“And she shall be called Lady Jane,” Georgiana added. “She shall be a countess someday.”
Thomas looked up, a leaf of lettuce clutched in one fist. “Will she have snail?”
“I do not believe countesses typically keep snails,” Darcy said.
“Then I give mine.” Thomas returned to Sidney’s family, all crawling on top of each other as if pondering which of Sidney’s offspring to spare.
Servants poured from the house to replenish the hampers, Hannah in the lead while Jamison followed with a parasol.
“Hannah seems quite recovered from her unfortunate encounter with the rose bushes last week,” Georgiana observed. “Though I cannot help but notice that Jamison has appointed himself her personal guardian and protector, hovering about her as if he fears she might stumble at any moment.”
“Perhaps he is merely concerned for her safety,” Elizabeth said. “Hannah does have a tendency to stumble as her feet cannot quite keep up with her tongue.”
“Or…” Georgiana’s smile suggested she suspected something more than footwork was involved.
And then, Harley proved her point admirably. With a lunge that seemed impossible for a dog so low to the ground—with ears that flapped over his eyes, and short, bowed legs—Harley launched himself at the platter Hannah was carrying. His leap caused a collision with her elbow and Jamison’s pitcher that sent both servants stumbling and a linked string of sausages arcing through the air in a beautiful display of basset hound fever dreams—right into Harley’s greedy jaws.
Hannah made a valiant attempt to rescue both sausage and platter, her arms flailing before she pitched forward.
“Get the dog!” someone shrieked as Harley, moving faster than Elizabeth had ever seen a sausage-shaped dog move, escaped over the lawn.
Jamison, whose duties included restraining the dog, was instead entirely occupied with Hannah—catching her as she stumbled against his chest, seemingly reluctant to release her even after the immediate danger had passed, his face crimson as she looked up at him through her lashes with an expression that suggested they had quite forgotten about the sausages entirely.
“Oh!” Hannah breathed, her own cheeks flaming to match his, her hands somehow resting against his waistcoat in a manner that could not possibly be explained by the mechanics of preventing a fall. “Mr. Jamison, I am so terribly sorry, I do not know what came over me, the platter simply?—”
“Not at all, Miss Hannah, the fault was entirely… that is to say, the sausages were already… the platter was clearly unstable, and anyone might have?—”
Neither of them noticed Harley gamboling past them with a string of sausages trailing from his jaws. Thomas, however, gave chase with a battle cry that startled the ducks, geese, a pair of swans, and possibly an insomniac owl.
“Well,” Prue said, eyes dancing. “I believe I have found my subplot.”
Wickham chose that moment to appear, fashionably late and dressed in his most expensive buckskins and a coat of bottle-green superfine that must have cost more than his quarterly allowance—unless, of course, the tailor was still awaiting payment. He sauntered across the lawn, the smile Elizabeth once found so charming already locked in place.
He would depart for India in a couple of weeks and become the brave uncle who sent letters from exotic places.Or he would become nothing at all—another absence, another disappointment, another promise unfulfilled. After greetings were exchanged, his gaze wandered toward Prue in a manner that made Elizabeth’s protective instincts flare.
“Miss Duntze.” His voice was smooth as honey. “I wonder if you might correspond about that fascinating novel we discussed.”
“Mr. Wickham.” Elizabeth’s voice was pleasant but edged. “I understand the mail from India takes months to arrive. I do hope you are not contemplating a correspondence you cannot maintain. Young ladies grow so impatient, and you have never been one to wait, have you?”
The barb landed precisely where she intended. Wickham’s smile faltered, something hard glinting behind the charm, but he recovered with a bow that managed to be both graceful and dismissive.
“You are quite right, Mrs. Darcy. I shall content myself with preparing for my journey. Time passes quickly when one has so much to arrange.”
He retreated toward Harley, who was still sniffing the grass where the sausages had fallen in hopes of discovering overlooked treasures, and Elizabeth felt Prue’s hand squeeze her arm.
“Thank you,” Prue whispered. “I did not know how to refuse without seeming rude, and he was so very persistent?—”
“You need not worry about being rude.” Elizabeth patted her hand. “Some men do not deserve the courtesy of a reply.”
The afternoon passed comfortably into a golden dusk, and the company began to disperse—Georgiana and Prue wandering toward the rose garden, Thomas demanding to show Sidney to Cook, Hannah and Jamison finding reasons to depart in the same direction while carrying blankets, parasols, and platters.Darcy’s hand found Elizabeth’s as they watched their family scatter across the lawn.
“Shall we go in?” he asked. “I believe the day is spent, and our family is now complete.”
“A successful day, ma’am?” Clarice’s voice was carefully neutral as she helped Elizabeth out of her evening dress.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, stepping out of the grass-stained silk, feeling the cool air against her skin like a promise of the night to come. “A very successful day. Perhaps the most successful day since I arrived at Pemberley, though the competition for that honor has become surprisingly fierce of late.”
Her nightgown slipped over her shoulders with the familiar coolness of fine lawn, and Elizabeth drifted to the dressing table, watching in the glass as Clarice removed each pin with the same unhurried assurance she applied to all things. The ritual unfolded: brush, pins, the soft hush of dark hair tumbling loose.
