Chapter 47

The day of the treasure hunt dawned windy and overcast. Despite the weather—certainly not unusual for the second day of September—there was no reason for Elizabeth’s low spirits. Jane was slowly recuperating—the difference even a few days had made to her recovery was remarkable, a blessing for which Elizabeth would always be grateful. Yet, it meant that their time at Pemberley was drawing to a close. Any day now, she expected Mr Hall to say the words she—and presumably Jane—dreaded: “It is safe for you to travel, Miss Bennet.” It had not happened yet, and Jane was still a bit fragile. But soon.

Elizabeth had always been an early riser, but had grown accustomed to spending the morning with her sister, sharing cups of chocolate while urging Jane to eat more heartily from her morning tray. Not until Jane was resting again would she head downstairs for her own quiet breakfast, often having the parlour to herself.

This morning, however, Mr Darcy sat alone at the table eating; for a moment, Elizabeth paused in the doorway, nearly turning away before finding her courage, smiling at him, and getting a plate for herself. She did not put much on it, however. No matter how she enjoyed his company, it was her object to avoid being alone with him—she enjoyed it too much, and she needed no help falling further in love.

“No shooting this morning?” she asked politely.

He shrugged. “I believe everyone, even my uncle, has finally had enough sport. Thank goodness, for the vicar assures me the charity baskets have been overfilled, and I am heartily sick of grouse, no matter how many different ways Chef prepares it. Do not tell him I said so.” He gave her that little half-smile that tingled up her spine.

“You enjoy shooting?”

“I do. Fishing, however, is more to my preference.”

“My uncle very much enjoys fishing, although he cannot indulge in the sport as often as he would like.”

“Does he? I will invite him to join us here, if you think he would come. Pemberley’s streams are a treasure trove to any fisherman.”

Elizabeth looked at him in astonishment. Everything about this place bespoke tradition, hammered in wealth and set in marble. Heavens, with the exception of the one night when she had been seated beside him after Miss Bingley’s ‘attack’, Darcy had never once intervened in Pemberley’s formal dining arrangements—which loudly proclaimed her ‘position’ in life. She had never expected he would. The relative stations of their births dictated more than simply her table setting; it was her welcome, her present, and her future—and her birth was only barely acceptable. Edward Gardiner’s was positively deplorable, in comparison.

“My uncle…my uncle Gardiner?”

“Do you have another?”

“My other uncle is an attorney in Meryton. He does not fish,” she replied, a bit nonsensically. “But sir…surely I have already said—Mr Gardiner’s life is in Cheapside, not…in society.”

He looked directly into her eyes. “Elizabeth,” he said, the sound of her name upon his lips thrilling, “if you had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside, it would not make you one jot less agreeable to me. Your uncle is welcome in any home of mine. Do you understand?”

At that moment, Sarah and Georgiana entered, laughing and talking, and the intimacy of the moment was lost—almost, even, Elizabeth doubted whether it had taken place. He surely could not mean what it sounded like he had meant. And yet, what other meaning was there?

She had believed he had regrets because she was so very unsuitable; she knew he still cared for their friendship. Could he have decided to disregard such things?

But he does not truly know the depths of your unsuitability, does he?she reminded herself. He only thinks he does.

The company wasin a convivial mood when, after dinner, they congregated in the gold drawing room to begin the treasure hunt. Some of the party would not be taking part—old Mr Fletcher and Lord Roden, and Jane of course, who was allowed downstairs but must sit quietly. Mr Bingley had gallantly declared his intention of keeping the non-participants entertained.

“I hold in my hands your lists of clues,” the earl announced, addressing them all. “Please note that every person’s list is either slightly or wholly different, so it will do you no good to simply follow another player about, collecting the same items.”

Ridley snorted. “Anyone with a partially functioning brain knows to collect items not on one’s list whenever another player might be looking. Besides, Darcy will solve all his riddles with a glance, and he knows the whereabouts of every bit and bobbin in the house.”

“Naturally, I declare myself ineligible for any prize,” Darcy replied coolly.

“I am ineligible as well, although I am not near so good at riddles as my brother,” Georgiana put in. “We are playing for the fun of it. Cassandra and I are a team, are we not?” She squeezed the hand of Ridley’s eight-year-old daughter, who had been allowed to join in the fun.

“Darcy, playing children’s games? And to think, I lived to see it,” Mr Fitzwilliam said, even as Sarah elbowed him in affectionate reproof.

Darcy did not visibly respond to his cousin’s teasing, and in fact appeared as emotionless as ever, but Elizabeth knew better now. Once, she might even have believed him offended; then, she might not have noticed the lightness in his expression, the easy set of his shoulders that bespoke a man content with his friends. Before a group, he spoke formally always—she wondered whether his father had been the same. Lady Matlock, she saw, smiled benignly upon the company as a whole, and her sons in particular. Some of the pinched expression she had worn at the beginning of this house party had gone; she looked softer, happier. The earl was positively jovial as he named a few more rules.

“Mr Darcy’s study, the nursery, and the occupied bedchambers are all out of bounds—except, of course, for your own. If you desire anything from the kitchen, you must ask it of the servant stationed within, and not tear through cupboards yourself. None of us wish to excite Darcy’s chef, do we?” He looked around at each, making sure none did. “No one is to remove paintings from any wall, regardless of whether an item on a list is pictured thereon.”

Elizabeth smiled to herself; only aristocrats would have to remind their guests that priceless portraiture must not be used for game tokens.

“My lady wife has authored most of the riddles—thank you, my dear—and she shall be final arbiter in case of any dispute. I am certain we shall all remember that this is only a game, and accept her word as final, shall we not? I require your word of honour on this point. We need not ruin lives over a silly riddle, correct?” He aimed an especially direct look at the gentlemen, who each nodded in return.

It was a necessary reminder, Elizabeth knew. Duels had been fought over much less.

“There is something insufferably tedious about riddles,” Lady Catherine declared. “I did of course offer to compose them myself. Had I been allowed, they would have been much more rational and less open to different interpretations.”

“Much more rational, my dear sister, I daresay, but they would not be near so much like riddles.”

“If I promise not to shoot Ridley, may we begin?” Mr Fitzwilliam demanded impatiently. “I have a ring to purchase, and would like to win this prize before my bride-to-be has time to change her mind.”

Lady Matlock looked briefly appalled at the jest, but Sarah only grinned. “I shall be happy to wear a curtain-ring from you, my dear, if I am the winner.”

Miss Bingley appeared disgusted, but Miss Lushington smiled. Anne de Bourgh stared at the couple, wide-eyed, as though she had never before seen a man and woman in love.

Chuckling, the earl produced a stack of envelopes, which he handed around. Elizabeth was given one with her name written upon it in Lady Matlock’s precise hand.

“On your marks,” the earl called, cutting through their murmurs. “You may now begin.”

Elizabeth broke the seal and scanned her list. She and Jane had been given the same riddle after their musical performances—she assumed Miss Lushington had as well—written out in Lady Matlock’s hand. It was the first one listed on her paper, and the answer, she knew, was a calling card case—one was in her pocket. The silly riddle Darcy had told her in the maze was next—she had green thread in the same pocket—but had never returned to him the handkerchief he had lent to her. For a moment, sorrow threatened, but she shoved it aside to read the next riddle:

I am known to the poorest and worst,

And my worth by a child may be reckoned;

The least thing in nature is double my first,

And my whole is just half of my second.

Smiling, she hastily headed for her room, sure she had a half-penny in her reticule.