“‘A lady in red should be wary near candlelight. Flames are easily offended by competition.’”
Polite laughter. Two women immediately stopped fanning themselves and glanced toward the fireplace.
“Mrs. Hartley!” someone called.
“I wish I were that bold,” she said cheerfully.
“Another,” Lady Chiswell said, already reaching. “This one was unsigned—but no handwriting shall be revealed, I promise.”
Elizabeth gripped the edge of the plant stand.
Mrs. Gardiner patted her elbow. “Breathe.”
“Memo: On the precise ways one might vanish entirely without alarming one's relatives, alerting the neighbors, or attracting further satire. Possibly: fake death via sleigh accident, flee to Scotland, become governess. Optional: eye patch.”
Elizabeth’s heart thudded to a stop.
The room erupted in laughter. A smatter of applause. Chuckles behind handkerchiefs. Someone near the pianoforte choked on their syllabub.
Lady Chiswell, laughing herself now, pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, splendid! Listen to this—there is more!”
“‘To Whom It May Concern (which is no one, and let us not pretend otherwise):
I have escaped London with all the elegance of a clumsy footnote. The satire has grown teeth, the gossip a pension. I am now more infamous than fashionable and less amusing than convenient.
I plan to marry a snowdrift. It is cool, silent, and unlikely to demand explanations.
Kindly forward any inquiries to the hedge on the west lawn. He listens, but never interrupts.’”
This time, the laughter surged louder. Actual applause. Several guests turned to each other in delighted confusion.
“I say, who wrote that?”
“No one in our parish is that clever.”
“It must be Lady Theale—she fancies herself an authoress.”
“Nonsense! That sounds like a woman who has lived.”
Elizabeth’s legs locked in place.
And then— A familiar voice, amused and calm, from the rear corner:
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
The air snapped.
Laughter faded. Fans paused mid-flutter. Heads turned like sunflowers to the west. “Who?” seemed to be the question on everyone’s tongue, followed immediately by, “It is Darcy! Darcy said that!”
Even Lady Chiswell straightened with interest. “Mr. Darcy! I had no idea you were here. Come forward, sir.”
A rustle of surprise swept the room as people pivoted to glimpse the man who had spoken.
Elizabeth ducked behind the ficus and, for one wild second, sincerely considered diving beneath the nearest tablecloth.
Too late.
Too many eyes had turned. Too many mouths whispered. Her name now hung in the air like perfume—recognized, repeated, rippling through the room.
