Within the hour, they were settled in the carriage for the short journey to Lambton, Ambrose practically vibrating with excitement between them. His enthusiasm proved infectious, and even Mr Darcy’s usually reserved demeanour seemed to warm under the influence of the boy’s anticipation.
The village square had been transformed for the occasion. Colourful bunting stretched between the buildings, while wooden stalls offered everything from fresh-baked pies to handcrafted toys. The air hummed with laughter and conversation as families moved between the various attractions, children darting between their parents’ legs with sticky fingers and bright smiles.
“Look, Papa!” Ambrose exclaimed, tugging at Darcy’s sleeve. “There are puppet shows and ring toss and—oh! May we try the apple bobbing?”
“Perhaps we might sample some of the local delicacies first,” Elizabeth suggested diplomatically, noting several stalls offering tempting displays of festival fare. “I am particularly curious about those meat pasties Mrs Henderson mentioned.”
Their progress through the festival proved leisurely, as they were frequently stopped by villagers eager to greet them. Elizabeth noted with growing pleasure how welcoming everyone seemed, their manner suggesting real affection rather than mere deference to rank.
“Mr and Mrs Darcy!” called Mr Swanson, the village blacksmith, approaching with a broad smile. “Such a pleasure to see you at our little celebration. And Master Ambrose—my word, how you’ve grown!”
“We would not miss such an occasion,” Mr Darcy replied. “The preparations are most impressive. The entire village should be commended for such organisation.”
“Aye, well, we wanted to put on a proper show. ‘Tis good to see Pemberley folk mingling with us common sorts,” the man said with a wink that suggested no offence was intended or taken. “Your lady wife here has been such a blessing to our community. Always time for a kind word, always ready to lend a hand where needed.”
Elizabeth felt warmth flood her cheeks at the praise, while Mr Darcy’s expression carried something that might have been pride. “Mrs Darcy has indeed made herself indispensable to our local community,” he replied. “I confess I am learning much from her example about true neighbourly spirit.”
The compliment, delivered with such sincerity before witnesses, made Elizabeth’s pulse quicken unexpectedly. She had grown accustomed to his formal courtesy, but this public acknowledgement of her contributions felt significantly more meaningful.
As the afternoon progressed, they sampled local specialities—rich pasties filled with seasoned beef and vegetables, sweet cakes studded with dried fruit, and fresh cider that made Ambrose wrinkle his nose comically at its tartness. They watched puppet shows that delighted the boy, attempted ring toss with varying degrees of success, and applauded enthusiastically as local musicians performed traditional country dances.
“Papa and Mama, may we try dancing?” Ambrose asked hopefully as couples formed sets in the square’s centre. “Mrs Patterson said even children may join if they know the steps.”
Elizabeth glanced at her husband uncertainly. Public dancing at a village festival was hardly the sort of refined entertainment typical of their social sphere, yet the idea held unexpected appeal.
“I’ll admit I know very few country dances,” she said. “Our assemblies in Hertfordshire favoured more formal arrangements.”
“Then we shall all learn together,” he surprised her by saying. “Mrs Henderson, might you demonstrate the basic figures for us novices?”
Mrs Henderson, the vicar’s wife, beamed at the request. “Oh, Mr Darcy, how delightful! ‘Tis a simple enough pattern—we’ll start with ‘The Harvester’s Reel’. Master Ambrose, you stand here beside your mama, and Mr Darcy, if you would take your place opposite…”
The next hour passed in delightful confusion as they attempted to master the intricate steps of traditional country dances. The music, provided by a fiddle, flute, and drum, had a lively tempo that seemed to mock their uncertain footwork. Elizabeth discovered that country dancing required far more athleticism than the sedate minuets and cotillions of polite society.
“Skip to the right, then back, then forward with your partner—no, Mrs Darcy, the other right!” called out Mr Thomson, the village schoolmaster, who had appointed himself their instructor. His good-natured corrections drew chuckles from the growing circle of spectators.
Ambrose proved surprisingly adept despite his height disadvantage, his natural grace compensating for his short legs. “Look, Mama!” he called during a particularly energetic passage. “I’m a spinning top!”
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 naturalathleticism 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.”
