Chapter 4 #3
When she looked up, Mr. Darcy was at the foot of the walk with Sir Harold, doing the work of a host, his face turned courteously to whatever the man was saying.
But he was not attending to the response. His eyes met Elizabeth’s, and he offered her the briefest, smallest of nods.
When Mr. Pelham had wandered to the water in search of the fishermen, Mr. Darcy appeared with one of the footmen.
He did not come to thank her, which would have undone all her good work. Instead, he came, bearing glasses of lemonade. Or rather, the footman bore the tray, and Mr. Darcy performed the far more hazardous office of taking glasses from it and distributing them.
He handed one first to Georgiana, and the other he held out to Elizabeth.
“Miss Bennet,” said he, “would you care for a drink?”
Their fingers brushed lightly as she accepted the glass. “I thank you, Mr. Darcy.” She was then obliged to inform her pulse that Mr. Darcy had only handed her a glass of lemonade—it had no right to beat as if he had led her breathless from the dance floor.
Oh, this would not do at all.
The footman supplied a third glass, which Mr. Darcy offered to her aunt, then another for Mrs. Annesley, delivered with all gentlemanly civility, and the whole transaction was completed.
Mr. Darcy remained only long enough to ask whether his sister was comfortable, receive from her a quiet assurance that she was, and glance once—only once—at Elizabeth’s untouched glass, perhaps concerned that something was wrong because she had not partaken.
Elizabeth took a sip. It was cold, sharp, and sweet, with just enough tartness to make her mouth water and just enough sugar to soften it.
There was the faintest taste of lemon peel, bright and clean upon her tongue, and the glass had been chilled so thoroughly that her fingers ached pleasantly against it. It was excellent lemonade.
Elizabeth opened her eyes without realising she had closed them, and it was with some vexation that she understood her countenance had not been under good regulation. She knew this, because Mr. Darcy smiled at her.
This was deeply unhelpful.
Mr. Darcy moved away, and Elizabeth’s gaze followed until it stopped to take in another guest. Miss Bingley had seemingly observed the whole exchange from where she stood with her sister and Mrs. Atherton.
Apparently, she did not appreciate Mr. Darcy crossing the grass with his footman and offering lemonade to Elizabeth Bennet in the same way he had attended Miss Darcy, for her lips were set in a frown and a faint rosy flush coloured her complexion.
Had Mr. Darcy presented Elizabeth with the Darcy family jewels, Miss Bingley could scarcely have appeared more injured.
When he was drawn off again to his other guests, Miss Bingley drifted nearer, armed with her parasol and, Elizabeth suspected, a quiver full of arrows meant to pierce.
Elizabeth excused herself from Miss Darcy and returned to her aunt.
Miss Darcy ought not be forced to witness what was likely to be an unpleasant scene.
Miss Bingley strolled over to join them. “I declare, Miss Eliza, you bear the sun admirably,” she said. “Your skin is only a little brown. Pemberley’s air agrees with you, perhaps?”
“I find very little to complain of,” Elizabeth answered.
Miss Bingley’s smile sharpened. “How fortunate you are to be so easily pleased. Most ladies require rather more than a glass of lemonade to be satisfied.”
Aunt Gardiner, beside her, lowered her glass by half an inch—only that—but Elizabeth knew the movement. Her aunt would not interfere, but would enter the fray if required.
“How exhausting for them,” said Elizabeth pleasantly.
Miss Bingley’s fan gave one indignant flick, and Elizabeth took another sip of her lemonade. Still excellent.
Miss Bingley recovered herself—she always did.
She came a half-step nearer and said, “I feel I ought to tell you, knowing him as I do, that Mr. Darcy is the most attentive host in all of England and goes precisely where his attention is most wanted. Whichever guest has the least claim upon the company may depend upon being singled out so that no one feels small. I have seen it a dozen times, Miss Eliza. It is one of the handsomest things about him.”
Across the lawn, Mr. Darcy had turned his head halfway back towards them. Elizabeth did not know if he had heard, but he did not seem pleased.
Miss Bingley saw it too. Her fan moved faster.
Beside her, Aunt Gardiner murmured, “Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?”
On Tuesday, Elizabeth might not have known how to answer.
She had admired Pemberley then, but admiration was a safe word for a grand house in which one did not belong.
She had been only a traveller, being guided through rooms where she had no business lingering and expecting at nearly every turn to be called out as an intruder.
But this was Friday. So much had happened these past days that Pemberley no longer felt like a place where she had trespassed.
It felt like a place that might suit her very well indeed.
“Yes,” she told her aunt. “I am.”