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“I have verified the conditions thoroughly,” he assured her, his enunciation crisp. “The path I have selected is shaded, preventing any discomfort from the sun. I have arranged for a comfortable bench to be transported to the lakeside for Anne. Furthermore, the refreshments will be positioned at a polite distance, ensuring the footmen do not crowd the walking party.”

Elizabeth blinked, absorbing the length of his preparation. He had anticipated every requirement, eliminating any possible source of complaint from his aunt. Yet, beneath the organisation, she detected tension.

His posture was too stiff and his politeness bordered on the extreme. He was a gentleman carrying a momentous weight, his nerves stretched taut as the strings of a newly tuned pianoforte.

The party commenced their journey towards the water.

They departed the manor, navigating the wide gravel paths winding through the manicured lawns. The summer air was warm, carrying the scent of blooming roses.

The family, united in their suspicions regarding the excursion’s true purpose, attempted to facilitate the romance. Unfortunately, their enthusiasm threatened to destroy the privacy Mr Darcy sought.

Miss Darcy walked a few paces ahead, her head turning as she surveyed the grounds.

“Oh, look at that narrow path winding to the willow trees!” Miss Darcy announced loudly, pointing a gloved finger. “It appears remarkably secluded and extremely quiet. A gentleman and a lady could walk there and encounter no one.”

Anne de Bourgh, walking beside the eager girl, grasped Miss Darcy’s elbow.

“The willow trees are too damp, Georgiana,” Miss de Bourgh corrected, attempting to guide her cousin away before the hints became transparent. “We must examine the swans near the stone bridge. I require a detailed study of the swans.”

“But the secluded path—” Miss Darcy protested softly.

“Swans, Georgiana,” Miss de Bourgh insisted, pulling the younger girl to the opposite side of the lawn.

Lady Catherine, unwilling to yield her self-appointed authority over the courtship, halted. She lifted her walking stick, prepared to dictate the standing positions of every individual present.

“Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine commanded, her volume disturbing a flock of sparrows. “You shall escort Miss Elizabeth to the edge of the water. Do not stand too close to the mud. You must position yourselves near the large oak, ensuring the sunlight illuminates your profiles properly for the benefit of any passing tenants.”

Mr Darcy closed his eyes, a muscle feathering in his jaw. Whatever careful declaration he might have prepared was dissolving into a public spectacle dictated by his relatives.

Aunt Madeline, possessing the brilliance of a seasoned matron, intervened.

“Your ladyship,” she said, stepping into Lady Catherine’s line of sight, blocking the lady’s view of Mr Darcy and Elizabeth. “I have spent the morning reflecting on our previous game of piquet. I believe I have discovered a flaw in your reckoning during our last game. A flaw involving your declaration of queens.”

Lady Catherine lowered her walking stick, her outrage diverted. “A flaw! My tallying is flawless, Mrs Gardiner. You merely resent my superior strategy.”

“I resent nothing, madam,” she replied with a challenging smile. “I merely seek accuracy. Let us examine the score sheet. I believe I kept it in my reticule.”

Uncle Edward joined his wife, introducing complex mathematical theories regarding pasteboard values, trapping the Lady Catherine in a web of Cheapside logic.

Elizabeth recognised the opportunity. Her relatives had provided a diversion, but it would not last indefinitely. She turned to Mr Darcy. His shoulders remained rigid, his gaze fixed on the assembly of his family with despair.

She took pity on him. She would not permit his occasion to be ruined by the well-meaning interference of others.

She closed the polite distance between them and lifted her arm, resting her palm on the fabric of his sleeve.

“Mr Darcy,” she murmured, her words carrying only to his ears. “I believe I should like to see the view a little farther along the bank. Will you show me?”

His eyes landed on her with relief. He covered her gloved fingers with his own.

“It would be my honour, Miss Elizabeth.”

They departed the primary path, leaving the debate regarding piquet scores behind. They navigated the grassy bank bordering the water, their steps slow and measured. Propriety demanded they remain visible to the chaperones, but Elizabeth ensured they walked far enough to render their conversation private.

The shade of the trees dappled the sunlight over their path. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words.

Elizabeth glanced at his profile. His focus was fixed on the horizon. He was struggling to arrange his thoughts, she realised, attempting to summon the eloquent phrasing required for a formal declaration.

She knew what this moment cost him. The memory of Hunsford, with her rejection and bitter accusations, surely lingered in his mind, casting a shadow of doubt over his current endeavour. She would not prolong his uncertainty for her own amusement. She would not demand a flawless, poetic speech.