Chapter Twenty The Lanterns of Vauxhall
ELIZABETH BENNET STOOD in the middle of her modest bedchamber in Gracechurch Street, staring at her reflection as if the woman in the mirror had personally betrayed her.
She was agonising over a silk shawl. A shawl.
Two hours of her life—two precious, irretrievable hours—had been sacrificed to the precise arrangement of an ivory fringe, all because Fitzwilliam Darcy, the former marble statue of Derbyshire, had somehow managed to become the centre of her universe.
If someone had told her six months ago that she would be preening like a debutante for the man who had once declared her “tolerable,” she would have laughed herself to tears.
Though right now, she wanted to cry because the shawl still looked wrong, and her heart was performing an undignified jig against her ribs.
“He is spoiling us, Lizzy,” Aunt Madeline observed from the doorway, fastening the clasp of her own velvet cloak.
“Vauxhall Gardens. A private supper box. The man is yanking stars out of the firmament and arranging them into a heart shape at your feet. This is not a casual evening stroll. This is a declaration, mark my words.”
“I am aware, Aunt,” Elizabeth muttered, tugging the fringe again. It still refused to drape with the dramatic elegance she aimed for. “Though I suspect he simply wishes to prove that his conversational skills have evolved beyond praising the sturdiness of my bonnets.”
Jane glided into the room like a vision in frosted pink silk, her golden hair catching the lamplight. She took one look at Elizabeth’s frantic adjustments and smiled that gentle, knowing smile that had always made Elizabeth feel both comforted and thoroughly stupid.
“Lord Keathley sent a note an hour ago,” Jane said, perching on the edge of the bed. “He claims he has commissioned a special dessert for the evening. Something involving excessive spun sugar and possibly a small fountain.”
“The viscount,” Elizabeth said dryly, finally abandoning the shawl to its rebellious fate, “is a walking confection. I half expect him to leave a trail of molasses and bad decisions wherever he steps. Though I suppose it is rather endearing how he trips over his own charm whenever you are near.”
Jane’s cheeks pinked, but her eyes sparkled with delight. “Be kind to him, Lizzy. He has only just recovered the power of speech. The poor man spent half of Astley’s looking as though he had swallowed a live eel.”
Elizabeth turned from the mirror, her teasing grin softening.
She crossed the room and took her sister’s hands, squeezing them.
“You deserve every ridiculous, spun-sugar-filled compliment he can muster, Jane. You deserve a man who looks at you like you hung the moon and then immediately forgets how to form sentences. After everything...”
Jane squeezed back, her voice soft but steady. “I am happy, Lizzy. Truly. And I am even happier for you. Mr Darcy looks at you like you are the only fixed point in his universe. It is rather beautiful to watch.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. Beautiful. Yes. That was the word. The man who had once been all proud disdain and disastrous letters had become someone who made her laugh until her sides hurt and her heart feel too large for her chest.
Aunt Madeline cleared her throat, her eyes suspiciously bright. “Enough sentiment before we ruin our complexions. The carriage is waiting, and if we are late, I suspect Mr Darcy will wear a groove in the gravel from pacing.”
The journey across the river was both endless and far too short.
Elizabeth’s gloved fingers twisted in her lap as the carriage rolled towards the famous pleasure gardens.
Music drifted through the night air—violins, laughter, the distant pop of fireworks.
Lanterns glowed like captured stars strung through the trees, turning the world into a magical realm.
When they finally arrived, the Fitzwilliam party was waiting.
Mr Darcy stood at the centre, devastating in deep navy, his cravat tied with geometric perfection.
The moment his eyes found hers, the austere lines of his face melted into that smile—the one that made her stomach flip as though she were a schoolgirl.
It was soft and wondering, as though he could not quite believe she had said yes to his courtship.
Beside him, Viscount Keathley stood deliberately windswept and elegant, though his usual grin faltered the instant Jane stepped down from the carriage. He bounded forward anyway, claiming her hand with a bow.
“You have arrived!” he exclaimed, his voice rich with relief. “I was beginning to fear the river had swallowed you, or that your coachman had taken a wrong turn into Surrey and you were lost forever among the cabbages.”
“We are quite safe, my lord,” Jane assured him, her smile dimpling. “Though I must say, the journey was rather long without your sparkling commentary on the weather.”
The viscount’s ears went pink. He opened his mouth, then thought better of it, and settled for pressing a reverent kiss to her gloved knuckles. “The weather was... adequate. You, however, are resplendent.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam barked a laugh. “Adequate? High praise indeed, brother. Next you will be writing odes to the lanterns and signing them ‘Yours, in moderate appreciation’.”
“Quiet, Richard, or I shall feed you to the swans,” his brother muttered, his eyes never leaving Jane.
Mr Darcy offered Elizabeth his arm, his voice dropping to that low, intimate rumble that never failed to make her pulse stutter. “Miss Elizabeth. You look... radiant.”
“And you, Mr Darcy,” she teased, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, “look as though you have spent the last hour rehearsing this exact compliment in front of a mirror.”
A faint flush crept up his neck, but his smile only widened, warm and self-deprecating. “Guilty. Robert threatened to make me practise on the footmen if I did not get it right.”
The group moved into the gardens as one loud, joyful procession.
The pathways were lined with grand supper boxes, sweeping colonnades, and throngs of London’s elite.
Lanterns glowed overhead, music swirled through the air, and the night was full of possibility.
Elizabeth leaned into Mr Darcy’s side, breathing in the scent of him.
Yet, barely ten minutes into their promenade, a bizarre phenomenon occurred.
“Mr Gardiner!” Colonel Fitzwilliam declared suddenly, clapping Elizabeth’s uncle on the shoulder.
“I have a pressing question regarding the shipping tolls along the Thames. A peer in the House of Lords challenged my knowledge, and I require an expert opinion to settle the wager. Walk with me to the riverbank.”
Before her poor uncle could formulate anything resembling a polite refusal, he was steered away down a diverging path like a sheep. The colonel gestured expansively at the water, marching the respectable merchant into the crowd with all the subtlety of a charging dragoon.
Elizabeth suppressed a giggle. Oh, dear Lord. They are trying.
“Mrs Gardiner,” Anne de Bourgh said, moving to her aunt’s side and slipping an arm through hers. “Georgiana and I heard a fascinating rumour that the orchestra here employs a harpist with only three fingers. We simply must investigate. Will you assist us in our search?”
“Oh, I should love to hear the harp,” Miss Darcy chimed in, her sweet voice brimming with rehearsed sincerity. The girl’s cheeks were pink with excitement, her shyness forgotten in the thrill of the conspiracy.
Mrs Gardiner cast an amused, suspicious glance at Elizabeth, one eyebrow arching in silent question. Are they always like this? it asked. Elizabeth managed a tiny, helpless shrug that said, Unfortunately, yes.
Her aunt allowed herself to be whisked away by the two young ladies, disappearing behind a row of sculpted hedges. She was resigned to her fate, because she was raising children and knew when resistance was futile.
This left the viscount, Jane, Mr Darcy, and Elizabeth standing near a statue of Neptune.
Lord Keathley adjusted his cuffs and cleared his throat, ready to deliver a soliloquy.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice dropping to a dramatic murmur that somehow still carried.
“There is a specific cascade of water near the South Walk. They say it defies natural law. It flows upwards. Or perhaps sideways. I cannot recall the exact physics of it, but it is an absolute marvel. We must inspect it immediately.”
Jane’s cheeks dimpled, her eyes sparkling with fond amusement. “Water flowing upwards, my lord? That sounds improbable.”
“I assure you, it is a scientific anomaly,” he insisted, offering his arm with a sweeping bow so wide it nearly knocked over a nearby potted fern. “Come. If it is a hoax, we shall demand our shillings back from the management. I shall be most stern.”
Jane took his arm, laughter already bubbling in her throat. “Then lead on, my lord. I would hate for you to be deprived of your shillings.”
They strolled away, their shared laughter trailing behind them, forming a sweet, mischievous melody. Elizabeth watched them go, mirth rising in her chest, and she had to press a gloved hand to her mouth.
She turned to the handsome gentleman beside her. They were now, quite improbably, isolated amidst the bustling, lantern-lit crowds of Vauxhall.
“Well,” she said, tilting her head with feigned solemnity, “that was the most absurd, poorly acted dispersal of chaperones I have ever witnessed. Your cousin practically carried my uncle away. I half expected him to sling him over one shoulder like a sack of grain.”
“Richard lacks subtlety,” Darcy admitted, a sheepish flush colouring his sharp cheekbones.
The colour made him appear almost boyish, and Elizabeth’s heart gave a traitorous little flutter.
“And Robert relies too much on fiction. Upward-flowing water? The man is a menace to logic and basic hydrology.”
“A coordinated arrangement, then?” she asked, stepping closer. Her pulse was a rapid, giddy drumbeat in her throat.