Chapter Fourteen #2
Elizabeth struggled with the rapid changes of direction required by the music. At one point, she turned left when she should have turned right, creating a momentary tangle with Mrs Baker, the chandler’s wife, which sent both women into fits of laughter.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs Baker gasped between giggles, “you’ve got the spirit of it, even if the feet haven’t quite caught up yet!”
Mr Darcy, despite his usual preference for precision, seemed amused by their collective struggles rather than frustrated. When he missed his cue during ‘The Miller’s Dance’ and ended up facing entirely the wrong direction, he accepted the scattered applause and teasing with remarkable grace.
“I begin to suspect,” he said, slightly breathless from his exertions, “that years of formal dancing lessons have actually hindered rather than helped my performance here.”
“Aye, sir,” said young Tom Fletcher, barely sixteen but already an accomplished dancer. “Country dancing’s got its own rules. You can’t think your way through it—you’ve got to feel the music and let your feet follow!”
During a brief respite between dances, as they stood catching their breath and accepting cups of fresh cider, Elizabeth noticed how the villagers had naturally included them in their circle.
There was no careful distance maintained due to social rank.
It was simply the easy fellowship of neighbours enjoying a celebration together.
As the afternoon wore on, their technique gradually improved through practice and the patient guidance of their new instructors.
Ambrose had appointed himself the family’s official dance master, offering solemn advice about footwork between his own enthusiastic performances.
Elizabeth found herself moving with increasing confidence, while her husband’s natural athleticism began to assert itself despite his unfamiliarity with the steps.
“I fear we are providing considerable entertainment for the spectators,” she laughed as she narrowly avoided colliding with another dancer during a particularly complex figure.
“Indeed,” he agreed, his eyes twinkling with unexpected mirth. “However, I suspect our enthusiasm compensates for our lack of skill. And I confess, I have not enjoyed an afternoon’s exercise so thoroughly in years.”
When the musicians finally called for a final dance as the sun began to sink toward the horizon, the three of them joined hands with the other couples for ‘The Parting Glass’, a slower, more stately dance that allowed them to catch their breath while still participating in the communal celebration.
As they moved through the gentle figures, Elizabeth felt a profound sense of connection—not just to Mr Darcy and Ambrose, but to this entire community that had welcomed them so warmly.
“Thank you,” she said quietly to Mrs Henderson as the dance concluded. “For your patience with such hopeless pupils.”
“Hopeless? Nonsense!” the woman replied with a warm smile. “You’ve got the heart for it, which is more than half the battle. You must come again next year—by then you’ll be leading the dances instead of following!”
As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, painting the square in golden light, Elizabeth felt a profound sense of contentment settle over her.
Watching Mr Darcy swing Ambrose around in an impromptu jig while villagers clapped encouragement, she had realised how thoroughly her life had been transformed.
She belonged here—not just at Pemberley, but in this larger community of people who had welcomed her with open hearts.
***
The journey home passed in comfortable fatigue, Ambrose drowsing against Elizabeth’s shoulder while she and Mr Darcy shared quiet observations about the day’s pleasures.
The easy companionship between them felt natural now, built through countless small moments of cooperation and shared concern for the boy in their care.
“Thank you for suggesting the expedition,” Elizabeth said as Pemberley’s familiar silhouette came into view. “I cannot remember when I have enjoyed an afternoon more thoroughly.”
“Nor I,” he replied with quiet sincerity. “It has been enlightening to see you in your element among the villagers. You possess a gift for connecting with people that I confess I have always envied.”
The carriage drew to a halt before the main entrance, where footmen waited to assist their descent.
Elizabeth gathered the sleeping Ambrose in her arms, smiling at his peaceful expression.
Such moments of complete happiness seemed almost too precious to trust, yet she found herself hoping that their little family might enjoy many more such simple pleasures.
Her contentment evaporated the moment they crossed the threshold into Pemberley’s entrance hall. Morrison, the butler, stepped forward with his usual dignity, but she detected a subtle tension in his bearing.
“Mr Darcy, madam,” he said quietly, “I must inform you that Mr Wickham and Mrs Younge have arrived and are waiting in the Blue Drawing Room. They insisted the matter was of utmost urgency and would not be turned away.”
Elizabeth felt Mr Darcy stiffen beside her, his jaw tightening at the unwelcome news. The peaceful spell of their afternoon dissolved like morning mist, replaced by the cold reality of the threat that still hung over their small family.
“Thank you, Morrison,” he replied with careful control. “Please inform our guests that we will join them presently.”
As the butler withdrew, Elizabeth noticed how Ambrose stirred restlessly in her arms, his peaceful slumber disturbed as though he could sense the sudden tension that had descended over their return.
The child’s instinctive reaction to danger, even in sleep, only strengthened her resolve to protect him from whatever new scheme Wickham had devised.