However, Wickham was a man who survived by avoiding complications.
“I have always found philosophy a heavy subject for a seaside morning.” He took a deliberate step back and turned his brilliant smile to the yellow and blue parasols. “Miss Lydia, I could not help but notice your gaze lingering on the milliner’s window across the promenade.”
Lydia trembled with excitement.
“Oh, the ribbons!” She clapped her hands. “There is a bolt of the most magnificent cherry-red velvet. I was just telling Harriet that I must have it for my new bonnet.”
“Then you must allow me to escort you.” Wickham offered one arm to Lydia and the other to Mrs Forster. “A lady should never face a milliner without the assistance of a gentleman to carry her parcels.”
Mrs Forster giggled and took his left arm. Lydia sighed dramatically and took his right.
“Are you coming, Lizzy?” Lydia glanced back over her shoulder.
Elizabeth looked at the man standing between her sister and her hostess as if he were a snake in a tailored red coat.
“I believe I shall remain here for a moment.” She pointed her parasol to a wooden bench facing the sea. “I wish to enjoy the view. Do not linger too long in the shop.”
“We shall be ages!” Lydia called out.
Wickham did not look back. He escorted his two eager companions across the bustling promenade, his head bending low to catch whatever frivolous nonsense Mrs Forster was uttering.
Elizabeth walked to the wooden bench and sat down, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. Lydia was among people and safe for the moment, but chaperoning her was going to require constant attention. Protecting her against George Wickham was going to require a miracle.
She stared at the English Channel, at the waves crashing indifferently against the shingle beach. She found the noise soothing. It was certainly preferable to the shrill laughter of Harriet Forster or the smooth, calculated pleasantries of George Wickham.
She had survived exactly fifteen minutes of Brighton society. It felt like an eternity. But she could not sit on the wooden bench forever. Her duty as a chaperone demanded action, regardless of how thoroughly she wished to avoid the objects of her supervision.
Elizabeth stood. She arranged her shawl over her arms and turned away from the sea, fully intending to march across the promenade and insert herself between Lydia and the milliner’s window.
She took one step and halted abruptly.
The universe, she decided in that precise moment, had a truly malicious sense of humour. It was not cruel, merelyingeniously vindictive.
Because there, standing not ten paces away on the crowded pavement, out of place amidst the seaside revellers, was Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, accompanied by his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Elizabeth smoothed her hands over her skirt, her brain attempting to locate a single, coherent sentence.
How do you do, Mr Darcy, thank you for saving my sister’s heart, please do not notice that my other sister is being charmed by your sworn enemy as we speak.
No. That would not do.
Good morning, Sir, what a delightful coincidence to meet the man whose proposal I brutally rejected a mere month ago, whilst standing in a town overrun by the militia you expressly warned me against.
That was worse.
She stood on the pavement, her parasol gripped tightly in her right hand.
Mr Darcy appeared equally paralysed. He wore a blue coat that must have been suffocating in the June heat, though he did not appear to perspire. He stared at her. His eyes were wide, registering a level of shock that mirrored her own internal turmoil. The sea breeze ruffled his meticulously arranged hair. He looked magnificent and baffled.
The silence between them stretched. It became an awkward palpable force, pressing down on the crowded promenade. Passersby flowed around them like water around two immovable stones.
Darcy opened his mouth but no sound emerged.
Elizabeth attempted a reassuring smile. It likely resembled a grimace.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped effortlessly into the void.
The Colonel had the extraordinary ability to navigate social disasters with cheerful confidence; he was, after all, accustomed to enemy fire. He observed his cousin’s transformation into a statue and Elizabeth’s wide-eyed panic. A slow, delighted grin spread across his face.
