“I would vastly prefer the open air,” Georgiana interjected from the window seat. She watched not her formidable brother, but me, a spark of determined rebellion brightening her gaze. “I should so like to attempt Oakham Mount again. We never saw the summit after Miss Bingley’s unfortunate incident in the lower pasture. The prospect from the top continues to tempt my curiosity.”
“An excellent suggestion,” I said, before Caroline could redirect. “Oakham Mount has a view of four counties on a clear day, and today appears obliging.”
“Three counties,” Darcy said. “The fourth is only visible in imagination.”
“Then we shall pack our most formidable imaginations, sir, and discover all four.”
A distinct chill descended upon Caroline’s features. “Given yesterday’s mud and that thoroughly unrefined rampage after the livestock, I had assumed a quiet morning of embroidery and sonatas would be paramount.”
“Miss Darcy has already expressed her preference,” I countered pleasantly. “A companion’s chief responsibility is to nurture her charge’s blooming interests, not suffocate them beneath endless needlework. You must enjoy the pianoforte without us, Miss Bingley. A footman can position your velvet stool at the exact therapeutic angle Mr. Jones prescribes.”
Caroline’s jaw parted in the manner of a woman who had been offered exactly what she claimed to want and found it insulting.
I believe I should like to evaluate these four counties for myself,” Darcy said, setting down his coffee cup with a finality that suggested the programme for the morning had been decided, and the deciding had not been difficult. “Or three, if Miss Bennet’s cartography proves optimistic.”
“Then perhaps I might come along.” Caroline shifted as though preparing to rise. “The fresh air?—”
“Miss Bingley, Oakham Mount is a considerable climb,” Darcy interjected, his tone a blend of concern and what might have been thinly veiled relief. “The path is uneven and the ascent rather steep. I should not recommend it for a recovering ankle.”
“Heavens, no,” I agreed, adopting a tone of wounded gravity. “The terrain would be quite punishing. I twisted my own ankle there as a girl, and I was wearing sturdy boots and had the full advantage of youth and recklessness.”
“Moreover, the very sheep field of your tragic accident lies directly across our path,” Georgiana added, her voice a marvel of innocent kindness. “Populated, I am sure, by the identical beasts.”
“Well.” Caroline settled her shoulders against the chair with an air of injured dignity. “I shall remain indoors to attend my correspondence. Do take care to manage Georgiana.”
Georgiana collected her bonnet from the side table. “I assure you, Miss Bingley, I am quite capable of taking care of myself. Perhaps it is my brother who requires looking after.”
Darcy reached for his hat, but not before his gaze met mine, ever so briefly. Neither of us dared to meet Georgiana’s mischievous eyes, but a glance at Caroline revealed her mouth pinched as if she had bitten into one of our sour orchard apples.
“Before I forget, Caro,” Bingley called out, oblivious to the bristling air, “do ensure passing our formal acceptance to Mrs. Bennet. We should loathe to appear ungracious.”
I didn’t need to say more, as Darcy stood from the table, his mouth moving in a way that wasn’t quite a smilebut was undeniably approaching one. “Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, I wish you a good day.”
I must confess, my heart swelled with immense pride at Georgiana’s resolute stance against Caroline’s machinations. So it was with buoyant spirits that the three of us—Georgiana, Darcy, and myself—slipped through the garden door on our expedition, leaving Caroline with her ankle swelling on a footstool.
Mrs. Jolliffe, ever thoughtful, had pressed a basket into my hands: bread, cheese, apples, and a flask of apple juice. Darcy promptly relieved me of the burden before the weight could properly settle.
Cinnamon did not follow us so much as haunted our perimeter—a flash of ginger in the boxwood, and then a moment later, waiting for us on a low branch. Whenever she reappeared, she would weave a figure-eight through Mr. Darcy’s legs only to ignore me entirely. I suppose the Darcy magnetism was not limited to young ladies of fortune; even my own cat appeared ready to abandon her heritage for the promise of a Pemberley rug.
The morning, however, was crisp and golden with that quality of autumnal brightness where every color was heightened by the fact that frost would soon wash the landscape with dull browns. Georgiana strode ahead, her step light and buoyant as she paused at every hedgerow to remark on the lingering leaves and berries.
“She is different,” Darcy said, watching his sister crouch to examine a late blackberry.
“She is choosing,” I replied. “That is what different looks like.”
He absorbed this without remark with a slight inclination of his head.
Georgiana circled back to us, her cheeks flushed with the exertion and a natural smile brightening her face. She looked from herbrother—standing as straight and somber as a sentinel—to the vibrant gold of the turning elms, and then back again.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said, her voice small but clear, “next to the autumn, your coat is very… brown.”
Darcy looked down at his expensive superfine with an expression of mild bewilderment. “It is a very practical color for the country.”
“Then my brother has dressed for a walk,” she said to me, “which means he intends to enjoy it, which is a development I shall note in my programme journal.”
“I was not aware you kept a programme journal,” Darcy replied, his brow furrowing.
“I do not. But if I did, today’s entry would read:Brother wore a comfortable coat. Suspicious.”
