“Should I not be? I still cannot believe my ‘guardian’ thought this at all a reasonable idea. Should I not be hiding here at Longbourn while we wait to see if that decoy letter has fooled anyone about my whereabouts?”
“Unfortunately, my dear ‘niece,’ I am afraid that would only cause more talk, for Mr. Collins would find it irregular enough to make a comment or three, do you not agree?”
She grimaced and nodded. Not only Mr. Collins, but Mrs. Bennet and Lydia would express their disappointment over her absence rather vocally as well.
“And it would be inadvisable for you to be here alone, so naturally you must have a capable ‘bodyguard.’ If it were observed—as it would be, of course—that Mr. Darcy is similarly absent from the festivities, we would have a different sort of scandal on our hands. So, you see, there is some safety in numbers.”
“There is ‘safety’ in company that does not gossip,” she muttered.
He patted her hand. “I used to entertain that fantasy myself, until I learned its futility. It will pass, my dear. Just keep walking and do not answer any questions you do not like. It is what I have done these past twenty years.”
A footman opened the front door, and the breeze caught Mrs. Bennet’s voice mid-command. “Girls! Into the carriages now—unless you mean to miss every eligible gentleman within thirty miles!”
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, stood stiffly by the door with his hat clutched to his chest and a grim sort of anticipation gleaming in his eyes.
“Mr. Bennet,” he announced, “as your guest and as a devoted servant of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I believe it is most proper that I should escort your eldest daughter in the first carriage. Miss Bennet, if you please—”
But before Jane could formulate a reply—whether courteous or otherwise—the clatter of hooves on gravel interrupted them.
A chestnut gelding crested the drive. Mr. Bingley, beaming and windblown, doffed his hat.
“Good morning, Longbourn!” he called. “Have I missed the parade?”
Mrs. Bennet clutched her shawl in delight. “Mr. Bingley! Oh, what a joy—you must ride beside us to the green! Such a gallant escort! Jane, Lizzy, and… oh, I suppose Mary, you shall ride in this carriage so that Mr. Bingley may ride beside us.”
Mr. Bennet gave a soft grunt of amusement. “Timely, that one,” he murmured to Elizabeth.
Mr. Collins blinked rapidly and took a step back, clearly flustered. “Well… I… I suppose—though—I had intended—that is, it would have been—”
Mr. Bennet, without blinking, said, “I suppose that leaves us in the second carriage, Mr. Collins. Kitty, Lydia, you as well.”
Mr. Collins opened and closed his mouth like a startled fish.
Bingley dismounted to aid in assisting the ladies into the carriage. “My sisters are still dressing, and Mr. Hurst volunteered to accompany them. I thought I might ride ahead and offer my services.”
“Consider yourself most welcome, sir,” gushed Mrs. Bennet as she patted his shoulder when he helped her inside. And Elizabeth had to suppress a giggle when she turned to Jane and, in a rather loud-ish “whisper,” bubbled something about feeling no padding under the gentleman’s coat.
Mr. Bingley only blushed at her remarks and leaned a little closer to Elizabeth as he offered to hand her in. “Darcy will be arriving separately, but rest assured, he intends to remain… vigilant.”
Elizabeth blinked, then nodded once. “Of course. I would have expected nothing less.”
Bingley smiled. “Shall we, then?”
And with that, the door of the carriage closed, and the slow descent into the lion’s den began.
Darcystoodjustbeyondthe main green, half-shielded by the edge of a vendor’s canopy, trying to look disinterested. A boy darted past him with a fistful of barley-sugar sticks, nearly colliding with his boots, and Darcy took a slow breath.
There she was.
Elizabeth moved through the crowd like she had always belonged to it—ducking between flower stalls and ducking again as Kitty tossed a loose shuttlecock that nearly hit her bonnet. She laughed, quick and bright, and reached to return it, her grip steady, her back straight. Darcy watched the motion—a flick of her wrist, a shift in her weight as she sent the bird whirling upward again. It arced too wide for Lydia to catch.
The Bennet girls shouted at their friends—the Lucas girl and someone named Mary King. Scattered, regrouped, and set for play again.
That was when Elizabeth’s gaze cut toward the crowd, scanning.
And then—she stopped.
When she saw him.
