Chapter 30

There was an aura of excitement throughout the whole village, Elizabeth noticed. It was reminiscent of one of Meryton’s harvest festivals—villagers dressed in their finest apparel, children laughing and running, pies, cakes, gingerbread, fresh fruits, and roasted nuts for sale at the various stalls set up along the village green. The scents of meat roasting from a nearby field permeated the air.

Mr Darcy did not seem to share the jovial mood of the place; dressed in his usual black, he looked out of place, like a dark cloud amongst all the brighter, lively people surrounding him. She noticed, however, that he was greeted by everyone with the greatest pleasure—the older women pressing treats upon him, the children, even, circling him with smiles and the most cheerful address. What was more, he acknowledged each in his quiet fashion—he seemed to know every name.

The ‘race-track’ was not truly a race-track at all, but a dirt field in which a wide swath had been raked down smoothly. At the furthest end of it, three curricles, their drivers in plumed bonnets, awaited. Elizabeth was seated in an open-sided tent which had been erected upon a small platform, providing them an excellent view. She could not help but wish for the shadier lanes facing the field’s opposite, where most of the village—and it seemed, most of the country—was avoiding the afternoon heat amongst the large trees. How many attended this little village celebration? It must be in the thousands!

From this distance, she could make out the middle curricle as Sarah’s due to her distinctive emerald-green carriage dress—but could not identify the others.

“There are yet only three drivers,” Elizabeth commented. “Where is the fourth?”

Mr Bingley chuckled. “My sister is unwell this morning and opted out of racing anywhere except to the chamber-pot.”

Mr Darcy gave him a look, and Mr Bingley immediately apologised for his candour.

“It seems Miss de Bourgh does not suffer. I wonder, where is her mother?” Elizabeth asked, hiding a smile.

As if she had summoned her, Lady Catherine swept into the tent. “Darcy, we should begin. Ridiculous that any should even attempt to defeat Anne in a curricle race—she has been driving a decade at least. No one could possibly have her experience.”

“Miss Lushington has her own curricle at home,” Lady Matlock protested. “I am certain she has been driving for some time—although, she is several years Anne’s junior, so perhaps not as long.”

Point made, Elizabeth thought, as the Ridleys smiled.

“The Lushington girl and Miss Bentley should race first,” Lady Catherine charged, disregarding the insult. “Anne, as the best driver on the field, should only have to race the winner.”

“But then, Anne would be racing a fresh team against a lathered one,” the viscountess observed. “That would hardly be fair.”

“Put fresh ponies to the reins,” Lady Catherine shrugged.

“How many ponies do you believe Pemberley possesses?” Lord Ridley exclaimed. “Darcy, how many ponies did you have to borrow from your neighbours for this ridiculous event?”

Mr Darcy paid them no attention; Elizabeth had noted that as soon as his family began bickering, he almost always withdrew into silence, and could seldom be drawn in unless he was required to pronounce judgment.

Lord Matlock stood upon a separate, taller platform from whence his voice boomed. He was quite the showman, she noted—probably years of addressing parliament and the House of Lords had cultivated a talent for public speaking, as he announced the race and the drivers, to the cheers of the crowd—most of whom probably could not hear any of what he said.

Elizabeth saw Mr Darcy’s concern. She had a sudden, inexplicable desire to provide reassurance.

“It is a very large field,” she said softly. “They appear to be spaced widely apart. Surely there is little to go amiss.”

He gave a slight shake of his head. “Anything can happen. A wrong hitch of the reins, a stumble, a flying stone, a shying horse. I will be glad when this idiotic contest is finished.”

A pistol shot, and then they were off. The three curricles jolted into motion.

Right from the first, Miss de Bourgh took the lead—although Sarah was not far behind. Miss Lushington took the pace at a trot, but seemed to have no interest whatsoever in keeping up with the other two. Elizabeth noted however, that she cut a fine figure at the reins, and looked to be a skilled, safe driver.

“I think I would ride with Miss Lushington, given my choice,” she murmured, and Darcy nodded slightly.

But Miss de Bourgh and Sarah hurtled up the centre, now neck and neck; gradually, Sarah began to pull ahead. They had drawn closer together as they dashed forward. Elizabeth saw Miss de Bourgh glance over very briefly, then, realising how near Sarah was to winning the thing, began whipping her ponies in earnest. It earned her a brief charge and no more—Sarah’s curricle took the finish, flying through the ribbon marking its end.

Sarah turned her team to make a wide loop, circling back around when Miss de Bourgh jolted her team forward in a much tighter circle in the same direction. Miss Lushington, a distant third, evidently decided it was too large a bother to finish her course, and merely turned her vehicle—but apparently not seeing Miss de Bourgh behind Sarah, she cut rather sharply. Unfortunately, this put her directly in the midst of the two other vehicles—just as Miss de Bourgh surged forward.

It was hard to see what happened—the mass of horses converged suddenly on a central point. Clouds of dust kicked up within the fray as each driver tried to slow and turn away; perhaps a stone was kicked up, or a rein pulled too tightly. Elizabeth’s private feeling was that Miss de Bourgh’s too-frequent use of her whip might have overexcited her team; at any rate, one of the de Bourgh ponies suddenly shied, attempting a charge at Sarah’s curricle.

Sarah’s team bolted.

Elizabeth stood, swallowing against the urge to scream, her feelings frantic; Mr Darcy practically hurled himself from the tent, taking off at a furious pace, but of course he was much too far from the horses to have any chance of reaching them. Mr Bingley, who took a few moments to understand the situation, set off after him as Lord Matlock shouted at the horses. Sarah was sawing at the reins, attempting to slow them—but crowds of people were in her way, scrambling in all directions, terrifying the already frightened horses, and turning a once-wide field into a mere crooked trail. It seemed impossible that no one would be injured. One man, however, emerged from the trees at a run ahead of the Bentley team’s path—running towards the bolting horses, instead of away.

Suddenly the unknown man launched himself, practically flying at the nearest horse as it charged towards him; he clung to the pole, then scrambled to mount, nearly falling off in the process, causing a collective gasp from the stands as well as more than a few screams.

It seemed to take forever, at least in Elizabeth’s mind—probably it was only seconds—but the man, somehow, managed to calm the terrorised horses, and Sarah was able to bring the team to a halt. In one smooth motion, he leapt from the lathered beast as men from the village descended upon the team. The sound of applause and approving shouts roared from around Elizabeth. Sarah’s rescuer seemed not to notice, only giving a long look at her. Sarah held her gloved hand out to him, and he helped her from the curricle. She stood there, looking up at him, placing one hand upon his cheek.

Even from this distance, Elizabeth could plainly see that one side of his face was horribly disfigured—the side Sarah touched.

It was such an intimate, personal gesture, that Elizabeth looked away.

“Richard!” gasped Lady Matlock.

“Hideous,” muttered Lady Catherine. “He looks much worse than I was led to believe.”

“He is a hero!” Elizabeth cried.

Lady Catherine paid her no attention, turning instead to the viscountess, Lady Ridley. “It would have been unnecessary for him to show himself had your sister ever learnt to drive!”

Lord Ridley gave her a look of disgust, but Lady Matlock burst into tears.

Elizabeth returned her attention to the field; Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley had reached the vehicle and stood with the villagers. Mr Darcy, plainly, was giving directions regarding the disposition of all three curricles. Footmen led Miss de Bourgh and Miss Lushington back towards the estate house. The hero of the day turned his back on everyone, stalking off in the direction of the woods. Sarah stood beside her vehicle, seeming alone in the crowd, watching him go.