“Oh, I live there. Hamish’s—that is, Mr Connelly’s—mother and mine are sisters and were both widowed in the same year. We have all lived together at Delamont since. So yes, I have known the family for some time now. Mr Darcy was such a good friend to Hamish when my uncle died—his death was unexpected, and my cousin was woefully unprepared. Mr Darcy spent hours and hours showing him what to do with the estate. Hamish thinks the world of him. We both do.”
This was a report Elizabeth received with great satisfaction, and for more reasons than hearing yet another fine account of Mr Darcy’s character. That was, perhaps, the thing that surprised her the least, not because the testimony of a friend was not valuable, but because she was coming to expect that people who knew him would speak well of him. There was also some amusement to be had in seeing one of those acquaintances whose sensibilities Mr Darcy had been so averse to injuring by marrying her, now commendinghimtoher, for all the world as though to promote the match.
Most significantly, however, Elizabeth was delighted with Miss Reid herself. She was young, good-natured, and seemed as sensible as she was lively. Just the sort of person Elizabeth imagined would make a charming neighbour, should she one day find herself living in the vicinity—
She caught herself and felt her cheeks reddening again. It still felt outrageously presumptuous to think it, even privately. When Miss Darcy suggested that they all walk to the ridge to take in the view, Elizabeth was the first to leap to her feet to escape her embarrassment.
“Who fancies a game of Lead Balloons?” Mr Connelly said when they reached the vantage point.
“Oh, I have not played that since I was a girl!” cried Mrs Gardiner. To her husband and niece, she explained that the objective was for everyone to find the lightest object they could, and all drop them over the ridge at the same time, with one person stood on the ledge below to judge which landed last and declare the owner of it the winner. “The first item to land is the Lead Balloon, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Mr Gardiner echoed, smiling indulgently.
The whole party spent several minutes searching the hillside for suitable projectiles. A few lucky ones found feathers, others picked leaves, grass, and flowers; two ladies chose to sacrifice lace handkerchiefs, and Mr Pettigrew produced a piece of paper from somewhere on his person. Elizabeth took off her bonnet and began to unthread a ribbon from the trim, turning as she did to see what Mr Darcy would use. He was speaking to a footman who, as he listened to his master, broke into a broad grin, bobbed his head several times in apparent thanks, and took off down the escarpment. Mr Darcy then walked directly to a gorse bush tucked away in the nook of the rocky outcropping, from which he unsnagged a wad of sheep’s wool.
“You did not search very hard for that, sir,” Elizabeth called to him. “One might be forgiven for thinking you prepared for this game in advance.”
He looked up, and for a moment said nothing—only stared at her with an intensity that stilled her hands, stilled everything. Then he moved up the slope towards her, and the wind resumed; hastening clouds on their way and tousling her hair once more.
“I knew there would be wool somewhere,” he admitted. “One of my tenant farmers brings his sheep up here to graze.”
Elizabeth freed her ribbon and replaced her bonnet, asking as she retied the bow, “Might I enquire, if it is not too impertinent, what you said to your footman just now that made him so happy?”
It was evident the question took Mr Darcy aback, but he answered without objection. “I promised to double whatever the other gentlemen tipped him at the end of the day if he went down to the lower path to judge our game.”
“That was generous.”
“Adjudicating parlour games, albeit outdoor ones, does not fall within the usual remit of his duties. Besides, I am in an exceptionally good humour.”
It showed, Elizabeth thought approvingly.
They were called to attention, along with everyone else, by Mr Connelly, who seemed to have assumed the role of umpire. With several warnings to take care, for it was ten or twelve feet to the next ledge down, he bade them all line up along the ridge of the bluff with their arms outstretched and their objects at the ready. On three, they all let go, and within seconds, Miss Adams’s parasol—thrown by her brother—had been declared the first lead balloon. Lord Garroway was duly disqualified from the game. The other items were retrieved and re-thrown again and again; the competitors whittled down one at a time.
Elizabeth played along, hoping the chaos of her thoughts was not apparent. She kept thinking of Mr Darcy’s letter, in which he had laid out all his dealings with Mr Wickham and motivations for separating Jane and Mr Bingley. It had overturned her conviction that he lacked compassion and forced her to acknowledge his good intentions. Even so, it had not much improved her understanding of the man behind the words or induced any great desire to know him better. Its effect had rather been to shine a light on her own character, exposing all her own defects.
It was only now, as more and more facets of him were revealed to her, that the caricature of polite society into which she had turned Mr Darcy was falling away to reveal a man of exceptional depth. He had faults, yes—but he had that in common with the rest of the world. He also had friends, family, responsibilities, pleasures, and problems, just as every other person did. Indeed, his problems seemed greater than many people’s. The look on his face as he told her about Pemberley’s uncertain future had made Elizabeth’s heart heavy for him. The desire to comfort him in that moment had been overwhelming. To be the woman to whom Mr Darcy turned for comfort in every moment of need was a privilege Elizabeth suddenly wanted very, very much.
She could feel the pulse at the base of her throat and knew her heart was racing, but as for the other sensation, fluttering at the top of her stomach beneath her ribs, prickling at the edges of her mind—thatshe could not name. Though she could guess.
Her hand shook slightly as she held out her ribbon for the next round. When it was pronounced to be the next lead balloon, Mr Darcy asked if she would like to return to the picnic area for a drink. He watched her as they walked, obviously concerned, and Elizabeth was sorry her distraction had banished his earlier complacency, for it had looked well on him. That thought only rattled her more, however, and feeling as though she would burst if she did not speak, she stopped walking and blurted the first words that came to mind.
“I am sorry.”
“What for?”
“For what I said to you in Kent. For what I saidaboutyou in Hertfordshire. For the way I misjudged you. All of it. Everything.”
He said nothing, seemingly fixed in astonishment. Several others overtook them on the path in a dash. They called something as they passed, but Elizabeth did not hear what. Neither did Mr Darcy, judging by the intensity with which he continued to regard her. It endeared her to him further still and persuaded her not to wait for him to reply.
“I am heartily ashamed of what I said, and what I thought. I would have you know, I do not think it anymore.”
At last, he opened his mouth to reply but was distracted by one or two drops of water landing on his face. They both looked up, just as the heavens opened and let forth a deluge of rain; huge, fat drops that seemed wetter than water ought to be and filled the air with the smell and deafening patter of a summer squall. Elizabeth tucked her shoulders inwards as though they might fit under the rim of her bonnet. A cataclysmic roll of thunder made her shriek and drop her ribbon, then laugh as she bent to retrieve it. She quieted as something came to rest around her shoulders. When she straightened to her full height, Mr Darcy pulled the lapels of his coat closed under her chin.
She held her breath. His was such a presence!—his clenched hands resting, gentle but hot, on her collarbone, his beautiful face inches from hers, rain dripping from the curls plastered to his forehead, and his eyes as stormy as the sky. The air between them shifted, and for the space of one, shocking heartbeat, Elizabeth thought he would kiss her. Then his hand was at her back, and they were running together towards the carriages, joining in with everyone else as they tussled and harried each other out of the downpour.
The rain on the roof of the carriage was too loud for conversation on the way back to Lambton. Mrs Gardiner dozed lightly; Mr Gardiner squinted through the gloom at his book. Elizabeth watched the storm-capped hills roll past the window, feeling it was an unjustly dreary end to a momentous afternoon. Indeed, were it not for the fact that she was still wearing Mr Darcy’s coat, she might have thought she had imagined the most exhilarating few minutes of her life.
Quarter of an hour after arriving back at the inn, she would have done anything to return to dreariness. Instead, shock and dismay were her new attendants, along with something much more visceral that ached tangibly in her breast.
