Elizabeth blinked.
“I think we have her blessing,” Mrs. Gardiner said under her breath. “In the name of charity, of course.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth echoed, heart racing.
“Twenty-three shillings!” called the man in puce.
Elizabeth stepped forward. “Two pounds!”
The crowd quieted.
Someone coughed. Someone else gasped. A gentleman near the lemonade table chuckled beneath his breath. Even the parasols seemed to wilt in surprise.
Elizabeth lifted her chin and smiled.
The announcer blinked, then leaned over for someone to whisper into his ear—her name, probably. “Two pounds, bid by Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn,” he repeated, clearly uncertain whether he was naming a respectable bidder or an oncoming storm. “Going once... twice...”
“Two pounds, five!” came a shrill voice from the front. Lady Millett. Her lace gloves trembled with indignation.
Elizabeth’s smile did not falter. “Three.”
A few heads turned. The murmuring began in earnest.
Lady Millett narrowed her eyes. “Three and ten.”
“Four pounds,” Elizabeth said sweetly, without turning her head.
Mary made a strangled noise beside her. Jane, eyes wide, whispered, “Lizzy—”
“Four and ten!” Lady Millett snapped.
Elizabeth glanced at Mrs. Gardiner. “Are we nearly tapped?”
Her aunt pursed her lips. “We are not yet paupers.”
Another voice joined in—one of the Millett nieces, high and breathless. “Five pounds!”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Five and ten.”
There was a collective intake of breath. The puce-waistcoated announcer swayed slightly. Mr. Darcy had not moved a muscle, but one could sense his blood slowly turning to lava.
Mrs. Gardiner leaned closer, glancing once—only once—toward the edge of the lawn where the dowager countess stood beneath a striped parasol.
The dowager smiled.
Mrs. Gardiner gave the faintest of nods.
Elizabeth did not hesitate. “Six pounds.”
The Milletts whispered furiously.
“Six pounds, five!” cried one.
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Seven.”
A pause.
The crowd fell quiet. Somewhere, a fork clattered to the ground.
