“I am struggling with this interpretation of virtue,” he lied. “The author posits that true virtue is achieved through the total suppression of emotion. Yet, I find this contradicts the... the passionate nature of a country dance. How, Miss Lydia, do you reconcile the philosophy of the ancients with the modern necessity of a lively cotillion?”
Miss Lydia stared at the page. Then at him. She blinked three times in rapid succession. “I... I am sure I do not know about the ancients, Mr Darcy. But a cotillion is vital. One cannot possibly suppress their emotions when the musicians play a lively reel. It would be rude to the fiddler.”
“A brilliant deduction,” Darcy replied, his voice maintaining its solemn resonance. He took a half-step sideways, effectively forcing his broad shoulders between Miss Lydia and the bewildered George Wickham. “You argue that social duty supersedes philosophy. A revolutionary stance. Tell me more of your theories about the fiddler.”
Wickham attempted to step around Darcy’s imposing frame. “Darcy, surely Miss Lydia does not wish to be burdened with—”
“I am not burdened at all!” Miss Lydia interrupted, leaning closer to Darcy and cutting Wickham off, basking in the undivided attention of a wealthy gentleman. “I believe that if one does not dance, one might as well stay at home and knit. And knitting is for old maids. Do you not agree, Mr Darcy?”
“Absolutely,” Darcy agreed, angling his back more to Wickham. “And what of the partners? Does the choice of a partner affect the... vigorousness of the dance?”
Before Miss Lydia could launch into her detailed opinions on partners and their dancing abilities, a distressed wail echoed from another counter. Mrs Forster, her face flushed with panic, descended on their small group like a frantic, muslin-draped bird.
“Lydia!” Mrs Forster cried, clutching her empty hands to her chest. “It is a catastrophe! I have lost the yellow ribbon! The one with the velvet edging! I set it down to examine a copy of anew romance, and it has vanished into thin air! We must search the floor!”
“Oh, Harriet, you are always losing things!” Miss Lydia sighed, though she eagerly abandoned the philosophy of the cotillion to address the crisis. “We shall never find it in this crowd.”
“We must try!” Mrs Forster insisted, dropping to her knees in the middle of the library and peering under the shelves.
Wickham, seeing his opportunity to regain control of the situation, stepped forward with gallantry. “Allow me to assist you, Mrs Forster. A gentleman’s eyes are keen.”
“You shall require a lantern, Wickham. The dust under these shelves is formidable,” a booming voice announced.
Richard strode into their circle, clutching a small square of numbered cardboard in his fist. He ignored Wickham, turning a bright smile on Miss Lydia.
“Who is this charming lady, Cousin?”
Darcy performed the introduction to a delighted Miss Lydia.
“Miss Lydia, enchanté! You must settle a dispute!” he declared, waving the cardboard. “The lady operating the raffle for the silver tea service claims the drawing shall not occur until next Tuesday. I argue that next Tuesday is too far away, and my tea needs new saucers today. Do you believe I should launch a formal protest?”
Miss Lydia clapped her hands together, pleased by the Colonel’s boisterous energy. “You absolutely must, Colonel! A protest sounds wonderfully exciting! Shall you draw your sword?”
“If it is necessary to secure the teapot, I am prepared to engage in a minor skirmish.” Richard grinned, neatly positioning himself on the opposite side of Miss Lydia, shouldering Wickhamout of the conversation.
The circle was now a fortress of absurdity. Mrs Forster was crawling on the floorboards, searching for her ribbon. Colonel Fitzwilliam was loudly debating the tactical merits of seizing a silver tea service by force. Darcy stood tall and immovable, still holding the volume of Latin in his hand.
And George Wickham was pushed to the extreme periphery, his charming smile replaced by a tight, rigid line of frustration. He attempted to catch Miss Lydia’s eye, but she was too busy laughing at the Colonel’s theatrical threats. He attempted to speak to Mrs Forster, but she merely swatted blindly at his boots from under the shelves. He was neutralised by a coordinated assault of nonsense.
Darcy allowed a slow, deep breath to fill his lungs. He did not look at Wickham’s defeated posture. Instead, he raised his eyes and searched for the poetry section.
Miss Elizabeth was still standing exactly where he had last seen her, watching the spectacle and pressing her hand tightly over her mouth to suppress her laughter. Their eyes met across the sea of bonnets and novels.
Her eyes shone with triumphant affirmation. They had executed their first manoeuvre flawlessly. The villain was thwarted, the damsel was secure, and they had done it without breaking a single rule of polite society.
Darcy allowed the very corner of his mouth to lift into a smirk. He inclined his head, a silent salute to his partner in crime, before returning his attention to the youngest Miss Bennet and the revolutionary philosophy of the fiddler.
Chapter Seven: A Pebble Makes a Difference
The pebble beach of Brighton was not designed for the comfort of a lady’s thin walking slippers. It was a shifting expanse of smooth grey stones, unforgiving to a delicate ankle. Yet, Elizabeth Bennet stood her ground near the edge of the shoreline, her parasol angled sharply against the morning sun, determined to appear as though she were thoroughly enjoying the bracing sea air.
In truth, she was attempting to distract herself from the horrific spectacle unfolding twenty feet into the English Channel.
Mrs Harriet Forster, draped in a voluminous bathing gown that immediately grew heavy with saltwater, was at the mercy of Martha Gunn. The legendary Queen of the Dippers was an imposing, apple-cheeked woman of great strength who clearly had no sympathy for the fragile nerves of the aristocracy.
“I cannot breathe!” Mrs Forster shrieked, thrashing wildly as the cold waves lapped at her waist. “Martha, I assure you, my constitution is restored! I need the dry land!”
“You are to take three dips, Madam,” Martha replied dryly and braced herself, as if she were about to haul a sack of flour. “We have only managed one. Prepareyourself.”
