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“A man must make alliances where he can when he is confined to a wheeled contraption.” Uncle Edward offered a piece of beef to Diana, who swallowed it whole without chewing.

Elizabeth leaned forward, her eyes scanning the lined ranks of footmen standing at attention. “Speaking of alliances, Mr Darcy. I notice a lack of chaotic energy among your staff this evening. What fate has befallen the unfortunate Bates?”

Miss Darcy ducked her head, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Mr Darcy took a sip of his wine, setting the crystal glass down with meticulous care. “Bates is undertaking a rigorous course of instruction, Miss Elizabeth. I have placed him under Fletcher’s personal supervision.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened in genuine horror. “You have surrendered that poor, bumbling boy to the mercies of your immaculate valet? That is not instruction, sir. That is torture.”

“It is a necessary crucible.” Mr Darcy’s lips twitched, fighting a losing battle against a smile. “Fletcher is determined to mould him into the finest footman in Derbyshire. He informed me before dinner that the process will be arduous, painful for all involved, and it will likely cost the estate a small fortune, but he will not accept defeat. They were last seen in the servants’ hall, practising the art of walking in a straight line without colliding with the furniture.”

Laughter erupted around the table, warm and unrestrained. Elizabeth caught Mr Darcy’s eye, sharing a moment of uncomplicated amusement. The lack of animosity between them was foreign, yet undeniably wonderful.

When the final course of sweetmeats and fruits was cleared, the party retired to the music room. The space was dominated by a grand pianoforte, its polished wood gleaming beneath the light of a crystal chandelier.

Miss Darcy shrank back, her earlier confidence evaporating at the sight of the instrument. “I... I fear I am out of practice this evening. My fingers are terribly stiff.”

Mr Darcy looked at his sister, a flash of concern crossing his features, but he did not press her.

“I should be delighted to play, if the company can tolerate a lack of virtuosity.” Aunt Madeline moved forward, gracefully removing her gloves. “I play purely for my own amusement, but I know several lively country dances that might aid our digestion.”

She took her seat at the bench, adjusting her skirts. She was correct in her self-assessment; she lacked the technical brilliance and furious speed of Mary Bennet or the precision of Caroline Bingley. But she played with feeling, and a joyful rhythm filled the room with warmth.

Elizabeth swelled with pride. Her aunt did not cower or apologise for her lack of formal training. She played with confidence, unbothered by the grand surroundings or the wealth of their host.

Miss Darcy gravitated towards Elizabeth, abandoning her safe corner. “She plays beautifully, Miss Elizabeth. There is such... Such joy in the music. I always focus so much on the notes, I forget to enjoy the melody.”

“You must play for us before we leave Pemberley, Miss Darcy.” Elizabeth smiled, linking her arm casually through Miss Darcy’s. “But only when you are comfortable. We are a captive audience, after all. Uncle Edward cannot outrun you in that chair.”

Miss Darcy giggled, leaning against Elizabeth’s shoulder. The touch was hesitant, a fragile, testing movement that Elizabeth welcomed with a gentle squeeze of her arm.

The evening eventually drew to a close, the fatigue of travel and the shock of the accident catching up with the Gardiners.

Elizabeth and Miss Darcy departed the music room together, their arms still linked, whispering quietly about the merits of various country dances as they ascended the staircase.

Elizabeth paused at the landing, peering down.

Mr Darcy had grasped the handles of the antique Bath chair. He leaned his weight into the contraption, propelling Uncle Edward forward to the ground-floor guest suite. The chair squeaked in protest, a metallic whine echoing through the cavernous hall.

Uncle Edward braced both hands on the armrests. “Steady on, sir! We approach a rather vicious Persian rug!”

“Have no fear, Mr Gardiner.” Mr Darcy picked up speed, his long legs eating up the distance, a grin illuminating his face. “I navigated Fletcher around a Grecian urn. We shall easily conquer a mere rug. Prepare for impact!”

Elizabeth watched them disappear down the passage, the sound of Uncle Edward’s booming laughter and the squeal of the iron wheels fading into the distance. She turned and continued up the stairs, an undeniable warmth blossoming in her chest.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was arrogant, proud, and he had ruined her sister’s happiness.

But as she walked the halls of his home, listening to the sound of his laughter, Elizabeth realised that the man she had loathed for almost a year was rapidly becoming someone she could not wait to see again tomorrow.

Chapter Six: Botanical Catastrophes and Baritone Frogs

Darcy glanced at the window to ascertain if it was going to be one of the clear Derbyshire summer days. He stood before the standing mirror while his valet adjusted the folds of his snowy cravat.

Fletcher gave the linen a final tug, stepping back to inspect his handiwork, his expression one of long-suffering martyrdom.

“I have instructed him in the art of walking in a straight line, sir.” Fletcher picked up a silver-backed brush, attacking a non-existent speck of lint on Darcy’s morning coat. “It proved difficult. The boy possesses an innate, almost magnetic attraction to furniture. He managed to trip over a footstool that was perfectly visible and situated by the wall.”

Darcy fought an inappropriate surge of amusement. “Is the house structurally sound this morning, Fletcher?”