Elizabeth retrieved a grey woollen shawl from a peg by the door and threw it over Winslow’s stooped shoulders. She then fastened the ribbons of her own bonnet swiftly.
She pointed at the back door.
“Walk.”
Winslow stared straight ahead, unbothered by the command she had not heard.
Elizabeth sighed, took the woman by the elbow, and steered her out of the house like a poorly constructed wheelbarrow.
The mid-June morning greeted them clear and bright. The wind was not the biting gale of winter, but rather a crisp, salty breeze that tugged pleasantly at the hem of Elizabeth’s skirts. Brighton in the early hours was a fundamentally different creature than the one in the afternoon. Society had not yet awakened.
There were no brightly striped parasols blocking the view, no merchants shouting about ices. Most importantly, the townwas devoid of red coats. The militia was presumably still doing drills, or still asleep, dreaming of new ways to avoid paying their tailors.
The promenade stretched out before them, a sweeping curve of wooden planks beside the pebble beach. The sea rolled inward with a soothing crash, the water glittering under the morning sun. It was peaceful. It was beautiful.
Elizabeth hated it.
She walked at a punishing pace, forcing Winslow to execute a shuffling jog to keep up. She wanted to feel the ache in her limbs, the exertion to drown out the lingering echoes of Lady Metcalf’s opinions on roasting joints.
“I have failed.” Elizabeth announced her defeat to the empty promenade, fully aware that her only companion was deaf.
Winslow continued her shuffling trot, her gaze fixed securely on the planks under her feet.
“I knew exactly what he was.” Elizabeth continued her confession, her voice rising above the crash of the waves. “I had the undeniable truth handed to me in a letter. I knew his tactics, his character. And yet, I allowed him to corner her in an alcove while I discussed sheep.”
Elizabeth released Winslow’s elbow and stopped by the wrought-iron railing, staring out at the horizon. The elderly maid immediately ceased all forward motion, coming to a halt exactly where she was deposited, swaying slightly in the breeze.
Elizabeth gripped the cold metal of the railing. She had to devise a new strategy. She could not shadow Lydia at the assemblies; it was impossible. Wickham was too skilled at navigating crowded rooms, and Harriet Forster was workingagainst them by encouraging the flirtation. Elizabeth needed a way to block him. She needed a barricade.
She needed an ally.
The thought was intensely depressing. She had no allies in Sussex. Her father was in his library reading about dead philosophers. Her mother was mentally planning a double wedding. Jane was too far away and far too good to understand the malice of a man like George Wickham.
Elizabeth was alone on the battlefield.
She closed her eyes, letting the breeze wash over her face. She would have to be better, to sharpen her elbows, to be rude to dowagers. She would shadow her sister with the intensity of a hunting falcon.
Elizabeth opened her eyes and turned back to the promenade, prepared to march the entire length of the town and formulate a flawless plan.
Her grand, solitary resolve lasted exactly thirty seconds before it was thoroughly interrupted. Walking towards her, illuminated by the morning sun, were two men.
The first was Fitzwilliam Darcy, although he did not stroll; he marched. He traversed the length of the promenade with long, hurried strides. He looked as though he intended to purchase the English Channel and have it drained for being too loud. He wore an impeccably tailored coat that caught the breeze, and his expression was one of grim determination.
A single pace behind him walked the second man. He wore a sober grey coat and carried a brown paper parcel tucked neatly under one arm. He had a demeanour of such perfect neutrality that he made the wooden promenade look positively emotional by comparison.
Elizabeth’s grand plans dissolved into immediate panic. She was not prepared for a second meeting so soon. The stilted encounter by the mirror last night was still painfully fresh in her mind. She braced herself for another round of formality and dismissal of her gratitude.
Mr Darcy halted three feet away. He swept his tall hat from his head and executed a bow of such precision it could have been used to calibrate scientific instruments.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth sank into a deep curtsy, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the polished leather of his boots. “Mr Darcy. You are abroad very early.”
Mr Darcy held his hat firmly against his side. “The sea air is recommended for the constitution. I find the crowds in the afternoon to be decidedly detrimental to my patience.”
Elizabeth smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from the fabric of her glove. “Indeed. The crowds are quite overwhelming.”
The conversation perished. It lay on the ground dead and rapidly cooling. Elizabeth searched her mind for a witty remark, a clever observation about the seagulls, or even a basic inquiry about the weather. Her usually sharp tongue failed her. She was acutely aware of his eyes studying her face.
