Page 30 of Affectations of Candour

Mr Baker’s factotum, who had earlier arrived by way of Willow Bourn and had stayed to help with preparations, hurried to the coach and hefted from it what appeared to be a weighty crate. “Where should I put this cider, Mr Darcy?”

“Blocks have already been brought from the ice-house, so over there.” He pointed at the utilitarian canvas tent set up beneath a stand of towering shade trees, and Tom set off in that direction.

Approaching the Cliff House party, Darcy bowed and greeted them individually. As he reached for Elizabeth’s gloved hand, he imagined reverently kissing her bare fingers, then turning it over and kissing her palm. That fancy, however, went out of the window like the defenestrations of Prague. Elizabeth had hidden her dainty hand behind her back and offered him a smile as fleeting as her curtsey had been shallow.

Upon turning back to Miss Baker, Darcy was surprised to be presented with a covered basket. “And what do we have here, madam?”

“That is Mrs Poole’s Baumstriezel, sir.”

“I see. And will Mrs Poole not miss it?”

Miss Baker laughed. “Oh, you rapscallion!”

In his almost twenty-eight years of life, that was the first time Darcy had been referred to as a rapscallion. And it possibly was the first time he had attempted raillery with a lady other than Elizabeth. Glancing her way, he noticed those dainty gloved fingers covering her mouth, but she could not conceal the twinkle in her eyes that bespoke merriment. He winked at her surreptitiously, but she frowned at him before looking away. Criminy, woman, how you puzzle me!

Blushing like a schoolgirl, Miss Baker apologised to Darcy for having spoken out of turn.

“Not at all, madam. No umbrage was taken, I assure you.” He smiled at her, then peeked under the linen cloth covering the basket. “This does not look like the tree cake I enjoyed at Cliff House.”

Mr Baker responded. “That is because it is a Baumstriezel, not Baumkuchen. And what you have there”—he nodded at the basket—“is referred to as a chimney cake.”

When Elizabeth softly spoke his name, Darcy turned to her, hoping to see in her eyes an arch remark brewing, perhaps something about trees and chimneys.

“Allow me to take that Baumstriezel for you, sir, and place it upon the dessert table over there.” And she did so, being obvious in her determination to not make any sort of contact with his person, even his eyes.

And there it is. The tongs—or the even longer barge pole—with which she will not touch me.

By then, everyone had gathered beneath the canopy, so Darcy, the Bakers, and their niece followed in Elizabeth’s sweet-smelling wake. Georgiana and Miss Althea made a fuss over her, enquiring after her health and expressing their delight in seeing her again. With far less fervour, Mr Wright and his two eldest daughters greeted the party from Cliff House.

Then, one and all, they filled their plates with an apparently unlimited assortment of picnic fare. Chilling upon a table of ice were pitchers of lemonade, the cider from Mr Baker’s orchard, and bottles of wine and ale. Tea and coffee would be served later along with rosewater rout cakes and other dainty viands sweet to the taste.

When everyone had eaten their fill, Mr Baker called out, “Mr Darcy, do you suppose it wise that we now pile into punts? I have a sinking feeling after eating all that food.”

“Frederick, you were not supposed to eat all the food.”

The Baker brother and sister were a much welcome addition to the party and so very different from the dour Wright family.

“Never fear, Mr Baker.” Darcy raised his voice so all could hear. “It is a bit of a walk to Willow Bourn, so we may be a quarter of a stone lighter by the time we board the punts. So, everyone, shall we?”

He watched as the ladies gathered their shawls, fans, parasols, drawing paper, and such. Turning his attention then to the household domestics as they stealthily started packing up, Darcy spotted Hector, nose level with the table beneath the canopy, slobbering and eyeing the tasty array of meats. Before he could yell a warning, shouts of dismay rang out from maids and footmen alike as they scrambled after the dog.

“Hector! No!” Georgiana gave chase as the happy thief triumphantly ran circles round the garden, a joint of roasted beef clenched between his jowls. One footman almost had him, but the big dog veered off towards the tent housing the ice. Huge paws took guy ropes and, consequently, the entire canvas shelter with them. Hector then slowed to a trot and, pulling the tent behind him, headed for Darcy, who managed to grab the encumbered dog just as its mistress caught up with them.

“Drop it, you naughty boy!” At Georgiana’s command, Hector dropped the meat upon the ground, flumped down, and rolled onto his back, tangled guy ropes dangling from his legs.

Freeing Hector from the tent, Darcy silently thanked the dog for, at least, waiting until the picnic had finished. To the defeated footman, he said, “Take the joint of meat to the kitchen, and let them know it will be the culprit’s dinner this evening, although he should go without.” Turning to his sister, he enquired whether she was still intent on taking Hector with her in the punt.

“I know he does not deserve it, but yes. I hope he might have a chance for an s-w-i-m in the stream.”

“Then he and you will have to sit in my punt. Now, who else do you suppose will tolerate sharing space with a ten-stone, sopping wet bear of a dog?”

His sister looked round the group and grinned. “No other than Miss Bennet will do.”

Truer words were never spoken, little hen. “Then you should go over there and ask her.”

“No, Brother. The request should come from the vessel’s captain.”

“It is a punt, Georgiana, not a frigate. And your dog is the problem. You ask her.” She looked at him so defiantly that he capitulated. “Very well.” When did my sixteen-year-old sister become so headstrong and obstinate?