Page 29

“I shall cool the tea immediately,” Darcy promised, actually leaning forward slightly towards the porcelain cup.

“He ought to read a passage of literature while she eats,” Miss de Bourgh chimed in, before he started blowing on Elizabeth’s tea. “A lady needs intellectual stimulation during her morning meal. Fetch a volume of poetry, Cousin. Something dramatic.”

The suggestions multiplied. Mr Darcy still stood beside Elizabeth’s chair, holding a buttered piece of toast, his expression reflecting an earnest determination to obey every ridiculous command presented to him. He appeared ready to fetch a book, cool the tea, and likely feed her the toast by hand if requested.

Elizabeth could not endure his earnestness a moment longer. Pity and affection swelled within her, overriding the humour of the situation.

“Sit down, Mr Darcy, I beg of you,” she instructed, laughing aloud. “There is no need for this excessive service. I have not become an invalid simply because I am the object of your attentions. I am capable of buttering my own toast.”

Darcy released a long exhalation and placed the toast gently on her plate.

“As you wish, Miss Elizabeth.”

He claimed the chair beside her, ignoring the other head of the table, the one opposite his aunt, and the one he, as the master of the estate, should occupy.

Lady Catherine watched him. She waited until Elizabeth had eaten the toast and drunk half the tea before delivering her design.

“I have determined the approach for today,” Lady Catherine proclaimed, demanding the attention of the room. “We shall embark on a picnic by the lakeside. The weather is warm, though not excessively hot, and therefore it will not endanger Anne’s constitution or melt the cream. We shall all be present. Propriety will be strictly maintained. You will arrange the particulars, Fitzwilliam.”

“A picnic,” Darcy repeated, his tone carefully neutral. “An excellent suggestion, Aunt. I shall order the hampers prepared at once.”

Lady Catherine navigated the path towards the lake escorted by Uncle Edward. Behind them, Aunt Madeline supported Miss de Bourgh, with Miss Darcy walking at the heiress’s other side, their open parasols forming a colourful canopy under the bright midday sun.

Elizabeth and Mr Darcy walked behind them, her arm linked through his. A gentle breeze rippled the surface of the lake, bringing the scent of pine and fresh water.

They reached the shade of the trees by the water’s edge. The servants had arranged everything in advance. Large blankets covered the grass, interspersed with sturdy wooden chairs for those requiring a proper seat. Two servants stood ready near the woven hampers, waiting to serve the party. Apollo and Diana had already scattered along the grassy bank, snapping their jaws at passing butterflies.

“The arrangements are perfect, Mr Darcy.”

“I fear the perfection will be short-lived.” Mr Darcy kept his solemn composure, guiding her to the blankets.

Lady Catherine claimed the most prominent wooden chair, arranging her skirts with sweeping motions, and commanded Mr Gardiner to sit opposite her. Anne settled on a blanket, leaning on a plush cushion, and opening her novel. Aunt Madeline and Miss Darcy claimed a spot near the hampers, evaluating the assortment of cold fowls and fruit tarts.

Darcy guided Elizabeth to a comfortable place. She released his arm and settled on the blanket, and he lowered himself beside her, sitting cross-legged. He leaned slightly to her, attempting to secure a moment of private conversation amidst the gathering.

“The reflections on the water are remarkably clear today, Miss Elizabeth,” he observed, his voice intimate and low. “The lake mirrors the trees along the opposite bank perfectly.”

“The clarity is a result of the limestone bed under the mud!” Lady Catherine shouted. “It is not romantic, Fitzwilliam; it is nature. Do not fill the girl’s head with nonsense.”

Darcy closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

“Limestone provides excellent filtration for the trout,” Uncle Edward added. “It is a practical sediment. A gentleman should always appreciate his sediment.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, fighting a battle to contain her laughter. She observed Mr Darcy’s frustrated dignity, pitying him, yet thoroughly enjoying his predicament.

Miss de Bourgh glanced at them, and lifted her gothic novel, raising her voice to a dramatic projection.

“‘The spectre hovered above the stone flags,’” she recited. “‘Draped in garments of weeping sorrow, the phantom rattled its rusted chains, the sound echoing through the ruined abbey!’”

Apollo and Diana reacted to the sudden shift in volume by lifting their heads and releasing a mournful wail, their howling harmonising with the fictional rattling chains.

“Spectres do hover in a proper draught, Anne!” Lady Catherine yelled over the canine wailing. “And ruined abbeys are notoriously draughty. The author has at least some basic architectural understanding. I approve. But chains do not rattle if they are rusted solid. They should know that!”

“Her ladyship presents a valid point,” Aunt Madeline chimed in, passing a plate of sliced apples to Miss Darcy. “Furthermore, garments of weeping sorrow would require extensive laundering to prevent mildew in a ruined abbey. Spectral maintenance must be a nightmare for the phantom.”

“The phantom does not launder, Mrs Gardiner!” Miss de Bourgh countered, turning a page with a flourish. “‘It drifts! It seeks vengeance!’”

The hounds released another extended howl, drowning out the debate regarding ghostly hygiene.