Chapter Seven A Pebble Makes a Difference #2
“They are fifty feet away and closing,” Elizabeth murmured, her grip tightening on the stone.
“However, I face a tactical dilemma. I have the ammunition, but my throwing arm is notoriously inaccurate. I once attempted to throw an apple to Jane across the parlour and shattered a very expensive porcelain shepherdess instead.”
Mr Darcy extended his right hand, his glove resting palm upward. “I have participated in numerous cricket matches at Cambridge, Miss Elizabeth. My aim is considered exceptional. Hand me the pebble.”
Elizabeth looked at his outstretched hand, then up at his face.
The Master of Pemberley was offering to assault a seaside donkey on her behalf.
The absurdity of it nearly caused her to drop her parasol.
She transferred the stone from her hand to his, and their fingers brushed briefly, a fleeting contact that did odd things to her heartbeat.
“We need a rescue party,” Mr Darcy said, weighing the pebble in his palm. “If the beast bolts, Wickham will attempt a heroic rescue to cement Miss Smythe’s affections. We must ensure someone else plays the hero.”
“I am available for heroic deeds, provided they do not involve entering the water!” a loud, boisterous voice declared from directly behind them.
Elizabeth turned to see Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam navigating the pebbles with the swift strides of a seasoned soldier. He was grinning broadly, fully intending to amuse himself.
“Richard. Miss Elizabeth and I are orchestrating a minor stampede. Miss Penelope Smythe is approaching from the east escorted by Wickham. We need you to intercept her.”
The Colonel did not ask for clarification. He surveyed the beach, located Miss Smythe and Wickham, and then spotted the donkey bearing the weight of Lydia Bennet. A look of supreme, joyous comprehension illuminated his features.
“A runaway beast. A damsel in distress. I am your man, Cousin.” The Colonel offered Elizabeth an exaggerated salute. “I shall sweep in like a knight of old. Wish me luck, Miss Elizabeth. I go to face the wrath of the Brighton donkey.”
The Colonel marched away, taking a wide, looping path to position himself slightly behind Miss Smythe.
Elizabeth watched him go and turned back to Mr Darcy. “He did not even question the madness of the plan.”
“My cousin thrives on mayhem,” he replied, and adjusted his stance on the stones, angling his body slightly to obscure his right arm from the surrounding crowds. “Are you prepared, Miss Elizabeth?”
“I am,” she whispered, her heart hammering frantically.
Mr Darcy waited a second. Wickham and Miss Smythe were now a mere twenty feet from the milling group of officers surrounding Lydia. Wickham raised a hand, gesturing at the sea, likely delivering a heavily plagiarised line of poetry about the eternal nature of the tides.
Mr Darcy flicked his wrist.
It was a movement of effortless precision. The smooth stone sailed through the salty air in a perfect, invisible arc. It struck the donkey squarely on its rounded hindquarters.
The effect was instantaneous and spectacular.
The donkey, insulted by this unprovoked assault, let out a sound that was a cross between a shriek and a bray. It threw its head into the air, yanking the lead rope from Ensign Burton’s grasp. Then, with a surprising burst of speed for an animal famous for its lethargy, it bolted forward.
“Help!” Lydia screamed, dropping her parasol and clinging desperately to the donkey’s coarse mane as the beast charged directly down the shoreline.
The crowd of promenaders scattered like frightened chickens.
George Wickham, interrupted mid-poem by the approach of a runaway beast and a screaming girl, demonstrated his true character.
He did not attempt a heroic rescue nor did he shield his companion.
Faced with a hundred pounds of panicked livestock bearing down on him, he yelped, abandoned Miss Smythe, and threw himself sideways, landing face-first in a large, gelatinous pile of wet seaweed left behind by the receding tide.
Miss Smythe froze, staring in terror at the approaching donkey.
“Have no fear, Madam!” Colonel Fitzwilliam roared, emerging from the crowd.
He lunged forward, wrapping one strong arm around Miss Smythe’s waist, sweeping her off her feet and pulling her safely to the side just as the donkey galloped past them, kicking up a shower of wet pebbles.
“Oh!” Miss Smythe gasped, clinging to the Colonel’s broad shoulders, her bonnet knocked askew. “You saved me, Sir! You saved my life!”
“It was nothing, Madam,” the Colonel replied, offering her a charming smile while still holding her firmly in his arms. “I cannot abide the thought of a lovely lady being trampled by an aggressive animal. Are you injured?”
In the background, the donkey finally exhausted its burst of energy and ground to a sudden halt, nearly launching Lydia over its ears. The junior officers rushed to surround her, offering a chorus of apologies and attempting to untangle her skirts.
Elizabeth watched the scene unfold with unblinking astonishment.
It had worked. It had worked flawlessly.
Wickham was sitting in a pile of seaweed, his red coat ruined, spitting sand from his mouth.
Miss Smythe was captivated by her heroic rescuer, the dashing Colonel Fitzwilliam.
They had drawn the teeth from the beast.
A sudden, jarring collision forced Elizabeth to step backward. The panicked crowd, still shifting away from the disturbance, pressed inward. She stumbled on the loose stones, losing her footing.
Before she could fall, Mr Darcy moved. He dropped his walking stick and caught her, his hands gripping her upper arms to steady her. The force of the movement pulled her directly against his chest.
Elizabeth gasped, looking up. His face was mere inches from her own. She could feel the rapid thud of his heart against her hands, which had instinctively flown up to grasp the lapels of his grey coat.
“Are you injured?” Mr Darcy’s voice was hoarse, the amusement stripped away, replaced by a fierce panic.
“No,” Elizabeth breathed, her fingers tightening unconsciously on his fine wool coat. “No, I am well. Thank you.”
He did not release her. They stood locked together amidst the pandemonium of the Brighton beach, the wind whipping her skirts against his legs. The strict rules of propriety demanded she step away immediately, apologise, and retreat behind her parasol.
Elizabeth Bennet did not move a single inch. She stared into Mr Darcy’s intense eyes, and the final, crumbling walls of her prejudice shattered. She remained anchored in the circle of his arms, her breath catching painfully in her throat. The sudden clarity of her own heart was disorienting.
She loved him.
The shock of the revelation must have shown on her face, for Mr Darcy’s brow furrowed in deep concern. His grip on her arms loosened, his thumbs brushing lightly against the fabric of her pelisse.
“Miss Elizabeth?” he murmured, his voice gentle. “You are pale. Are you well?”
The sound of her name broke the spell. The rules of propriety crashed back down on her shoulders. She was standing in the middle of a public beach, firmly grasped by an unmarried gentleman. It was an appalling breach of decorum.
“I... I am perfectly well, truly,” she stammered, forcing herself to step backward. The loss of his warmth was unpleasant. She smoothed the front of her pelisse with trembling hands, unable to meet his eyes. “I was startled momentarily. I thank you for your assistance, Mr Darcy.”
“It was my pleasure.” He took a respectful step away, retrieving his discarded walking stick.
Elizabeth turned her back to the sea, desperately searching for a distraction to conceal the confusing state of her emotions. Fortunately, Brighton offered an endless supply of distractions.
“My sister,” Elizabeth said. “I must attend to Lydia.”
She picked her way rapidly across the uneven stones, leaving Mr Darcy to follow at a more dignified pace.
The junior officers surrounded Lydia, who was no longer mounted on the beast. She was slumped against the shoulder of Ensign Miller, sobbing with a theatrical intensity that suggested she had survived a major shipwreck rather than a brief trot down the shoreline.
“It was a crazy donkey!” Lydia wailed, burying her face into the young officer’s red coat, ruining the pristine wool with her tears. “It was mad! It attempted to murder me! I saw the malice in its eyes!”
“There, there, Miss Bennet,” Ensign Miller soothed, awkwardly patting her bonnet. “The beast is secured. You are safe now.”
“I shall never ride again!” Lydia declared, lifting her head to ensure she had a sufficient audience. “My nerves are shattered! I require smelling salts and a dark room!”
Elizabeth arrived and assessed the situation with swift, sisterly pragmatism. Lydia was uninjured, her bonnet was intact, and she was thoroughly enjoying the undivided attention of three young men.
George Wickham, however, was conspicuously absent from the circle of consolers.
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted further down the beach. Wickham was retreating with an uncharacteristically hunched posture, not looking back. His dignity was utterly destroyed, and his secondary scheme had been gallantly escorted away by Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Lydia, you must compose yourself,” Elizabeth instructed, stepping in and gently pulling her sister away from Ensign Miller’s soaked shoulder. “You are causing a spectacle. We must gather Mrs Forster and return to the lodgings at once.”
“I cannot walk!” Lydia protested, leaning on Elizabeth. “My legs have turned to jelly!”
“Then you shall have to crawl,” Elizabeth replied, her patience wearing thin. “Come along.”
Elizabeth gave one last nod to Mr Darcy, who was watching from further aside. He nodded back.
Securing Mrs Forster proved to be an equally dramatic endeavour.
They found the Colonel’s wife shivering on the lower steps of the bathing machine, wrapped in a coarse woollen blanket.
Martha Gunn stood over her, hands planted firmly on her hips, looking as though she were prepared to throw the woman back into the Channel if she complained one more time.
“She needs hot tea,” Martha announced gruffly as Elizabeth approached. “And a less delicate constitution. She screamed through all three dips.”
“I was drowning!” Mrs Forster sobbed, her teeth chattering so much that she could barely form the words. “It is a barbaric practice! I shall write to the Prince Regent and demand this woman be imprisoned!”
“Thank you, Martha,” Elizabeth said, ignoring Mrs Forster’s threats of royal intervention. She handed the dipper a coin. “We shall take her home now.”
The journey back to the Forster lodgings was excruciatingly slow.
Winslow supported Mrs Forster, who complained of the cold with every step.
Elizabeth supported Lydia, who complained of the crazy donkey with equal fervour.
Elizabeth’s thoughts remained firmly anchored to the moment on the pebbles, and the warmth of Mr Darcy’s embrace.
They finally reached the narrow brick townhouse the Forsters had leased. Elizabeth and the elderly maid hauled the two weeping women through the front door and deposited them on the settee in the drawing room.
Colonel Forster was standing by the window, holding a small porcelain teacup.
He had the mild, unassuming features of a village vicar rather than the hardened countenance of a military commander.
He turned as they entered, his eyebrows rising slightly at the sight of his sodden wife and his hysterical houseguest.
“Good heavens, Harriet,” the Colonel said mildly, setting his teacup on a side table. “What happened to you? And Miss Lydia, why are you weeping? Has the milliner run out of ribbons?”
“A crazy donkey attempted to assassinate me!” Lydia yelled, throwing herself backwards against the cushions. “It bolted! I clung to its mane for dear life! I was nearly trampled to death!”
Colonel Forster blinked. He looked from Lydia to Elizabeth for confirmation.
“The animal was startled, Colonel,” Elizabeth explained, maintaining a straight face. “It did run a short distance, though I assure you, Lydia was never in any true mortal danger.”
“A donkey.” The Colonel frowned, walking over to inspect his wife, who was still shivering.
He did not seem overly concerned with assassination plots.
“Well, that is the hazard of the seaside, is it not? One must expect the local fauna to behave unpredictably. Though I must say, Harriet, we are approaching the end of June. The water is at its warmest.”
“I was nearly drowned, and you speak of temperature!” Mrs Forster wailed, burying her face in her hands.
“Just an observation, my dear,” the Colonel replied reasonably, patting her damp shoulder. “And Miss Lydia, your hem is torn. You must ask the maid to mend it before you wear it again. We cannot have the militia associated with ragged hems.”
Elizabeth stared at him. A man tasked with the defence of the southern coast against the threat of a French invasion was fretting over the state of a hemline.
Any lingering hope she harboured that Colonel Forster might eventually recognise Wickham’s nature and intervene was instantly extinguished. The man was incapable of defending his own wife from a bathing machine, let alone defending the young women of Brighton from a calculated, charming villain.
They were alone in this fight.
Elizabeth turned her gaze towards the window, looking out over the grey, choppy waters of the Channel. The military offered no protection. The chaperones were worse than useless. The only true defence Lydia Bennet had was a secret alliance forged on mutual necessity.
A slow, determined smile touched her lips. Colonel Forster could worry about Lydia’s hem. She and Mr Darcy would handle the villains.