Amelia hesitated. "Yes… well, a little… Mr Henry Blackwood."
Elizabeth smiled. "One of the Blackwood brothers?"
Amelia nodded. "The one with the small scar on his right cheek. He made me laugh yesterday." She looked down at her hands. "And during the chess match he told me my hair looked very pretty."
"Those are excellent beginnings."
"Mama would not think so. Before we came to Chaffley Hall she made me what she called an approved list. They were the only gentlemen she considered worthy of my encouragement."
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.
"Mr Darcy was first. Mr Ashcombe was second. Colonel Fitzwilliam was third." She gave a little shrug. "But everyone can see Colonel Fitzwilliam has eyes only for Miss Bennet, and after what I overheard yesterday, I think Mr Ashcombe is far too cruel to be worth the trouble."
"And Mr Henry Blackwood?"
Amelia's smile faded.
"Mama says he is the youngest of the brothers and will inherit nothing. She says his income will always be very modest."
Elizabeth regarded her thoughtfully. "Tell me, Miss Harrington... are you of age?"
Amelia looked surprised. "I am four-and-twenty." She gave a small, unhappy laugh. "That is why Mama despairs of me."
"Then, with the greatest respect to your mama, you are perfectly old enough to decide which gentlemen deserve your attention."
Amelia searched her face as though trying to discover whether she truly meant it.
"Do you really think there is no harm in preferring Mr Henry?"
"I think there is every advantage in getting to know a respectable gentleman who makes you laugh over one who merely possesses a larger estate. And I think your mama has done you another disservice besides. She has dressed you for her own ambitions rather than your own comfort."
Amelia looked down at her fussy nightdress with a rueful expression. "I have never liked all the trimming very much, but Mama says simplicity only suits ladies who have beauty enough to carry it."
"Then she is mistaken," said Elizabeth. "Jane has an excellent eye for such things, and between us I think we could adapt one of your gowns to look rather more like Miss Harrington than Mrs Harrington."
Amelia laughed properly for the first time since entering the room. "Do you truly mean it?"
"Entirely. We shall steal half an hour before dinner, if we can contrive it."
Amelia rose then, looking lighter than she had only a few minutes before. She paused at the door, her hand upon the frame, and turned back with a smile that was still uncertain but no longer miserable. "Thank you, Miss Elizabeth. I do not think anybody has ever advised me to do what would makemehappy before."
After Amelia had gone, Elizabeth remained where she was for a while, listening to the quiet house. Somewhere below came the first sounds of the servants beginning their day, while beyond the open window the gardens were already alive with birdsong. The morning sun lay warm across the lawns, making it difficult to believe that only hours before she had stood there beneath the moon with Darcy.
She dressed slowly, fastening her gown with clumsy fingers. Advising Miss Harrington had been remarkably easy. It had cost nothing to tell another young lady to think for herself rather than allow someone else to dictate the course of her happiness.
But what if one's own heart proved impossible to understand? Elizabeth paused, one hand resting upon the dressing table. She had always imagined following one's heart to be a very simple business. She was no longer quite so certain.
Chapter Thirteen
1781 – Chaffley Hall, Derbyshire
The archery match concluded amidst loud cheers from the gentlemen and unhappy muttering amongst the ladies. Lady Hortensia and Lord Malcolm remained upon the lawn, chatting gaily with competitors while Mr Pritchard entered the latest scores into the great leather ledger. Around them, servants began collecting the arrows and carrying away the targets, though one bow had been left resting against the trunk of an oak.
George Darcy picked it up absently as he passed. His cousin Edward was explaining to anyone who would listen how his final shot had been the finest of the afternoon. George could tell that his self-congratulation was likely to go on for some time, and he was already exhausted from the press of people and the heat of the afternoon. He retreated to the shade of an ash tree, hoping to find a moment of quiet. The Challenge had been enjoyable in the main, but he was a man who generally preferred solitudeand quiet pursuits—the constant requirement for conversation pressed on him.
He had almost reached the shade when Lady Anne Fitzwilliam called his name. She was crossing the lawn towards him with her gloves clasped in one hand, the full skirts of her pale violet silk gown lifted just clear of the grass. A wide sash of darker purple circled her waist, while fine lace softened the square neckline and short sleeves. Her dark hair had been dressed high with two long curls falling over one shoulder and a small spray of white feathers trembling above them as she walked. Her face was handsome rather than delicate, with clear grey eyes, strongly marked brows and a mouth that seemed formed for firm opinions. At present, every part of it expressed distinct dissatisfaction.
"Mr Darcy, may I see that bow?"
