Chapter 26

“Come with me to the library,” Miss Bingley told Anne after they finished breakfast at the same time. Anne, of course, had adjusted her morning schedule to match the times Miss Bingley might be in attendance. “I have something for you.”

“For me?” No one except Mama had ever given her a gift unprompted.

“For you,” Miss Bingley said, smiling benignly, leading the way.

When they were alone, she handed over a small packet wrapped in tissue-paper. Inside it were two handkerchiefs of the finest linen; on each one was embroidered a small arrangement of acorns.

“I wanted you to have a token of the time we got the better of those ridiculous Bennet sisters. I almost embroidered a shuttlecock and battledore, but of course, that satisfying little memory is just between ourselves. I believe the acorns are a fine symbol of our friendship.”

Anne remembered tossing acorns at the sisters—she had thrilled at the hilarity of doing something so outrageous right beneath her aunt and mother’s noses. She was almost touched beyond words, that her friend should take the time to hand-stitch such an offering.

“These are lovely,” she breathed. Miss Bingley is the most wonderful friend in the world! In a burst of affection, she added, “You are so much prettier than either of those Bennet sisters.” It was not quite true, but when one considered her fortune, there was really no comparison. “Especially Elizabeth Bennet.”

But at this comment, Miss Bingley’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot believe she manipulated Mr Darcy into giving her a ride in his curricle,” she fumed. “She is an impoverished schemer, and nothing more!”

“Beyond question,” Anne replied vehemently. This is so nice, she thought. It was wonderful to have someone with whom to commiserate upon the attentions—or more specifically, the lack of intentions—from Fitzwilliam Darcy. Mama was fixed upon him, and only him, as a suitor, and what Mama wanted, Mama generally got. It did one absolutely no good to argue with her—she would only administer one of her ‘improving tonics’ if Anne failed to be agreeable, causing days of illness.

Miss Bingley, of course, had no chance whatsoever with him. She did not realise it yet—which was somewhat tiresome—but at least Anne could sympathise. For years, Anne had believed Mama’s insistence that Darcy would come round to her way of thinking, and she still did not precisely disbelieve her. It seemed too rebellious a notion. But if Anne’s odds of winning him were remote, Miss Bingley’s were non-existent. Not only did she not have the bloodlines a Darcy would require, neither did she have a steel-willed mother to enforce her interests. Besides, it was plain he thought of Miss Bingley just as he thought of Anne—some sort of sisterly figure, perhaps not even as a female. Likewise, she had seen just the opposite in the way Darcy looked at Miss Elizabeth whenever he thought no one watching.

But Anne was always watching.

“I told my brother that he had better watch his back around that older Bennet girl. He shall find himself ensnared, entangled, entrapped unless he takes care!”

It was Anne’s opinion that Mr Bingley wanted to find himself entangled with Miss Bennet, and Miss Bingley’s protests would only further entrench his opinions.

“If I were you, I would try to convince him to leave Pemberley altogether.”

“I cannot do that, silly girl,” Miss Bingley scoffed. “If he leaves, I must leave! I have contests to win. I will show Mr Darcy just who is the best of the ladies.”

“Oh, of course,” Anne said apologetically. She had foolishly assumed that her brother’s future bride would be of more import to her friend than a quite limited opportunity to win time alone with Darcy. She had watched Darcy strolling in the garden with Miss Lushington for thirty minutes the day before, as the Matlock contingent observed—albeit from a distance. Viscountess Ridley extolled her sister’s many virtues while Mama raged and made everyone else uncomfortable. It was hardly a hotbed of romance. Miss Lushington had appeared to be chatting amiably; whether Darcy answered, Anne could not say, but he had not said much if so. Still, Miss Bingley deserved her chances, and her brother could likely take care of himself.

Miss Bingley stalked angrily back and forth across the library floor before the fireplace. Anne admired her confident carriage, her beauty, her fashionable gown. She glanced down at her own stick-thin figure in her mother’s idea of style—a dress more suitable for a young girl just out of the nursery than a woman of five-and-twenty—and sighed.

It does hurt a bit that Miss Bingley plainly does not consider that I could win any of the contests, but then, she has never seen me drive. Anne knew from Mama that Miss Bingley would race against Miss Lushington, while she would challenge Miss Bentley. The Bennet sisters would race each other, unless they were too chicken-hearted to try. The winners of each heat would then face off in a final race.

“There must be a way to rid ourselves of these hangers-on!” Miss Bingley continued. “They spent an entire morning with the men! The audacity!”

“How true,” Anne agreed.

“Perhaps I can have an express arrive for that Elizabeth, purporting to be from…where does all her family live? Longbone? Somewhere in Hertfordshire, anyway,” Miss Bingley schemed aloud. “It will say there has been an accident, something terrible. She would fly from Pemberley as if her hair was on fire.” Her eyes gleamed as she visibly brightened at the thought.

“Who shall we say was hurt? How?”

“I do not know.” She rolled her eyes impatiently. “Talk to Jane Bennet until she bleats a name of some family member. I will think of something.”

“It would not be posted from Hertfordshire. How would that be explained?”

“When one is frightened and upset, one does not examine closely such details as where a letter was franked from.”

It seemed a dubious plot to Anne; not would only the frank mark be telling, but it would be written in an unfamiliar handwriting. Having it delivered without revealing their scheme to any other would be difficult—and if Darcy read it, he would recognise Anne’s writing. And how could they know whether Miss Elizabeth would leave Pemberley over it? She might simply send an express to her Cheapside family, and soon enough would learn it had been a prank. But she appreciated her friend’s boldness in putting the notion forward.

“Perhaps we could do something a bit more…subtle,” Anne suggested. Something easier.

Miss Bingley turned to her, anger in her gaze, but Anne was quick to pacify. “Your idea is an excellent one, but it would require someone besides us to write the letter—Darcy knows my writing well. I am certain he would recognise yours, too.” There. Miss Bingley would love Anne’s assumption of Darcy’s familiarity with her handwriting, too much so to disagree. Anne was expert in soothing the savage breast.

“Quite so,” Miss Bingley concurred. “You have another idea?”

“I have noticed she is fond of Mrs Reynolds’s lemonade. She drinks it rather than wine each evening with her dinner. Likely, she cannot hold her liquor,” Anne reasoned. “She is frightened to take any, lest she reveal her weakness. You know how little Darcy cares for drunkards—one must only imagine how much the earl and countess would despise such a person. Miss Elizabeth, I daresay, would be deeply humiliated if she were to lose control before the entire party. Darcy would be disgusted. She might even go home, rather than face us all again.”

“That is true,” Miss Bingley said, her eyes now alight.

“What if we, after dinner, serve her some kind of liqueur perhaps mixed with real lemonade, but tell her it is an Italian or a Spanish lemonade, something like that, to explain the stronger flavour. Since she loves Reynolds’ strong lemonade, it will be to her taste.”

“What if she does not drink it?”

“She will—it would be rude to snub our polite gestures.” Anne had noticed that Miss Elizabeth’s manner was always proper. It would be so awkward for her to refuse. “Our glasses, naturally, will be plain lemonade. We will keep refilling hers—once she is inebriated, she will not notice. By then, it shall be too late.”

“True. But what if she complains later, accusing us of tricking her?”

“Who will believe her? We will appear to be drinking the same thing. I will have my woman remove the tainted pitcher as soon as she is foxed—Jenkinson is absolutely loyal, and will do anything to please me. Besides, Miss Elizabeth’s embarrassment over her own foolish behaviour will preclude mention of us, and at the same time, provide our reward.”

Miss Bingley rubbed her hands in glee. “Shall we do it tonight, do you think?”

“No, let us wait until tomorrow evening. I must make Jenkinson taste liqueurs until she finds what will work best with lemonade. Besides, if we wait until then, she will also have a sore head for the races Saturday morning.”

Laughing together, arm in arm they left the library, heedless of Miss Elizabeth, curled up with a book in a large wing chair in the library’s corner, raising a brow.