He got his feet again, and for a moment, he seemed to be doing tolerably well. Better than tolerably, in fact. It was Mr. Bingley who looked like the clumsy one as Mr. Darcy glided circles around his friend. Now, how did that man go from bumbling worse than Mr. Collins one minute and looking as though he could give a lecture on skating technique the next? But as he rounded the top of his circle, his eyes strayed to me, and all his grace evaporated.
Without warning, Mr. Darcy suddenly lurched forward as though he’d been shoved from behind, his arms flailing wildly. He muttered something under his breath—something about someone being drawn and quartered, it sounded like. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was muttering atme—or to someone no one else could see. Indeed, that notion sounded crazy, but it was less crazy than certain alternative explanations.
“Is he… quite all right?” Charlotte asked, watching Darcy’s odd movements.
I shrugged. “Who can say? Mr. Darcy’s been acting strangely for weeks. This might just be the grand finale. Charlotte, do you suppose a mad man’s brain actually explodes before he perishes of his insanity?”
“Oh, Lizzy, stop it.” Before I could stop her, Charlotte waved at him. “Mr. Darcy! Care to join us?”
He managed to throw a tight smile our way, but before he could respond, he stumbled again, his skates slipping out from under him. I winced as he nearly collided with a tree. He might have managed to stop himself, but his eyes widened as though someone had done something—something only he could see.
“Well, I’ve never seen him quite like this,” Charlotte said, frowning.
I bit my lip, trying to stifle a laugh. “You haven’t been paying attention.”
Darcy somehow managed to wobble his way toward us, his expression a strange mix of determination and dread, his eyes darting about as though he was expecting something—or someone—to jump out at him.
“Miss Bennet,” he gasped, tipping his hat and inclining from the waist. There, see? A man truly as clumsy as he had looked a moment ago would have fallen when he tried to bow to a lady. “And Miss Lucas,” he continued. “Lovely day for skating, isn’t it?”
Charlotte blinked. “If you say so.”
I couldn’t resist. “Mr. Darcy, you appear somewhat winded. I quite understand, sir. After dancing all night, and then rousing for a bracing afternoon on the skating pond, anyone would be fatigued and… stiff. Perhaps you should rest.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes flashed. “I am perfectly well, thank you.”
“Well,” I said, turning slightly so Charlotte wouldn’t see the smirk tugging at my lips, “if you’re certain, Mr. Darcy. But I must say, I am impressed with your stamina. That was a remarkable performance just now.”
He looked as though he was about to respond when he suddenly jumped again as if someone had pinched him—or worse. His face flushed, and he muttered something unintelligible, his eyes darting around wildly. He glanced behindhim, then back at me, clearly struggling to maintain his composure.
“Perhaps I should… excuse myself,” he said, his voice strained. Without another word, he turned abruptly and skated off—if you could call it that—his movements looking more like marching steps than fluid glides.
Charlotte glanced at me, her expression mirroring my own confusion. “Well, that was… odd.”
“Odddoesn’t even begin to cover it,” I muttered.
Seventeen
Darcy
Istrode into thebookshop, head down, hoping the wind from the door might blow me out the way I’d come. How had it come to this? Walking into Meryton—a town I had no love for, on a fool’s errand to track down books that wouldn’t be of any use if they ever arrived. But I had to try something. At least it gave me an excuse to leave Bingley and his endless prattling about Miss Bennet.
“Mr. Darcy, sir. Good afternoon!”
I grimaced. Old Mr. Stone, the bookseller, popped out from behind a towering stack of books like a rabbit from its hole. He peered at me with watery eyes, the smile of someone who’d been in business a bit too long.
“Do you have word from London?” I asked, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. Desperation was for people who still believed in miracles. At this point, I’d settle for a decent suggestion on how to rid myself of a drunken ghost.
The old man blinked at me, shuffling toward his counter. “Not quite yet, sir, not quite. They did say the shipment was delayed—something about a miscommunication with the delivery. But rest assured, Mr. Darcy, the books you’ve requested should be here in about a fortnight.”
A fortnight. Fantastic. I’d be lucky if I still had my sanity by then. “I cannot wait a fortnight. I need them as soon as possible.”
The old man gave me a strange look as if my life didn’t depend on a few worn-out pages of Highland superstitions. Which it did. “Well, sir, did you ever ask Mr. Bennet? They say his library is one of the largest in the area. Might be something there on… er, unusual subjects.”
Bennet. I swallowed. That was the last thing I needed. To owe him something. And worse, to have any reason to go to Longbourn, where his daughter—the one who already thought me mad—could eye me with the baleful cynicism of a judge at the Old Bailey. The mere thought of entering that house made me itch.
I opened my mouth to decline politely when the bell over the door rang behind me, and in walked the very person I had been trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid for weeks. The one person who, regardless of my efforts, seemed privy to all my most embarrassing moments, courtesy of one Ewan McLean.
Elizabeth Bennet.
