Lifting the glass for a long swallow of amber liquid, George stared into the ether. Then his head lolled toward me on the chair back, and he loosed a gusting sigh that transitioned seamlessly into laughter.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam. You should have seen Belmont’s face when I made my offer over the brandy. He very nearly choked. I made him repeat it twice to be perfectly clear I had not misunderstood.” He took another generous gulp. “We are officially betrothed, Lucilla and I. Engaged to be married!”
The floorboards seemed unsteady beneath my boots. I sank into a facing chair, my mind grappling for rational words. “He... consented? So easily? I cannot believe it!”
George chuckled into his glass. “Nor I at first. But you were right—happy chance indeed smiled on my courtship. Lucilla is to be my bride, come Michaelmas.”
I studied his profile, waiting for the crack that would betray this as an elaborate hoax. But his features remained curiously earnest despite the celebratory spirits. My pulse jumped erratically, and I rose to splash more whiskey into my glass.
Questions crowded my tongue. How ever would George support a highborn wife in the style to which she was accustomed? What prospects did a second son have of maintaining her interest once passion cooled? But not tonight—this night belonged to my brother and his improbable triumph against fate.
I raised my glass toward him. “To your felicity, brother. I wish you both lasting joy.”
He grinned lopsidedly. “When shall I be able to return the favor?”
I shook my head and drained my glass. “With you out of my hair, perhaps I will give the matter some consideration. But let me see you settled first.”
Elizabeth
“Isimplydonotunderstand what has come over him,” I muttered, securing the ribbon around Mrs. Westing’s list of household needs. “All these years, Uncle Gardiner has supported my questions about the past. Why the sudden insistence on secrecy?”
Jane eyed me sideways, her gentle face creased in a thoughtful frown as we made our way into Lambton. “Perhaps there are private reasons it would distress him to share. Likely for your own protection.”
I kicked a loose stone on the road, watching it skitter into the dusty grass. “But I am no helpless child in need of ‘protecting’ from the truth! What harm can simply knowing why I was sent away do?”
“Oh, Lizzy.” Jane looped her arm through mine consolingly. “I am certain it is all meant kindly, even if the method frustrates. We must trust it is better to respect their wisdom. See how happy you have been as part of our family!”
I stared down the bustling high street, Halstead the butcher’s familiar painted shingle just visible around a curve in the road. Jane’s sweet placidity, however sincere, never fully aligned with my restless spirit that endlessly questioned and challenged and sought truth—even uncomfortable truth. But I swallowed back further argument for her sake. What point to keep battering at her unruffled calm?
“You may be right,” I conceded with a rueful half-smile. “And here we are at our first stop already. Let us see if Mr. Halstead can furnish all Mrs. Westing requires to keep up her strength.”
Soon, we were making our way back out, laden parcels filling our baskets—ham and sausages wrapped in brown paper, ready to grace the Westing’s humble table. Lost in Mrs. Westing’s list for the bakers, I did not notice why Jane stopped suddenly, and I did not look up when she stumbled on the uneven pavement until a dismayed voice cried, “Miss! Take care!”
I looked up, startled. Jane teetered unsteadily and then crashed to her hands and knees with a cry, her packages spilling across the dirty road. A handsome gentleman leapt down from a polished chestnut horse just in time to catch her elbow as she struggled back to her feet.
“Oh heavens, you are injured!”
Jane attempted to smooth her skirts with one hand while the other gingerly probed a ragged tear across her knee, already welling crimson. She looked fit to sink into the pavement under his solicitous attention even as she protested being perfectly well.
Dropping the packages, I stepped nearer, prepared to excuse us if the impetuous young man meant to take further liberties. But in my haste, I stumbled against the horse he had left untended in the road. The beast whinnied and shied, yanking the reins from my hand even as I grasped for them.
“No! Here, now!” My desperate grab missed. The last thing we needed was to be saddled with damages from a runaway nag. I hitched up my skirts, prepared to give chase into the busy street after the creature.
But quick as thought, a commanding voice rang out, “Jupiter! Stand, sir!” Large hands closed calmly over the dancing reins just before the horse bolted. My steps faltered as a tall gentleman turned toward me, touching the brim of his hat courteously. “Pardon me, Miss. Is your… friend…?”
I froze, words dying on my tongue. No verbal response was necessary—the instant our eyes connected held all the recognition needed. Fitzwilliam Darcy went still as stone before me. Seven years had only added definition to his angles and planes, lending gravity to features I knew better than my own.
A crease pinched his brow, and he opened his mouth. “Liz—”
“Fitz! There you are! Blast, I thought I would never catch you up.” A second gentleman trotted up, pulling his steed alongside the first with a reckless grin I could never fail to recognize. Everything inside me turned to water as I beheld that beloved face once more. “Making the acquaintance of local beauties without me? For sha—”
George Darcy’s teasing address slammed to a halt mid-word. He stared down at me for a single uncomprehending moment. Then, in the next breath, his stunned features transformed with dawning wonder. “Lizzy?”
Tears blurred my vision at the achingly poignant address. George slid carelessly from the saddle without breaking our locked gaze. I forgot Fitzwilliam, Jane, the bustling street—my very breath hung suspended as George moved one slow step nearer with a hand half outstretched...
Ten
Darcy
