"You are hard on them," Mrs Gardiner observed, steering them around a puddle. "Mr Darcy was difficult, I admit. From your letters, he sounds quite dreadful. But are you certain Mr Bingley is not merely detained by business?"
"For a month? With no word? While his sister writes poison?" Elizabeth shook her head. "No, Aunt. He has been persuaded away. He has allowed his sisters and his friend to think for him. It is the only explanation that does not involve him being kidnapped by pirates, and I suspect pirates would have returned him by now for being too agreeable."
They turned onto Piccadilly. The crowds here were thicker, a mix of frantic Christmas shoppers, street vendors selling roasted chestnuts, and carriages vying for space on the cobblestones. The noise was overwhelming, a cacophony of wheels, hooves, and shouting voices.
Elizabeth felt a headache beginning to bloom behind her eyes. She wanted to scream. She wanted to march into the exclusive clubs of St. James's, find CharlesBingley, and shake him until his teeth rattled. She wanted to find Fitzwilliam Darcy and... well, she wasn't sure what she wanted to do to him, but it involved a great deal of shouting and stepping on his immaculately polished boots.
"Jane looks pale," she whispered to her aunt.
"She is tired," Mrs Gardiner agreed. "We should find somewhere to rest soon. Or somewhere quieter."
"Hatchards," Elizabeth said suddenly, spotting the green frontage of the famous bookstore ahead. "Let us go there. It will be warm, it will smell of paper, and there are no ribbons to remind us of who we are not dancing with."
Jane smiled, a small, grateful thing. "A bookstore sounds lovely, Lizzy. You always find peace among books."
"I find peace in worlds where people make sense," Elizabeth muttered. "Reality is proving to be poorly written."
They navigated towards the shop. The pavement was crowded, forcing them to break their line. Mrs Gardiner stepped ahead, Jane fell back slightly, and Elizabeth took the rear guard, glaring at a gentleman who looked like he was about to shove past them.
"Just a little further," Elizabeth called to Jane. "Then we can hide behind a stack of encyclopaedias and pretend the rest of London does not exist."
It was a solid plan. It was a sensible plan.
Naturally, the universe—which had clearly taken a personal vendetta against the Bennet family this winter—decided to intervene.
The pavement outside Hatchards was a chaotic ecosystem of its own. Gentlemen stood in clusters smoking cigars, ladiesadjusted their parcels, and street urchins darted between legs like minnows.
Just as the Bennet party approached the entrance, the door of the shop swung open, and a group of young men spilled out. They were clearly of the "more money than sense" variety—young lords in high collars and loud waistcoats, laughing uproariously at some private joke. They occupied the pavement with the arrogance of those who have never had to step aside for anyone in their lives.
"Mind your backs!" one of them shouted, shoving another playfully.
Jane, who was closest to the door, reacted with instinctive politeness. She stepped back to give them room, moving backward without looking.
"Jane, watch out!" Elizabeth called, but her warning was swallowed by the noise of a passing carriage.
Jane took another step back, her heel catching on an uneven cobblestone. She stumbled, her arms flailing for purchase on air. She was falling, spinning slightly, heading straight for a group of people who had just exited the shop and were standing by the window.
Elizabeth lunged forward, but she was too far away. She watched in slow motion as her sister, the most graceful woman in Hertfordshire, plummeted backward.
But she did not hit the ground.
Instead, she collided with a solid, broadcloth-clad wall.
There was a muffled "Oof!" of surprise, and then a pair of strong arms came around Jane, steadying her, holding her upright with remarkable reflexspeed.
"Steady on!" a male voice laughed—a rich, warm sound that cut through the street noise. "I know I am irresistible, madam, but usually ladies wait for an introduction before throwing themselves at me."
Jane gasped, regaining her footing and pulling back, her face flushing a brilliant, horrified crimson. "Oh! Oh, my goodness! I am so terribly sorry, Sir! I did not see—I stumbled—please forgive me!"
Elizabeth looked up at her sister's saviour.
He was a tall man in his early thirties, with dark hair swept back in a fashionably windswept style and eyes that crinkled at the corners. He was dressed with a casual elegance that spoke of immense wealth worn lightly. He held a stack of books in one hand, but his other hand was still hovering near Jane's elbow, as if to ensure she didn't topple over again.
And he was staring at her.
He was staring at Jane as if he had been walking through a desert for forty years and had just stumbled upon an oasis of cool water. His mouth was slightly open. The teasing glint in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated wonder.
"I..." he started, then stopped. He cleared his throat. "You... bumped into me."
