Chapter 16

The following day, to Elizabeth’s delight, the first announced contest was battledores-and-shuttlecock—a sport she had long enjoyed playing with all her sisters. The Grandes Dames Matlock and de Bourgh had, evidently, appointed themselves judges—an office unneeded, for they were to play the game in its simplest form. Two of the young ladies were given battledores and a befeathered cork, or shuttlecock, with the challenge to keep the thing in the air, the matches determined by a random drawing from slips of paper in a silver bowl held by Georgiana.

Miss Bingley drew first, matched against Miss de Bourgh—whose style of playing would have had her run out of Longbourn. It required Miss Bingley to launch herself in all directions to return Miss de Bourgh’s wild swings; this, however, she proved more than willing to do. Miss Bingley was a good shot, so that Miss de Bourgh put forth little in the way of effort, while her opponent had worked up a lather by the time Miss de Bourgh finally missed.

Lady Catherine protested the win. “She sent it nowhere near Anne. How was my dear girl supposed to hit such a poor mark?”

“I believe we have seen more than enough of the Bingley girl leaping about trying to save your daughter’s shots,” Lady Matlock said drily.

“Anne plays the way a lady ought to play,” Lady Catherine sniffed.

“As if she is blind, with both her legs broken?” Lady Matlock replied.

The next set was Sarah versus Miss Lushington. Unfortunately, Miss Lushington seemed to be far more interested in the play of shadow and sunlight surrounding her, continuously forgetting she was supposed to be enraptured by the shuttlecock rather than the scenery. Sarah politely allowed Lady Matlock to restart the game at least three times before Lady Catherine irritably declared the match over with Sarah the winner and Miss Lushington a ‘rattle-brain who could not win if she tied the shuttlecock to her battledore with a string’. The insult sailed right over the head, apparently, of Miss Lushington, who happily gathered up her sketchbook to resume her favourite activity—much to the dismay of Lady Ridley, who followed her sister away from the lawn with a good deal of complaint.

Happily, this left Jane and Elizabeth to play against each other. They were both very good, knowing just how to hit it high enough to make the return shot interesting, nimbly managing to cope with sudden breezes and the occasional unbalanced swing. After several minutes, as they laughed and chatted together as they played, some of their audience began to lose interest.

“Mother,” Miss de Bourgh whined, “declare one of them the winner. They are taking too long.”

“You need not stay to watch, Anne,” Lady Matlock chided.

Miss Bingley leant near her to whisper in Miss de Bourgh’s ear. The two giggled together. Elizabeth, watching out of the corner of her eye, decided that it was not a friendly giggle; her suspicions were substantiated when two acorns flew towards her from their general direction. She easily swatted them away and still hit the shuttlecock towards Jane, but she saw her sister’s expression change to a grimace. Instead of hitting it back, she swung wide.

“Oh, dear,” she said, smiling beatifically. “I missed.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “You have not missed such an easy stroke since you were six years old.”

“I must be losing my skill,” she said unflappably.

Jane would never risk the possibility of anyone taking an acorn to the eye, least of all her sister. I ought to have realised it as soon as acorns began flying, and not returned the shot.

All the fun of the contest evaporated for her. “I wish you had not done that,” Elizabeth said quietly.

Jane only smiled, leaning in close to whisper back. “I do not care in the slightest for the contest,” she said. “However, as a favour to me, do defeat Miss Bingley in the next round, will you?”

It was so un-Jane-like—and so much more sisterly a thing to say than heard in many, many months— that Elizabeth’s heart lightened. “I will do my best.”

This final round did not require a one-to-one competition, however. The three young ladies had simply to maintain their shuttlecocks airborne, ‘keeping up’ with the others. This, Elizabeth knew she could do for some time—there was an art to it, almost like dancing, and as long as the breezes did not unfairly affect one’s trajectory, it was rather simple.

In the distance, she saw a group of men walking in their direction. It was easy to pick out Mr Darcy, the tallest of them, within the group. It was not merely his height, but the way he walked with confidence, his lean stature, his broad shoulders. Elizabeth realised she had better turn away before she made a stupid miss because she was gawping at her host.

Sarah was the first to be called ‘out’—but only because she tripped a little upon the uneven ground. Laughing about her error, she turned to watch the other girls play. Elizabeth paid no attention to her opponent, only to controlling the flight of her own shuttlecock.

It was a mistake.

Somehow Miss Bingley—her swings intense, as if she had to kill the befeathered cork instead of bat at it—had worked her way into Elizabeth’s perimeter. In one of her more zealous lunges, she swatted Elizabeth’s ribs instead of the shuttlecock.

Elizabeth only knew that a sudden, side-splitting pain rammed her, knocking her over. Georgiana screamed.

“I did not mean to!” Miss Bingley cried. “She got in the way of my swing! You all saw her walk right in front of me!”

“Yes,” Miss de Bourgh chimed in. “That is what happened, exactly.”

Lady Matlock hurried over as Elizabeth tried not to cry. Suddenly, however, Mr Darcy was kneeling above her, deep concern writ in his dark eyes.

“Miss Elizabeth, you are injured.”

“It was her fault! It was an accident!”

Mr Darcy paid no heed to Miss Bingley’s outraged cries. “You cannot lie here on the ground. I will take you indoors,” he said quietly. “I will be as gentle as I can.” In one smooth motion he lifted her; it hurt, but she bit her lip against the pain.

His long-legged stride bore her towards the house. She could tell that he was holding her a bit away from his body to keep her as still as possible. After a few moments, the immediate pain lessened.

“I can walk,” she said.

“Permit me to see you to your chambers before you do,” he replied.

Elizabeth was beginning to feel a bit silly. “I think it was simply the surprise of it. I certainly do not need a physician, I promise.”

She saw his raised brow when he looked again at her. “What? You were unprepared for swordplay during a lawn game? How credulous.”

Grinning, she took new notice of her host; she had not suspected him capable of sarcasm. “I am entirely too trustful,” she agreed. “I had supposed Miss Bingley could tell the difference between me and her shuttlecock.”

For a moment only, a thunderous expression crossed his visage before disappearing into his usual impassiveness. “Perhaps I should send Mr Hall to her as well. I had no idea her vision was so feeble.”

“So you will set me down, sir? I am well, I promise.”

For a moment she saw, again, the depth of his concern. “I apologise that you were hurt while at Pemberley. It ought never to have happened.”

He took the steps leading to the front entrance as though he were not carrying anything at all. What did he do, she wondered, to keep so strong, so fit? He was not even breathing hard.

“Miss Bennet has been injured,” he said to the footman who opened the door for them, and so forceful was his voice giving orders that Mrs Reynolds be notified of the incident, the physician be sent for and shown directly to her chambers upon his arrival, that she found no opportunity to interrupt with protestations that it was all unnecessary. Before she knew it, he was climbing the stairs—still holding her in that careful, balanced way. It was unbelievable, really; he might not be as particularly ‘mysterious’ as the papers claimed, but he certainly was…robust.

At her door, he hesitated, and she knew her chance.

“I am well,” she repeated firmly. “I thank you for your kindness.”

Carefully he set her on her feet, watching closely. There was only a twinge—Miss Bingley had not managed to crack a rib. The sound of footsteps upon the stair told her that others were joining them. Knowing it was important to seem as unaffected as possible, she achieved a small if slightly painful curtsey, smiled at him, and slipped behind the door.