Chapter 5
Darcy had been at the far side of the lawn when Miss Bingley crossed to Miss Elizabeth and her aunt. The breeze carried him none of their exchange until the very end. How exhausting for them. Miss Elizabeth’s voice had been unbothered and unhurried, the voice of a woman declining to be wounded.
Miss Bingley’s fan had stopped, then resumed a little too fast, which put Darcy on his guard.
Miss Bingley was not a stupid woman, but she was so certain of her superiority that she never knew when to let something go.
She would now recalculate and try again to insult Miss Elizabeth, and he had little doubt that she would again be bested and thus again be vexed.
Darcy had watched as Lady Carstairs greeted Georgiana with the whole warmth of her considerable heart.
So many faces, familiar and new, had turned to his sister all at once.
Georgiana, who had assured him when they had first discussed the picnic that she was equal to the challenge, had gone white and still.
He had been at the foot of the walk with Sir Harold, near enough to see her distress but too far away to reach her.
Before he could signal Richard, Miss Elizabeth had risen smoothly, said something he could not hear, and carried Georgiana off as easily as if the two of them were friends of long standing. By the time they returned, Georgiana was again composed.
It had cost him not to seek his sister out afterward, to make certain she was well. But doing so would have only called attention to Georgiana’s lapse, and so he had stood still and simply been grateful for Miss Elizabeth’s intercession.
He wondered, idly, what it might be like if Georgiana had a sister like Miss Elizabeth. A sister who, with quick perception and a kind heart, could smooth over the difficult parts of such gatherings until Georgiana could manage them on her own.
Not a sister like Miss Elizabeth, some inconvenient honesty amended. Miss Elizabeth herself.
He had given her the smallest nod. It was all he had trusted himself to do.
Luncheon had been laid half an hour ago, and the party had surrendered to that indolent state in which everyone has eaten too much and yet might still be persuaded to eat more.
They had distributed themselves along the rugs beneath the oaks.
Bingley was at Darcy’s elbow, giving a spirited account of last autumn’s hunting, including a fence, a ditch, and a horse that had refused to jump it.
Darcy gave the story all the attention it deserved, which was to say he heard perhaps one word in five.
Miss Elizabeth was seated a little way off between her aunt and Miss Pelham.
That was the difficulty. The picnic had been a good idea, but now he had too many guests to take care of and not enough time with the guest he most wished to see.
Mrs. Gardiner was smiling. Miss Elizabeth was saying something that made Miss Pelham laugh into her lemonade, and Darcy, who had once believed himself a man of excellent self-command, found he very much wished to know what it was.
He did not look at her. Not directly. He had learned in the saloon yesterday, and again that morning, that his attention, once fixed, became disgracefully obvious.
So he set his gaze with great seriousness at the grass beside her, the oak above her head, Mrs. Gardiner’s bonnet, and once, in a moment of real desperation, at a beetle making its determined way over the edge of the rug.
By one, the day had settled into a treacherous sort of perfection.
The Atherton children had been placed at the edge of the trees, safely between nursemaid, workbox, and water.
Henry Atherton watched the branches and played with his toy soldiers.
His sister Sarah consulted her doll on what sounded to be complicated but private matters.
Miss Elizabeth rose from the rugs to greet the children. Whatever Miss Sarah Atherton said to her required the doll to be produced and held up for judgement, and Miss Elizabeth examined it as gravely as the office demanded before returning a verdict that left the child beaming.
Young Henry was less easily satisfied. He left his soldiers long enough to lay before her the particulars of a battle—a great one, by the sweep of his arm—and she crouched to hear the whole of it, nodding when a commanding officer would wish to be nodded at, until some remark of hers surprised a laugh out of him.
Then she rose and went on, and the children returned to their play.
Darcy watched her cross the back to her aunt and could not pretend, even to himself, that it was the children who held his attention.
Mr. Gardiner had returned to the lower bend after eating, giving no sign of recollecting that the rest of the world existed.
Mr. Atherton had joined him on the principle that two rods were more companionable than one.
Hurst had carried a glass of wine to the shade of an oak some distance from his wife and was now sleeping.
Even Mr. Pelham, who did not fish, had drifted to the bank to watch those who did, though now it appeared he was drifting back.
Richard, rather than fishing, had taken up the task of distracting Lady Carstairs from Georgiana.
“Lady Carstairs,” he said, approaching with a wooden quoit in hand, “I am told you possess deadly accuracy.”
The lady in question, who had been advancing upon Georgiana with renewed benevolence, stopped to address him. “Do I?”
“With quoits, that is. Bingley there says no gentleman present ought to feel safe.”
Bingley was clearly astonished at this declaration, but neither Lady Carstairs nor Richard was paying the slightest attention to him.
“Nonsense,” said Lady Carstairs, but her eyes had gone to the peg.
Richard lowered his voice. “Then I suppose your reputation must be exaggerated.”
Lady Carstairs narrowed her eyes and held out her hand. “Give me the quoit, Colonel.”
“I warn you, madam, I have survived cannon fire.”
“Then I am certain you shall survive being defeated by a grandmother.” She weighed the quoit once in her hand, adjusted her stance, and sent it clean over the peg.
Miss Atherton exclaimed loudly. Young Henry shouted for another throw. Lady Carstairs gazed at Richard over the top of her spectacles, bright-eyed and satisfied.
“Cannon fire, was it?”
Richard bowed. “A lesser peril, clearly.”
Within minutes, Mr. Pelham had been recalled, teams had formed, rules were disputed, and Lady Carstairs had taken command of the field.
She instructed the children and allowed them to stand closer, corrected Bingley’s elbow, accused the rector of obstructing her line of sight, and informed Richard that confidence was not the same as aim.
Miss Elizabeth’s toss dropped wide.
Lady Carstairs looked at the abandoned ring, then at Elizabeth. “No, no, Miss Bennet. That will never do. Darcy, my dear, do come here and make yourself useful.”
Miss Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder, eyes alive with mischief. “I assure you, Lady Carstairs, I am perfectly capable of losing without assistance.”
“But you must learn to win,” said Lady Carstairs firmly. “When I am not competing, of course. Darcy?”
There was no escaping it, not that he truly wished to. He took the iron quoit Miss Elizabeth offered him, their fingers brushing as he did so.
A small thing. Nothing at all, and yet his breath caught. “If you will permit me,” he said, grateful his voice did not betray him more fully.
She lifted her hand. “By all means, sir. Improve me.”
The words, the smile, the arch of her brow, everything about her destroyed his peace of mind.
Darcy stepped behind her, close enough to see the warm pink colour in her cheeks, close enough that the faintest movement brought his sleeve against hers.
He adjusted the angle of her wrist and felt the pulse there leap beneath the edge of her glove.
“The trick,” he managed, “is not to force it.”
“No?” she said.
“No. A steady hand is required.”
His hand covered hers for one brief demonstration. He meant only to guide the motion. He meant only to release at the proper moment. But for one foolish, impossible instant, he forgot the quoit, the field, the spectators, and every claim to sense.
The ring flew from their joined hands in a clean arc and settled neatly over the peg.
The children cheered. Bingley applauded.
“Well done, Miss Bennet! Darcy really is an excellent instructor.”
Lady Carstairs agreed cheerfully, accepting their success as confirmation of her superior management.
Darcy heard none of it clearly.
Miss Elizabeth’s hand had fallen from his, but she had not stepped away. Neither had he. Her smile had altered—only slightly, enough that he could not be certain anyone else would see it—and her breathing was as uneven as his own.
Then Richard coughed and lifted his eyebrows, all wounded virtue. Beyond him, Mrs. Gardiner had observed them both with a softened, thoughtful gaze before turning tactfully towards the children.
Darcy stepped back. Too late, he suspected.
“Another round?” Richard asked, clapping his hands together.
Lady Carstairs took up the next quoit, failing entirely to conceal her delight. “Certainly, Colonel. You must improve somehow.”
“Yes, well, perhaps Darcy can teach me.” Richard lifted his brows before turning back to the game. “Come, Lady Carstairs, I submit myself again to your superior command. Bingley, attend me. I require a witness.”
This was enough to draw the party’s attention back towards the game. Bingley laughed. Lady Carstairs gaily declared that witnesses would not help him, for they were all, other than the children, quite without hope. The children giggled and called out their agreements.
Darcy used the commotion to recover his composure, though recovery was too dignified a word for what he managed. Miss Elizabeth, with a glance that very nearly undid him again, returned to Mrs. Gardiner’s side, and Darcy forced himself to look away.