Darcy surveyed the bustling street with a practiced eye. The draper’s shop lay just ahead, its windows filled with bolts of fabric in muted winter tones. To the left, the butcher’s had hung garlands of holly, though Darcy doubted it was enough to hide the shop’s distinct, earthy smell.
“Well,” Darcy said, “let us get to it. No sense in wasting time.”
The trio strode toward the draper’s shop, Bingley leading the way. He pushed the door open with gusto, setting the little bell above it jingling. Inside, a middle-aged woman behind the counter blinked in surprise as they entered.
“Good day, madam!” Bingley began. “We are in need of two dozen… no, make that three dozen table linens. Finest quality, naturally. And do not skimp on the measurements—every table at Netherfield’s ballroom must be dressed to perfection.”
The woman’s eyes widened at the mention of Netherfield. “The ballroom, sir?”
“Yes!” Bingley exclaimed, spreading his arms. “For the Christmas party, of course. You have heard, have you not?”
Darcy edged his shoulder in before the poor woman fainted. “Not three doezen. We shall require cloths for no fewer than twenty-eight long tables, as well as napkins and perhaps a bolt or two for other embellishments.”
The woman gaped. “Twenty-eight tables?”
“More, if we find the guest list grows,” Bingley added with a grin. “And the flowers—oh, Darcy, we must speak to the florist about those orchids from London.”
“Right,” Darcy replied. “Roberts?”
Roberts stepped forward, handing the list to Darcy. “Here are the quantities we discussed, sir.”.
Darcy reviewed the list briefly before addressing the shopkeeper. “These measurements have been confirmed. We will need enough to accommodate the specified arrangements.”
The woman behind the counter nodded, though her gaze flickered momentarily to Roberts’s empty sleeve. Her hesitation was brief, but Bingley filled the gap effortlessly.
“Excellent work as always, Roberts,” he said with an easy smile. “I daresay you have kept us all in line this morning.”
Roberts inclined his head slightly, stepping back to let the gentlemen complete their order. The shopkeeper’s demeanor softened when Bingley drew out his coin purse to make a deposit on the order, and she quickly began jotting down their request.
“Er… will there be anything else, gentlemen?”
“Not yet,” Darcy said. “We shall send word if we require anything further.”
The butcher’s bell gavea sharp clang as they entered, the warm, savory scent of cured meats filling the air. A rotund man with a ruddy complexion greeted them with a nod, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his eyes flickering over them with interest. “What can I do for you?”
“We require roast beef,” Bingley announced with a grin, “and plenty of it. Enough for… oh, let us say a hundred fifty guests?”
The butcher stared. “A hundred fifty?”
“No, no, at least two hundred. Perhaps more,” Darcy added. “The guest list is still being finalized.”
“And,” Bingley continued, leaning slightly over the counter, “poultry. Ducks, perhaps. Or game hens. Roberts, what do you think?”
“Game hens would be a fine choice, sir,” Roberts replied. “They roast evenly and present well.”
The butcher’s gaze shifted to Roberts, lingering for a moment on his empty sleeve. “Er… indeed. And will this be for the party at Netherfield, sir?”
“Precisely,” Darcy said, his tone brooking no argument. “You have heard of it?”
“Well, there’s been talk, certainly,” the butcher said hesitantly. “Though I must admit, I hadn’t expected…”
“Expected what?” Bingley interjected, all innocence. “That the finest butcher in Meryton would not be involved? Impossible. Your reputation precedes you, sir.”
The man flushed slightly under Bingley’s praise. “Well, if you insist, sir.”
“Good,” Darcy said crisply. “We shall expect delivery next week. Roberts will coordinate the details. And, ah… you will come, of course?”
