“I believe it is customary,” Elizabeth replied with a small smile, pouring herself some tea. “Guy Fawkes Dayisa national holiday.”
“Itshouldbe a dance, too,” Lydia said, twirling once. “With so many men in uniform, how can it not be?”
“I imagine the bonfire is the draw,” Elizabeth said dryly.
Kitty giggled and leaned closer to Jane, who sat demurely by the window, a mending basket untouched in herlap. “Will you kiss Mr. Bingley by firelight, Jane? You must! It would be soromantic.”
“Kitty!” Jane flushed and laughed, more embarrassed than truly offended. “Do be quiet.”
“Oh, let her dream,” Lydia said. “I shall kiss an officer if Jane will not grant her suitor the privilege. One with brown eyes. Or blue. I am not particular.”
Elizabeth shook her head fondly. Their merriment was infectious, and a balm against the chill that still lingered in her bones. “Do you recall the fireworks last year?” she asked, glancing at Lydia. “Papa hired that fellow from Meryton who nearly set his own coat alight.”
”Ilovedit!” Lydia said at once. “The explosions were the best part! I hope he brings the squibs again—the noisy ones that make Mama shriek.”
“Sir William Lucas is providing the effigy this year,” Kitty added. “I heard he has had it stuffed with straw and dressed in one of his old coats. Papa says it is to be the best one we have ever had.”
Elizabeth raised her brows. “Then poor Guy will meet a fitting end.”
“You will see,” Lydia said, eyes gleaming. “This year will be better than ever. The fire! The music! The company!”
Elizabeth nodded, though her thoughts drifted again—to the footprintson her rug, to the paper tucked into the drawer upstairs. The contrast between the festive excitement in the room and the silent dread that clung to her like smoke was sharp. But she would not let it ruin the day.
Never.
She sipped her tea, letting herself be drawn into the chatter. Today was Guy Fawkes Day. Bonfires would blaze across England, and for one night, even unease might be forgotten in light and sound and laughter.
The bonfire crackled and roared in the orchard behind Longbourn, casting long, quivering shadows across the assembled guests. Sparks leaped into the night sky, glowing briefly like stars before vanishing into the November darkness. Elizabeth tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her breath fogging in the chill air as laughter and shrieks of delight rang out around her.
Children dashed about with sparklers and squibs, while the older folk sipped warm cider and gathered in clusters to talk. The smell of burning wood, roasted chestnuts, and damp earth filled the air. An effigy of Guy Fawkes sat atopthe pyre—already engulfed in flames, its limbs curling and blackening in the firelight.
“Well, that is a bit dramatic,” murmured Elizabeth to Charlotte, who stood beside her.
“Only a bit?” Charlotte laughed. “My father insisted on giving a speech about the treasonous nature of the Plot and how the King was divinely spared.”
“I noticed. And yet he seemed disappointed that no one cheered at the mention of divine providence.”
Elizabeth’s smile faltered as she caught sight of Mr. Darcy standing near the edge of the gathering. He looked utterly out of place—tall and serious, his fine features lit by the dancing firelight, his coat immaculate even in the muddy orchard. He had arrived with Mr. Bingley not an hour before, and his presence had made her chest tighten in ways she would rather not acknowledge.
She turned back to the fire, determined to enjoy the night. But before long, a familiar voice sounded just behind her.
“Miss Bennet.”
She turned. “Mr. Darcy.”
They stood for a moment, the noise of the crowd around them seeming to fade.
“May I walk with you?” he asked, tilting his head towards the less-crowded edge of the orchard.
“Certainly.”
They walked in silence at first, away from the fire’s warmth and into the cool shadow of the trees, the flickering light chasing after them through the branches. Elizabeth tucked a loose curl behind her ear, unsure whether she was more vexed by his nearness or her own reaction to it.
“You have quite the gathering here,” Darcy said at last.
“We always do something for the Fifth,” she replied. “Though my mother insists it is far too much fuss for so little reason.”
“And do you agree with her?”
