Page 80 of The Slipper Scandal
"He dashed across the current," the man continued, warming to his tale, "boots submerged, waistcoat soaked, the child clinging to him with all the trust of innocence. Not a moment's hesitation, I am told."
"The water was knee-deep at most," Darcy said, incredulous.
Lord North laughed. "Modesty is ever your failing, Darcy. Come, Miss Bennet, I am to escort you to Lady Spencer. The Countess of Winchester wishes to meet you."
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, clearly torn, but allowed herself to be led away with a polite nod.
Darcy followed their progress, his jaw tight. As he turned slightly to retreat, his eyes caught a glimpse of Fitzwilliam just beyond the crowd. He was guiding Miss Abernathy towards the terrace. The look he cast over his shoulder—just before he disappeared with her—was brief but unmistakable: a swift, boyish wink in Darcy's direction.
Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy, both beaming with genuine goodwill, were clearly on their way to intercept Darcy, their backs to their daughter. He exhaled slowly, understanding at once.
He had long thought himself a strategist, but his skills paled in comparison to his aunt’s.
This was the scheme within the scheme. Lady Matlock had plotted not merely a display of Darcy’s own parade of virtues but had folded Fitzwilliam’s hopes into the plan as well. By delaying both the first performance while drawing attention towards him, she had cleared the path for Fitzwilliam to steal a rare moment with the young woman he had been ordered to avoid.
And Darcy—knowing it, seeing it—could do nothing but play his part. He stood making pleasant conversation with theAbernathys, hoping Elizabeth would find her way back to them, but she never did.
The minutes ticked on. Lady Spencer’s daughter, Lady Henrietta, whispered something to her mother. The countess returned to the front of the room with a composed smile. "Ladies and gentlemen, we thank you for your patience. It seems the missing music has yet to be located. Please feel free take a turn about the room while we search for the misplaced folio."
Conversations reignited. A few guests stood, while others turned in their seats, fanning themselves and glancing towards the musicians’ corner with amused speculation.
Darcy remained where he was, murmuring agreeable nothings to Mr. Abernathy while his attention flicked repeatedly to the terrace doors. Eventually, Miss Abernathy re-entered the room, flushed, but thankfully not dishevelled. Her entrance went unnoticed by her parents, whose backs were still to her. She held a thin sheaf of music in her gloved hands.
Within moments, a murmur passed from Miss Abernathy to her hostess, and a delighted exclamation rose from Lady Spencer. “Marvelous news—the music has been found!” The guests began returning to their seats once more, though more slowly this time. The performance was about to begin, but the true drama, Darcy thought with resignation, had already unfolded.
When the music was about to begin, Darcy at last manoeuvred himself towards the seating area, only to be waylaid by a gentleman who insisted that he had been saving a seat on behalf of his wife. Meanwhile, an usher, with a mumbled apology, redirected Darcy to a spot several rows behind. He was now separated from Elizabeth by three rows, a seating arrangement he was quite certain bore the fingerprints of Lady Matlock.
From this new vantage, Darcy saw Elizabeth had been seated beside Milton. He leaned forward to hear the conversation,which Milton considerately pitched just loud enough to be heard.
"Miss Bennet," his cousin was saying, "you may wish to know that my cousin takes literature very seriously. I, alas, am not a thinking man. Poetry gives me a headache, and I have never forgiven Byron for becoming fashionable."
Darcy shut his eyes briefly.
Milton continued with cheerful indifference. "However, you may be reassured that Darcy has never penned a poem in his life—not even in his youth, which is more than I can say for poor Edward Pomfrey, who once sent Miss Dalrymple a sonnet about her elbows. He did say it moved their cook to tears, though she may have been cutting onions at the time."
Darcy glared at the back of Milton's head and strained to hear Elizabeth's softer voice.
"Mr. Darcy does not write poetry, then?"
"Quite hopelessly practical, I am afraid," Milton added. "No moonlight glades or starlit sighs. A pity, really, but we cannot all be Edward Pomfrey."
Lady Spencer's voice finally called the guests to order, and the first performer took her place at the harp.
Darcy settled back in his seat. As the first song trilled and plucked its way across the room, he brooded, devising a new approach. Elizabeth had looked troubled. He needed to speak with her.
At the interval, he rose swiftly and made for her.
He nearly succeeded.
His aunt glided across his path with remarkable speed. "Darcy, dear, how fortunate. I have just told Mrs. Abernathy about your work with the Lambton parish. She was quite impressed."
"Aunt, I must speak to Miss Bennet," he said through his teeth.
"And so you shall," she replied. "Eventually. But your uncle is currently enlightening her regarding everything you told himabout your irrigation systems.” Her smile was almost wicked. “I did attempt to dissuade him, but he insisted that no woman can resist a man who understands proper drainage."
Darcy leaned to the side. Indeed, Lord Matlock was now gesturing grandly at nothing while Elizabeth nodded, her smile polite but strained.
His aunt’s smile at her husband was rather fonder.
