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  “Miss Elizabeth! Miss Elizabeth!” That shout could only belong to Miss Darcy. Her disposition had been so unpredictable recently.

  Elizabeth arranged her features into what was hopefully a pleasant order.

  A flurry of white muslin and ribbons ran toward her. A young maid hurried to keep up—not Miss Darcy’s companion. Interesting, no companion. Could that be the very point of the call?

  Had Mr. Darcy listened to her advice after all? She covered her mouth with hand—that probably should not be as pleasing as it was. But it was a great compliment, especially when he had initially thought it ridiculous.

  Miss Darcy reached her side, panting and gasping for breath. “I am so very glad to have found you.”

  “You will forgive me if I hardly consider that a noteworthy achievement. You do it so regularly, I would think it something taken for granted.” Elizabeth cocked her head and lifted her eyebrow.

  “How can you be a wit at a time like this? I am in such a state, and you see fit to make jokes?” Miss Darcy’s eyes bulged, and her cheeks puffed out just a bit. If she had any idea of how like a pug that expression made her look, the poor girl would be certain never to do it again.

  Elizabeth pressed her lips together hard, now was not the time to laugh—it would certainly be misunderstood. She looped her arm into Miss Darcy’s and looked at the young maid. “Go to the kitchen and take a rest there. The cook will give you something to eat.”

  “Thank you, madam.” The girl scurried off, head down, as quickly as she could without earning an admonition not to run. Miss Darcy must have been in high dudgeon, taking it out on the unfortunate servant all the way to the vicarage.

  “Come now, you know I always improve your spirits. Let us stroll in the woods. One can hardly hold on to an ill-temper there.” She encouraged Miss Darcy along a graveled path that circled the kitchen and flower gardens. Mr. Darcy had added the gravel just a few months ago when it became so muddy it was difficult for Papa to walk it.

  “I am not ill-tempered. I am at sixes and sevens.” Pebbles crunched and crackled as they gave way under Miss Darcy’s heavy footfalls. “I know I shall remain so if you do not help me.”

  Elizabeth pointed to the white painted bench with rough roses carved in the back that sat under the shade of a cluster of oaks and beckoned Miss Darcy to sit with her.

  Two songbirds began a conversation in the treetops overhead. They scanned the branches for the songsters, but the musical parties remained hidden in the leaves.

  “Fitzwilliam has done it again.” Miss Darcy slumped and let her head hang, chin to chest.

  “He has hired another companion?”

  “No, no. It is much worse than that.” Miss Darcy’s penchant for finding something to be unhappy about—well it was not her most endearing trait.

  “You will have to explain.”

  “He has planned a house party. I am not only to attend, but to help entertain our guests. He wants me to plan a picnic. A picnic!”

  “That sounds like a very good thing.? I am surprised you are not more pleased.” Elizabeth bit her bottom lip. Had she been so mistaken?

  “I do not know how to do such a thing. You of all people should know that. Fitzwilliam wants me to be an accomplished young lady so he can marry me off and be rid of me. But I am … am ... just a disappointment to him.” Miss Darcy jumped up and stalked along the length of the bench. “Look at me. I am nearly sixteen years old, and I can hardly read. I have had teachers and masters. Not one of them has made the letters stay on the page any better than the next.”

  “You play beautifully on the pianoforte, and you sing—”

  “It is not good enough—not for my brother.”

  “Your French is so good; everyone who has heard you believes you a native speaker.”

  Miss Darcy extended open hands, silently demanding answers no one had. “Only until they write something for me to translate for them or ask me to read them some French poetry. Then they call me willful and stubborn—”

  “I am sure that cannot happen often.”

  “Then you are surely wrong. Only this morning Fitzwilliam demanded I read to him in French—in the morning room, no less! He wanted me to practice reading for our guests—according to him, my voice is so pretty it will surely entertain them. It was only by a stroke of great luck that he turned to a piece I memorized long ago. I recited it to him—I thought he would have been pleased. You would have expected that, no?”

  Elizabeth nodded, though her gut knotted. Knowing Mr. Darcy, there was only one way this would end.

  “Can you imagine—it only made him angry. Angry! He thinks I am headstrong or stupid—I do not know which—simply because I cannot always render so flawless a performance. You see, even when I do something correctly, it is not enough for him. It never will be.”

  “I am so sorry.” Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it into Miss Darcy’s hand. “Your memory is so good; I can hardly think of a time you have had to work to commit something to memory. Surely that must count for something.”

  “Nothing pleases my brother.”

  “I know this is difficult to believe, but this house party may turn into something very good indeed.”

  “And how do you see my brother’s high-handedness being so very good?” Tears trickled down Miss Darcy’s cheeks.

  “I have every faith that you can do what he has asked of you and do it very well. When you see that you can succeed—I am sure it will make a great deal of difference in so many things.”

  “How can I possibly plan anything? I cannot write, and I know lists will need to be made. I cannot even read receipts to select the food for the picnic.” Her words trailed off in a sob.

  “Have you spoken to Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “So that she can know how stupid I am? Of course not.”

  Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose. She was only sixteen; allowances must be made. “Her role as housekeeper is to assist you and make certain you succeed. She was a great help to your mother, especially when her … eyes were too tired to read or write. I recall Mrs. Reynolds often writing what your mother dictated, even reading to her at times. I have no doubt she will be ready to help you as well.”

  Miss Darcy peeked up over the handkerchief, eyes wide with surprise, or was it disbelief? “I had no idea she did those things for my mother.”

  “You are not nearly as alone as you like to believe yourself to be.”

  “I am afraid I might do this wrong. What will happen if it is a disaster?” She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking down her cheeks.

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. It was only a picnic. Just how much could go wrong with a picnic? “I am certain—”

  “I know it will be well if you help me. Will you help me? Pray, say you will. I know I can do it if you are there with me, advising me like you do with Fitzwilliam.” She caught Elizabeth’s hand and tugged at it.

  “I do not advise your brother.”

  “He trusts your judgment more than anyone else’s. So do I. Pray help me as you help him, and I know all will be well.”

  “I cannot neglect my duties at home, but—” Hopefully, she would not regret this. “—I will help you as much as I can.”

  Chapter 2

  A remarkable three weeks passed. Darcy peeked into the music room. Light, lilting strains poured through the open door. His mother had designed the room with balance and harmony in mind, but recent years rarely saw much peace here, filled instead with Georgiana’s unpredictable moods and tempers. The last few weeks had changed that. Now the pale-yellow walls—populated with landscapes and floral nature studies—and the teal-upholstered furnishings radiated the peace of a summer’s day. Either the harp in the right-hand corner near the windows or the pianoforte on the left were in nearly constant use, offering soothing melodies to whomever walked past.

  This morning, Georgiana sat at the pianoforte, eyes closed, shoulders swaying in time with the music, a faint smile pla
ying at her lips. Was that a new piece? No wait, Miss Mary Bennet had played that refrain, though not nearly so pleasingly, a week before when the Bennets visited for supper and cards. How did Georgiana manage to play so well with no music and only hearing the melody once? If only she could learn other things so easily.

  Clearly, she was not stupid. But willful? Perhaps.

  Why did she simply not do what she was asked, when she was asked, in the way she was asked?

  He clenched one fist behind his back. There was a way that things should be done—was that really so hard to accept? Fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Miss Elizabeth insisted that methods which worked constituted the “right way” to do something. It was an annoying notion, but perhaps it applied now. The prickly sensation eased a bit.

  As long as Georgiana continued on her path to improvement, he would hold his peace. This boded very well for the house party.

  He turned away and continued down the corridor. Their guests were to arrive today, assuming their travels proceeded as planned. Pray Miss Elizabeth was right and the experience inspired Georgiana toward further improvement.

  The butler approached. “Sir, you requested to be notified when the carriages were seen on the lane.”

  “Very good. Tell Mrs. Reynolds to lay refreshments in the blue parlor rather than the drawing room.”

  The butler bowed and hurried off. Darcy strode to the large window at the end of the corridor. Several carriages trundled up the road. The leading one bore the Fitzwilliam family crest. Perhaps he would have a few moments to familiarize Richard with the news of Georgiana. He would be pleased to hear of her progress.

  A few minutes later, the butler announced, “Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss de Bourgh.”

  Darcy froze where he stood, stomach threatening to drop into his shoes. The de Bourgh name did that. Pray, let not Aunt Catherine have decided to accompany Anne. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched his temples. It was just the sort of thing Aunt Catherine was apt to do, especially when the house party offered a most tempting opportunity to “manage family business.”

  A brisk walk to the blue parlor sloughed away a bit of the tension, but not enough.

  His mother had decorated this parlor in defiance of her sister’s wishes and tastes. According to Aunt Catherine, it was too small and too bright. Sky blue was a dreadfully blue sort of color for a room—honestly, what logic offered such a critique? The furniture was too small and friendly, lacking the grandeur such a room should have. On and on she would go at how insufficient, informal, and inappropriate the room was. On that recommendation alone, Darcy would never see it altered. And it was good reason to use it to receive his guests now.

  Richard ushered Anne into the parlor, both a little dusty, but seemingly in good spirits. Anne wore the vaguely disdainful expression she usually wore, but it appeared more habitual than meaningful. After all, Pemberley offered exactly the type of accommodations and appointments to which she was accustomed.

  Richard still had shadows around his eyes—an unchanging feature ever since his return from France. Even his retirement from the army had not altered them. Despite his ready, if somewhat forced smile, they remained.

  “Are you going to greet us?” Anne’s voice was pleasant—for the moment—with only the barest edge of ire.

  Darcy bowed toward her. “Of course, you are welcome, Anne. I was just wondering what you might need for your comfort after your long journey.”

  “You kill me with your solicitude, cousin. Tell me, how do you plan for us to make merry whilst we are here?” Anne tossed her head and minced her way to an open armchair. So, she was trying on her mother’s persona today. Hopefully the whim would pass soon.

  Though her health had improved, she was still unattractive: thin and pale. Prominent collarbones demonstrated her frailty while the blue veins that stood out on her thin skin harkened back to the sickroom. One was afraid to cough in her direction, lest she take ill.

  Anne ran her hand along the edge of a chair and sat down. “These are very dated—utterly out of fashion now. At the very least, you ought to have them recovered. What will your other guests say?”

  Richard dropped heavily onto the settee and slumped like a feed sack against a barn wall. “That they are grateful for the invitation and find everything entirely to their liking. To do otherwise would be entirely rude.”

  “Yes, yes, but what would they be thinking? Surely you must be concerned with their good opinion.” Anne’s eyes narrowed—no doubt she was formulating a way to correct Richard for his posture.

  “If their good opinion is lost because of my furnishings, then it was not worth having in the first place,” Darcy muttered through gritted teeth.

  “That only shows how little you understand of people’s opinions and whose is worth the earning. I grant you the current party—that Bingley fellow and his sister, if I recall correctly—may not be the most fashionable of company. Their judgments may be of little consequence. But one never knows when someone might come into a place whose impressions do matter. If I were mistress here—”

  Darcy jumped and all but ran toward the sideboard, laden with covered dishes. “Do you care for refreshments? I imagine you must be ready for proper food after having taken your meals at inns the last three days.”

  “Yes, that is a lovely idea.” Anne excused herself to the side board.

  Darcy edged to Richard’s side and whispered, “Is Aunt Catherine following?”

  Richard made that face he had used since childhood to express extreme disdain. It had been uproariously funny at age ten, but not since. “No, but not because she did not suggest it would be a good idea. I fear I had to argue that if Anne spent time alone in your company, it might make you more sympathetic in taking Anne—”

  “Not that again! How could you have placed those expectations on me?”

  “It slipped out in a moment of weakness, after a third glass of port. I was desperate. It seemed less bad than having our aunt join us.”

  Darcy rubbed the back of his neck. “Perhaps it is a very good thing for England you are no longer in the service of the King.”

  “It is a very good thing for me.” A savage look filled his eyes, but fled almost as quickly as it came. “Besides, with your other guests, there will be sufficient distraction for Anne to forget about her mission of marriage.”

  Anne forget her lifelong motivation? “I think that hardly likely.”

  “No coconut macaroons, Darcy? I should have though you would have remembered those were my favorite.” Anne flounced back to her seat, a little pout on her lips.

  Richard cleared his throat—a warning sound Anne would probably ignore.

  “I shall have Mrs. Reynolds place an order with the confectioner.”

  “Our French chef prepares them himself.” Anne’s eyebrows rose and she peered down her prominent Fitzwilliam nose.

  “My English cook does not.” Darcy ground his teeth lest he say anything to further this conversation.

  “And that is why you must bring on a French chef. You know, I could help you manage all these details …”

  “Excuse me. I will speak to Mrs. Reynolds.” He walked out in slow, measured steps. Running was undignified.

  Thankfully, once promised her macaroons, Anne was easily persuaded to retire to her rooms and rest from her travels. Through not as delicate as she once was, she still had little stamina. Just as well—Darcy preferred to greet his other guests without her insinuating herself at his side. No one would benefit from the misguided idea that she might be hostess at Pemberley.

  Richard drained the last of his beer and set his glass aside. “Do not allow her to get under your skin. Anne has had no better example to learn from than her mother. Now that her health has improved, you will see. She will develop a whole new set of irritating habits from the ladies of the ton. On the bright side, her dowry will attract enough attention that you will no longer be her primary aim.”

  “I fear Georgiana will lear
n from her.”

  “When she is not trying to win your attentions—and Pemberley as her mother demands—she really is not a bad sort.”

  “Have you considered trying to keep Rosings in the Fitzwilliam family?”

  Richard chuckled. “I said she is not a bad sort, not that she is of stern enough stuff to tolerate a crusty old soldier like me.”

  The butler entered. “Sir Alexander Garland and Miss Garland.”

  Richard rose and bowed. “How good to see you Garland, Miss Garland. May I introduce my cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Darcy bowed. Neither of his two newest guests bore any resemblance to his expectations.

  Garland was by far the largest man he had ever seen—not the tallest, but the most heavily muscled. Impeccably proportioned, he resembled nothing so much as a larger-than-life marble statue with all aspects chiseled and carved to perfection. Jealousy might be a reasonable response, except that Garland provided a worthy target for Anne’s attentions, making him exactly the sort of man Darcy most wanted at Pemberley now.

  Valkyrie. That was the only word to describe the woman beside Garland. Darcy swallowed hard, sweat prickling his upper lip. Her face—quite handsome—was the feminine form of her brother’s. She was easily as tall as Darcy himself. Her expression was impossible to read. Neither pleasure nor censure read in her brilliant, glittering icy blue eyes.

  “It was very good of you to invite us on the strength of Fitzwilliam’s suggestion alone.” Garland glanced at Richard. “Though I am left wondering what precisely he told you, and how Blanche and I are to live up to it.”

  Miss Garland lifted an arched eyebrow ever so slightly. A painter ought to capture that expression on canvas.

  “Be at ease, I have said nothing that was not entirely true.” Richard gestured for them to sit.