“A tragedy indeed, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, his voice trembling with laughter. He stepped closer, shielding her kneeling form from the casual observation of the swarming crowds. “Allow me to offer my deepest sympathies for your footwear.”
Elizabeth found a round, smooth stone that had a satisfying weight. She closed her fingers around it and stood, discreetly concealing her ammunition within the folds of her pale green skirt.
“I have resolved the issue,” she declared, glancing back at the upper edge of the beach.
The stage was rapidly assembling itself. Lydia had successfully bullied the gruff local man into allowing her to mount the largest, most irascible-looking donkey in the string. She was perched side-saddle, laughing hysterically while Ensigns Vickers, Burton, and Miller attempted to untangle the lead rope, while Winslow watched uninterested from afar.
Approaching from the opposite direction, picking his way carefully across the stones to preserve the immaculate polish of his Hessians, was George Wickham. He walked beside Miss Penelope Smythe, his head bent to hers in an attitude of devotion. Miss Smythe, clutching a volume of poetry to her chest, was mesmerised.
“They are fifty feet away and closing,” Elizabeth murmured, her grip tightening on the stone. “However, I face a tactical dilemma. I have the ammunition, but my throwing arm is notoriously inaccurate. I once attempted to throw an apple to Jane across the parlour and shattered a very expensive porcelain shepherdess instead.”
Mr Darcy extended his right hand, his glove resting palm upward. “I have participated in numerous cricket matches at Cambridge, Miss Elizabeth. My aim is considered exceptional. Hand me the pebble.”
Elizabeth looked at his outstretched hand, then up at his face. The Master of Pemberley was offering to assault a seaside donkey on her behalf. The absurdity of it nearly caused her to drop her parasol. She transferred the stone from her hand to his, and their fingers brushed briefly, a fleeting contact that did odd things to her heartbeat.
“We need a rescue party,” Mr Darcy said, weighing the pebble in his palm. “If the beast bolts, Wickham will attempt a heroic rescue to cement Miss Smythe’s affections. We must ensure someone else plays the hero.”
“I am available for heroic deeds, provided they do not involve entering the water!” a loud, boisterous voice declared from directly behind them.
Elizabeth turned to see Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam navigating the pebbles with the swift strides of a seasoned soldier. He was grinning broadly, fully intending to amuse himself.
“Richard. Miss Elizabeth and I are orchestrating a minor stampede. Miss Penelope Smythe is approaching from the east escorted by Wickham. We need you to intercept her.”
The Colonel did not ask for clarification. He surveyed the beach, located Miss Smythe and Wickham, and then spotted the donkey bearing the weight of Lydia Bennet. A look of supreme, joyous comprehension illuminated his features.
“A runaway beast. A damsel in distress. I am your man, Cousin.” The Colonel offered Elizabeth an exaggerated salute. “I shall sweep in like a knight of old. Wish me luck, Miss Elizabeth. I go to face the wrath of the Brighton donkey.”
The Colonel marched away, taking a wide, looping path to position himself slightly behind Miss Smythe.
Elizabeth watched him go and turned back to Mr Darcy. “He did not even question the madness of the plan.”
“My cousin thrives on mayhem,” he replied, and adjusted his stance on the stones, angling his body slightly to obscure his right arm from the surrounding crowds. “Are you prepared, Miss Elizabeth?”
“I am,” she whispered, her heart hammering frantically.
Mr Darcy waited a second. Wickham and Miss Smythe were now a mere twenty feet from the milling group of officers surrounding Lydia. Wickham raised a hand, gesturing at the sea, likely delivering a heavily plagiarised line of poetry about the eternal nature of the tides.
Mr Darcy flicked his wrist.
It was a movement of effortless precision. The smooth stone sailed through the salty air in a perfect, invisible arc. It struck the donkey squarely on its rounded hindquarters.
The effect was instantaneous and spectacular.
The donkey, insulted by this unprovoked assault, let out a sound that was a cross between a shriek and a bray. It threw its head into the air, yanking the lead rope from Ensign Burton’s grasp. Then, with a surprising burst of speed for an animal famous for its lethargy, it bolted forward.
“Help!” Lydia screamed, dropping her parasol and clinging desperately to the donkey’s coarse mane as the beast charged directly down the shoreline.
The crowd of promenaders scattered like frightened chickens.
George Wickham, interrupted mid-poem by the approach of a runaway beast and a screaming girl, demonstrated his true character. He did not attempt a heroic rescue nor did he shield his companion. Faced with a hundred pounds of panicked livestock bearing down on him, he yelped, abandoned Miss Smythe, and threw himself sideways, landing face-first in a large, gelatinous pile of wet seaweed left behind by the receding tide.
Miss Smythe froze, staring in terror at the approaching donkey.
“Have no fear, Madam!” Colonel Fitzwilliam roared, emerging from the crowd.
He lunged forward, wrapping one strong arm around Miss Smythe’s waist, sweeping her off her feet and pulling her safely to the side just as the donkey galloped past them, kicking up a shower of wet pebbles.
“Oh!” Miss Smythe gasped, clinging to the Colonel’s broad shoulders, her bonnet knocked askew. “You saved me, Sir! You saved my life!”
