CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE BATTLEDORE CONQUEST
Elizabeth
I refrainfrom commenting about my sleep or lack of it—a most droll subject for an unusually sunny morning. Although it was with a bit of trepidation that I entered the breakfast room. Had Caroline compromised Darcy to the extent that a hasty marriage would be trumpeted?
The butter knife pointed at me suggested otherwise.
“That beast of yours,” Caroline announced to the table at large, “accosted me in the corridor last evening. It hurled itself at my ankles with unmistakable malice, nearly precipitating my fall down the staircase.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Cinnamon is a creature of strong opinions. Perhaps she mistook your ankle for a mouse.”
The table absorbed this exchange with varying degrees of interest. Mrs. Hurst examined her teacup, while Mr. Hurst remained steadfastly devoted to his eggs. Bingley appeared mildly concerned for the cat, and Georgiana watched my reaction as if beginning to discern the nature of the tension between Caroline and me.
And Darcy, seated at the head of the table with the morning paper folded beside his plate, met my eyes for exactly one second—an assurance containing the weight of an entire midnight conversation that saidall is wellandsay nothing.
“Miss Elizabeth.” His voice was measured. The name landed with the correct formality, the correct distance, and the entirely incorrect resonance, because I had heard the other version—the one without the Miss, and the formal address now sounded like a door closing over a room I had seen lit from within.
“Mr. Darcy.” I matched him note for note.
Bingley, blessedly unaware, folded his newspaper. “Capital morning. Absolutely capital. I propose we make use of the lawn. The weather is magnificent, and the grounds are finally dry enough for sport. Battledore, perhaps? I had Jerry dig the old set out of the storage room last week, and nobody has touched it. What say you, Darcy?”
“I have not played since Cambridge.”
“Then you are overdue. Miss Elizabeth, are you a sportswoman? I seem to recall your family is a family of prodigious walkers, and walkers tend to have the sort of constitution that translates well to competitive endeavor.”
“I have held a battledore racquet, Mr. Bingley, though I cannot promise my form would satisfy anyone who has studied the sport with academic rigor.”
Bingley dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand. “The beauty of battledore lies in its simplicity. One hits the shuttlecock and hopes your opponent misses. Georgiana, will you play? The exercise will do you good.”
“I should like that very much,” Georgiana said with an eagerness that would have been impossible a week ago.
“What a charming notion.” Caroline set down her butter knife with the precision of a woman shifting from complaint to strategy. “Fresh air would do us all a world of good. And Georgiana, dearest, it would be such excellent practice for you—country exercise is so vitalfor a young woman’s constitution. I should be pleased to participate.”
“Your ankle, Caroline?” Mrs. Hurst inquired skeptically.
“Much improved this morning. Mr. Jones’s draught has worked wonders.” Caroline flexed the offending joint beneath its wrapping.
I seized my opportunity with the ruthlessness Mama would have approved. “If we are to make up a proper party, might I propose inviting my sisters Jane and Mary? Georgiana has expressed a wish to know the Bennet family better before tomorrow’s dinner, and their presence would provide us with even numbers for pairs.”
Bingley’s eyebrows rose with a pleasure hard to disguise. “Yes, what a capital idea. Miss Bennet and Miss Mary to join us? The more the merrier. Shall I send the gig?”
“A note will suffice,” I assured him. “Longbourn is but three miles distant, and Jane is as avid a walker as I.”
“But the gig would be faster,” Bingley said. “And the cartwright has replaced the troublesome wheel.”
“It will be appreciated.” I nodded my gratitude to Bingley before Caroline could intervene.
Miss Bingley’s smile did not falter, but something behind it recalculated. An unexpected variable had entered her equation, and she was adjusting her arithmetic even as she reached for her tea.
“How delightful,” she said. “We shall be quite the merry party.”
Jane and Mary arrived at half past ten, Jane in her light-blue muslin with the blue spencer that made her eyes devastating, and Mary in a sensible brown. Bingley was at the front door before the gig had fully stopped, handing Jane down with a solicitude that bordered on the sacramental.
“Miss Bennet! What a delight. The south lawn is in excellent condition, hardly any mole hills, and Mrs. Nichollshas prepared lemonade, though I confess I requested she add a splash of something rather more bracing for after the match.”
“Mr. Bingley.” Jane smiled at him with the warmth she bestowed on everyone and the steadiness she reserved for people she was beginning to trust. “How kind of you to send the gig.”
