“Mama!” William popped his thumb from his mouth and offered it to her. He was clearly pleased with his own festival outfit—a new shirt and small waistcoat that Georgiana had commissioned from the village seamstress. His dark curls had been brushed into some semblance of order, though Elizabeth knew from experience that this state would not survive the first hour of festivities.
A knock at the door heralded Mary’s arrival. “Are you ready? Mr. Darcy is already in the great barn, overseeing the final arrangements.”
“We are,” Elizabeth replied, taking William’s hand. “Though I suspect our finery will not survive the day intact.”
Mary’s expression softened as she regarded her nephew. “Some experiences are worth a few muddy hems and grass stains. Father used to say that of you, you know.”
The casual mention of Mr. Bennet created a momentary pang. How long had it been since she had thought of Longbourn without bitterness? The wound of her family’s rejection had scarred over during these months at Bellfield, healed by the unexpected kindness of Lady Eleanor, Georgiana, and now Darcy himself.
Darcy. The memory of his lips on hers sent heat rising to hercheeks. What madness had possessed her to allow such liberties? What greater madness made her hope for more?
“You’re flushed,” Mary observed with characteristic directness. “Are you unwell? Or is it the prospect of Darcy choosing a partner to open the ceremonial dance?”
“Merely… anticipating the evening’s activities,” Elizabeth replied.
Heat flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks at the implication. Was her growing attachment to Darcy so obvious that even Mary had noticed? Had she become the sort of woman who wore her heart on her sleeve for all to observe?
Georgiana swept into the room, resplendent in blue silk that complemented her fair coloring admirably. Her eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement, and Elizabeth suspected the younger woman was anticipating developments far more interesting than rural festivities.
“Are we ready?” Georgiana asked, though her gaze lingered on Elizabeth’s appearance. “Fitzwilliam is pacing the barn like a caged lion, and the musicians have already begun tuning their instruments.”
The great barn at Bellfield Grange had been transformed into a rustic ballroom, lit by hundreds of candles and decorated with the fruits of the harvest season. Sheaves of wheat adorned the walls, while tables groaned under the weight of Mrs. Honywood’s culinary efforts. The air hummed with conversation and laughter as tenant families mingled with household guests, the formal barriers of daily life relaxed in honor of the ancient celebration.
Elizabeth paused in the doorway, William balanced on her hip as she absorbed the warmth and vitality of the scene before her. Here was community in its truest form—not the artificialconstruct of London society, but genuine fellowship born of shared labor and mutual dependence.
“Mrs. Darcy!” Graham Pullen’s voice carried across the crowded space. “How delighted we are to see you looking so well this evening. And young Master William appears quite ready for his first harvest festival.”
Elizabeth started at the form of address, her eyes instinctively seeking Darcy across the room. He stood near the musicians’ platform, deep in conversation with several tenant farmers, but his head turned at Graham’s words.
Their eyes met across the crowded barn, and Elizabeth felt the world narrow to that single point of connection. Darcy’s expression held warmth, possession, and something deeper that made her pulse race with dangerous anticipation. He had heard Graham’s form of address. He had not corrected it.
“Mr. Pullen,” she acknowledged with a small smile. “The barn looks magnificent. You’ve outdone yourself this year.”
“Tradition is tradition,” he replied with evident satisfaction. “Though having the master himself take an interest has certainly motivated everyone to their best efforts.”
“Mrs. Darcy,” Mr. Honywood appeared at her elbow, beaming with grandfatherly affection. “Might I be permitted to escort you to the place of honor? The tenants are eager to pay their respects before the festivities commence in earnest.”
William struggled to be freed from her, clearly impatient to explore the fascinating surroundings.
“I’ll watch him,” Mary said. “Come on, Nephew. Let’s find the honey cakes.”
“Stay with Aunt Mary,” Elizabeth reminded, but her eager son was already toddling toward Mrs. Honywood and her famous honey cakes.
Mr. Honywood offered his arm, and Elizabeth found herself swept forward through the crowd, accepting congratulations and well-wishes from people who had clearly decided she belonged atBellfield Grange as more than a temporary guest. Mrs. Penrose pressed her hand warmly, while young Thomas presented her with a carefully crafted corn dolly that he had fashioned specifically for “the mistress.”
“Such a beautiful family,” Mrs. Hartwell murmured as she watched William toddle between the gathered adults, collecting attention and small treats with equal enthusiasm. “Young Master William grows more like his father every day.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened at the innocent observation. If only Mrs. Hartwell knew how accurate her comment truly was. William did indeed grow more like Darcy with each passing month—not in resemblance alone, but in the serious cast of his expression when concentrating, the way he tilted his head when listening, the determined set of his small jaw when pursuing a goal.
Elizabeth found herself guided to a chair near the front of the gathering, William settled contentedly on her lap as the first notes of traditional harvest songs filled the air.
But it was Darcy who commanded her attention as he moved through the crowd, speaking to tenants with Graham at his side to remind him of names and positions. The tenants accepted that their master had suffered a severe injury, and all received him warmly.
When the musicians concluded their opening selections and the dancing was announced, a expectant hush fell over the assembled crowd. Georgiana appeared at her elbow, her expression full of mischievous delight. “Come with me, sister, to the selection circle.”
“Selection circle?” Elizabeth asked. “What precisely are you conscripting me into?”
“It’s tradition,” Georgiana explained, barely containing her excitement. “The Master of the Harvest Festival must select the prettiest unmarried lady present for the opening dance.”
