessity of a lively cotillion?”
Miss Lydia stared at the page. Then at him. She blinked three times in rapid succession. “I... I am sure I do not know about the ancients, Mr Darcy. But a cotillion is vital. One cannot possibly suppress their emotions when the musicians play a lively reel. It would be rude to the fiddler.”
“A brilliant deduction,” Darcy replied, his voice maintaining its solemn resonance.
He took a half-step sideways, effectively forcing his broad shoulders between Miss Lydia and the bewildered George Wickham.
“You argue that social duty supersedes philosophy. A revolutionary stance. Tell me more of your theories about the fiddler.”
Wickham attempted to step around Darcy’s imposing frame. “Darcy, surely Miss Lydia does not wish to be burdened with—”
“I am not burdened at all!” Miss Lydia interrupted, leaning closer to Darcy and cutting Wickham off, basking in the undivided attention of a wealthy gentleman. “I believe that if one does not dance, one might as well stay at home and knit. And knitting is for old maids. Do you not agree, Mr Darcy?”
“Absolutely,” Darcy agreed, angling his back more to Wickham. “And what of the partners? Does the choice of a partner affect the... vigorousness of the dance?”
Before Miss Lydia could launch into her detailed opinions on partners and their dancing abilities, a distressed wail echoed from another counter. Mrs Forster, her face flushed with panic, descended on their small group like a frantic, muslin-draped bird.
“Lydia!” Mrs Forster cried, clutching her empty hands to her chest. “It is a catastrophe! I have lost the yellow ribbon! The one with the velvet edging! I set it down to examine a copy of a new romance, and it has vanished into thin air! We must search the floor!”
“Oh, Harriet, you are always losing things!” Miss Lydia sighed, though she eagerly abandoned the philosophy of the cotillion to address the crisis. “We shall never find it in this crowd.”
“We must try!” Mrs Forster insisted, dropping to her knees in the middle of the library and peering under the shelves.
Wickham, seeing his opportunity to regain control of the situation, stepped forward with gallantry. “Allow me to assist you, Mrs Forster. A gentleman’s eyes are keen.”
“You shall require a lantern, Wickham. The dust under these shelves is formidable,” a booming voice announced.
Richard strode into their circle, clutching a small square of numbered cardboard in his fist. He ignored Wickham, turning a bright smile on Miss Lydia.
“Who is this charming lady, Cousin?”
Darcy performed the introduction to a delighted Miss Lydia.
“Miss Lydia, enchanté! You must settle a dispute!” he declared, waving the cardboard.
“The lady operating the raffle for the silver tea service claims the drawing shall not occur until next Tuesday. I argue that next Tuesday is too far away, and my tea needs new saucers today. Do you believe I should launch a formal protest?”
Miss Lydia clapped her hands together, pleased by the Colonel’s boisterous energy. “You absolutely must, Colonel! A protest sounds wonderfully exciting! Shall you draw your sword?”
“If it is necessary to secure the teapot, I am prepared to engage in a minor skirmish.” Richard grinned, neatly positioning himself on the opposite side of Miss Lydia, shouldering Wickham out of the conversation.
The circle was now a fortress of absurdity. Mrs Forster was crawling on the floorboards, searching for her ribbon. Colonel Fitzwilliam was loudly debating the tactical merits of seizing a silver tea service by force. Darcy stood tall and immovable, still holding the volume of Latin in his hand.
And George Wickham was pushed to the extreme periphery, his charming smile replaced by a tight, rigid line of frustration.
He attempted to catch Miss Lydia’s eye, but she was too busy laughing at the Colonel’s theatrical threats.
He attempted to speak to Mrs Forster, but she merely swatted blindly at his boots from under the shelves.
He was neutralised by a coordinated assault of nonsense.
Darcy allowed a slow, deep breath to fill his lungs. He did not look at Wickham’s defeated posture. Instead, he raised his eyes and searched for the poetry section.
Miss Elizabeth was still standing exactly where he had last seen her, watching the spectacle and pressing her hand tightly over her mouth to suppress her laughter. Their eyes met across the sea of bonnets and novels.
Her eyes shone with triumphant affirmation. They had executed their first manoeuvre flawlessly. The villain was thwarted, the damsel was secure, and they had done it without breaking a single rule of polite society.
Darcy allowed the very corner of his mouth to lift into a smirk. He inclined his head, a silent salute to his partner in crime, before returning his attention to the youngest Miss Bennet and the revolutionary philosophy of the fiddler.