“It was nothing, Madam,” the Colonel replied, offering her a charming smile while still holding her firmly in his arms. “I cannot abide the thought of a lovely lady being trampled by an aggressive animal. Are you injured?”
In the background, the donkey finally exhausted its burst of energy and ground to a sudden halt, nearly launching Lydia over its ears. The junior officers rushed to surround her, offering a chorus of apologies and attempting to untangle her skirts.
Elizabeth watched the scene unfold with unblinking astonishment. It had worked. It had worked flawlessly. Wickham was sitting in a pile of seaweed, his red coat ruined, spitting sand from his mouth. Miss Smythe was captivated by her heroic rescuer, the dashing Colonel Fitzwilliam. They had drawn the teeth from the beast.
A sudden, jarring collision forced Elizabeth to step backward. The panicked crowd, still shifting away from the disturbance, pressed inward. She stumbled on the loose stones, losing her footing.
Before she could fall, Mr Darcy moved. He dropped his walking stick and caught her, his hands gripping her upper arms to steady her. The force of the movement pulled her directly against his chest.
Elizabeth gasped, looking up. His face was mere inches from her own. She could feel the rapid thud of his heart against her hands, which had instinctively flown up to grasp the lapels of his grey coat.
“Are you injured?” Mr Darcy’s voice was hoarse, the amusement stripped away, replaced by a fierce panic.
“No,” Elizabeth breathed, her fingers tightening unconsciously on his fine wool coat. “No, I am well. Thank you.”
He did not release her. They stood locked together amidst the pandemonium of the Brighton beach, the wind whipping her skirts against his legs. The strict rules of propriety demanded she step away immediately, apologise, and retreat behind her parasol.
Elizabeth Bennet did not move a single inch. She stared into Mr Darcy’s intense eyes, and the final, crumbling walls of her prejudice shattered. She remained anchored in the circle of his arms, her breath catching painfully in her throat. The sudden clarity of her own heart was disorienting.
She loved him.
The shock of the revelation must have shown on her face, for Mr Darcy’s brow furrowed in deep concern. His grip on her arms loosened, his thumbs brushing lightly against the fabric of her pelisse.
“Miss Elizabeth?” he murmured, his voice gentle. “You are pale. Are you well?”
The sound of her name broke the spell. The rules of propriety crashed back down on her shoulders. She was standing in the middle of a public beach, firmly grasped by an unmarried gentleman. It was an appalling breach of decorum.
“I... I am perfectly well, truly,” she stammered, forcing herself to step backward. The loss of his warmth was unpleasant. She smoothed the front of herpelisse with trembling hands, unable to meet his eyes. “I was startled momentarily. I thank you for your assistance, Mr Darcy.”
“It was my pleasure.” He took a respectful step away, retrieving his discarded walking stick.
Elizabeth turned her back to the sea, desperately searching for a distraction to conceal the confusing state of her emotions. Fortunately, Brighton offered an endless supply of distractions.
“My sister,” Elizabeth said. “I must attend to Lydia.”
She picked her way rapidly across the uneven stones, leaving Mr Darcy to follow at a more dignified pace. The junior officers surrounded Lydia, who was no longer mounted on the beast. She was slumped against the shoulder of Ensign Miller, sobbing with a theatrical intensity that suggested she had survived a major shipwreck rather than a brief trot down the shoreline.
“It was a crazy donkey!” Lydia wailed, burying her face into the young officer’s red coat, ruining the pristine wool with her tears. “It was mad! It attempted to murder me! I saw the malice in its eyes!”
“There, there, Miss Bennet,” Ensign Miller soothed, awkwardly patting her bonnet. “The beast is secured. You are safe now.”
“I shall never ride again!” Lydia declared, lifting her head to ensure she had a sufficient audience. “My nerves are shattered! I require smelling salts and a dark room!”
Elizabeth arrived and assessed the situation with swift, sisterly pragmatism. Lydia was uninjured, her bonnet was intact, and she was thoroughly enjoying the undivided attention of three young men.
George Wickham, however, was conspicuously absent from the circle of consolers.
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted further down the beach. Wickham was retreating with an uncharacteristically hunched posture, not looking back. His dignity was utterly destroyed, and his secondary scheme had been gallantly escorted away by Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Lydia, you must compose yourself,” Elizabeth instructed, stepping in and gently pulling her sister away from Ensign Miller’s soaked shoulder. “You are causing a spectacle. We must gather Mrs Forster and return to the lodgings at once.”
“I cannot walk!” Lydia protested, leaning on Elizabeth. “My legs have turned to jelly!”
“Then you shall have to crawl,” Elizabeth replied, her patience wearing thin. “Come along.”
Elizabeth gave one last nod to Mr Darcy, who was watching from further aside. He nodded back.
Securing Mrs Forster proved to be an equally dramatic endeavour. They found the Colonel’s wife shivering on the lower steps of the bathing machine, wrapped in a coarse woollen blanket. Martha Gunn stood over her, hands planted firmly on her hips, looking as though she were prepared to throw the woman back into the Channel if she complained one more time.
