Chapter 11
Eleven
Some time later, the walking party emerged from the cool hush of the woods into the golden spill of sunlight that bathed the clearing near the secluded pavilion.
The distant laughter of the shuttlecock players drifted across the lawn, mingling with the sweet scent of crushed grass.
Elizabeth lingered near the rear, her hand brushing the sides of the hedgerows as she went, her thoughts still on her recent conversation with Miss Darcy’s companion.
There had been something unsettlingly familiar in the older woman’s manner.
Her words carried a cadence that stirred an echo she could not quite place, like fragments of a dream dissolving on waking.
Even now, with Miss Darcy walking just ahead beside her brother, Elizabeth could feel the reverberation of those enigmatic phrases.
“It is no strange thing to forget and then remember again…but you will know when the time is right.”
Miss Darcy glanced back at her as they neared the banqueting house, remarking in her soft voice that the maze had been more intricate than she had expected.
Elizabeth returned a faint smile and a polite murmur of agreement, though her mind was elsewhere.
The memory of the locket pressed against her thoughts with quiet insistence.
Had it ever truly existed, and if so, where was it now?
And why had Mrs Annesley’s words awakened in her such a sharp longing to hold it once more?
They had nearly reached the pavilion when Colonel Fitzwilliam, flushed from exercise and still holding a battledore in one hand, caught sight of them and waved.
“Ah! Our wanderers return!” he called. “You are come at the perfect time. We were just debating a change of amusement.”
Elizabeth smiled, shaking off the lingering haze. “And what entertainment is now proposed? I trust it is not a footrace.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed. “No, no, I shall spare you any further exertion. I had suggested Hunt the Slipper, but even that was deemed too boisterous for our present company,” he added, tipping his chin towards the windows where Lady Catherine could be seen glaring in their direction.
“In that case,” Mr Bingley interjected, advancing upon them with a boyish grin, “perhaps something along the lines of Confession or Compliment? Are you familiar with the game? I played it at a gathering in town not long ago, and it made for a remarkably diverting half-hour.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, intrigued, even as she sensed Mr Darcy stiffen beside her.
“That does not sound entirely appropriate, Bingley,” he replied. “Perhaps we might simply enjoy the tranquillity of the day.”
“Oh, come now, Darcy,” said the colonel, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “We are here to honour your impending nuptials. Surely a bit of honest amusement is in order. How does it work?”
“It is quite simple, really,” Mr Bingley replied, turning to include the others as they began mounting the steps of the pavilion.
“Each person draws a name and then must either share a confession about themselves or offer a heartfelt compliment to the person they have drawn. Most choose the latter, though the former can be far more entertaining.”
They had scarcely crossed the threshold when Lady Catherine’s voice cut sharply through the hum of conversation. “What is it you are all whispering about over there?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed in her direction. “Merely proposing a harmless parlour game, ma’am. Confession or Compliment. Each person offers a declaration about themselves or praise for another member of the company.”
Elizabeth watched as Lady Catherine’s gaze alighted first on Mr Darcy, then her daughter, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“A charming idea,” she declared. “It will give those who are not prone to expressing their sentiments openly the opportunity to pay tribute to the object of their affection. Provided I am not obliged to participate, I see no reason why the rest of you should not amuse yourselves.”
Mr Darcy, clearly discomfited, opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by his aunt’s lifted hand. “It will be edifying to observe,” she said, waving him away.
“Then it is settled,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam with a satisfied grin. “Though it occurs to me—how are we to manage drawing names without pen or paper?”
“If I may suggest a solution?” Mrs Annesley interjected.
“We played a similar game in my youth. Rather than drawing names, each participant places a token—a glove, a ribbon, a handkerchief—into a basket. These are drawn in turn, and the person who selected the item must attempt to identify its owner and then offer either a truth about themselves or a tribute to the person they believe the item belongs to.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the group.
“What a delightful twist,” Charlotte said in a cheerful tone. “And I suppose it will show how well we know our companions.”
“Indeed,” Mr Bingley agreed. “Though I daresay I shall embarrass myself more than once before the game is through.”
Elizabeth did not miss the fond smile her sister turned in that gentleman’s direction as servants were dispatched to fetch a suitable basket.
When it arrived, one by one, each person stepped up to contribute their tokens.
Mrs Annesley, Mrs Jenkinson, and Dr Latham, who all declined to participate, took seats beside Lady Catherine, who spent her time calling off instructions as each person made their way to the basket.
When her daughter’s turn arrived, she beckoned the girl over, whispering something in her ear before casting a meaningful look at Mr Darcy.
Miss de Bourgh gave the faintest nod before slipping something from her sleeve and approaching the receptacle.
When, at last, Elizabeth was called upon, she rose slowly, pulling off her gloves as she went.
She had nothing else to contribute, but as she turned them over in her hands, her lips pressed into a faint line.
The gloves were plain kid, neither monogrammed nor trimmed, and hardly distinctive.
A compliment paid to her might just as easily be intended for any other lady in the group.
Approaching the footman who held the basket, her fingers slipped absently into the pocket of her gown, where they brushed against something soft and silky. She drew it out, staring at the crumpled lilac ribbon, its edges slightly frayed, the colour dulled by repeated washings.
Suddenly, a memory flared, sharp and vivid. She had worn this very ribbon the night of the Netherfield ball, woven through her hair and fastened with a sprig of dried lavender. She could still see herself in the mirror, adjusting it nervously as Jane teased her for fussing.
She paused, once again troubled by the contradiction of remembering so distinctly what, by every account, had never occurred, before shaking away the memory and dropping the ribbon inside the hamper.
Once everyone had contributed their tokens, the basket was placed in the centre of the cleared table, and the company drew their chairs into a loose circle around it.
The atmosphere grew lively with laughter and low chatter, though Elizabeth remained keenly aware of Lady Catherine’s watchful gaze from her place near the windows.
Colonel Fitzwilliam offered to begin, rising with a theatrical bow. “I shall set the tone and trust my selection does not doom me to ridicule.”
He reached in and drew out a plain tortoiseshell hair comb. With a speculative glance around the group, he turned it over in his hand. “I believe this belongs to the fair Miss Lucas,” he declared, his grin both mischievous and admiring.
Charlotte inclined her head with a wry smile.
“As I am certain Miss Lucas would blush at too fulsome a compliment,” he continued, “I shall instead offer a confession. When I was a boy, I was forever contriving dares I had no business attempting. Once, while visiting Pemberley, I insisted Darcy and I leap from the roof of the stables into a hay cart below. He warned me, repeatedly, that it was far too high, but I was determined to prove my courage. I leapt first, of course, straight into the only part of the cart not filled with hay.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the group.
“I limped about for a week,” the colonel went on cheerfully, “while Darcy, who took the far wiser course of climbing down the ladder, bore the blame with my uncle for not restraining me more firmly. To this day, I maintain that he should have joined me, but he prefers to call it prudence rather than cowardice.”
Mr Darcy shook his head, saying lightly, “I call it common sense.”
Mr Bingley rose next. Taking the basket, he paused a moment in contemplation before selecting an ivory fan. Elizabeth instantly recognised it as belonging to Jane.
Turning to her sister with an easy smile, the gentleman declared, “This, I believe, must be Mrs Collins’s. It suits her perfectly—graceful and refined, like the lady herself. I recall she employed it earlier with such effect that it put the very breeze to shame.”
Across the table, Jane coloured delicately and offered a modest nod. Mr Bingley leaned forwards to return the fan before resuming his place and passing the hamper to Mr Collins.
Mr Collins stood, examining its contents with the solemnity of a man selecting scripture, then plucked a lace handkerchief from within and held it aloft with a self-satisfied air.
“This, I am persuaded, can belong to none but Miss Anne de Bourgh. The quality of the lace alone proclaims it, even before one observes the noble initials so delicately stitched in so becoming a colour. Initials which, of course, will soon be altered upon that most desirable event, now but five days hence! Such elegance speaks volumes as to the taste of the wearer. Though I have no doubt the article was chosen under the guidance of her excellent mother, whose discernment in all things is quite unrivalled.”