Page 52 of A Matter of Murder
“Come along, Caroline,” Bingley called. “You too. You can even play with the pink mallet.”
Lizzie was shocked when Caroline stood. “Of course I will. The pink one is mine.”
“Come along, Lizzie,” Charlotte said, getting to her feet. “It wouldn’t do to be unsporting.”
“Oh no, it wouldn’t do at all,” Lizzie said as she followed Charlotte and accepted a yellow mallet. If Caroline could play, then Lizzie could certainly learn. It was clear that this was a familiar game with Bingley, Caroline, and Darcy, and she did her best to pay attention as Bingley explained the rules—the wickets that were arranged about the grass, and the goal of whacking the ball through the wickets with their mallets in as few hits as possible... but one had to follow an order.
“Charles always makes it harder by putting the wickets as far apart as he can manage,” Caroline said.
“Not harder,” Bingley said, pointing at the various wickets in the distance. “More interesting.”
“So you say,” Darcy said, lining up his mallet to take the first swing. With a great thwack, the ball soared through the air and bounced a bit on the springy green grass, just short of the wicket.
“Lucky shot!” Bingley cried, and gestured for Jane to go next.
They all took turns—Jane’s falling a bit short, for she was hesitant to hit the ball as hard, Caroline’s ball landing rather close to Darcy’s, and Kitty and Lydia taking a few wayward swings before each managing to hit their balls in the direction of the wicket. Mary hit the farthest shot, overshooting the wicket by a good ten paces, but Bingley assured her that wasjust fine. Bingley himself then took a shot that nudged Darcy’s ball closer to the wicket, and a confusing conversation ensued about the rules for hitting another person’s ball, and finally it was Lizzie’s turn.
She’d watched all the others go before her, and they had made it seem easy. Therefore, she made the mistake of assuming there was no strategy or form to hitting her ball with her mallet, but when the wooden head caught the side of the ball, the force of her exuberant swing sent her ball soaring... all the way over to the right. Quite far from the first wicket.
“Oh, drat,” she muttered. She turned to look at Bingley, who was struggling to suppress a laugh. “What now?”
“After Charlotte swings, you go to your ball, and you try to get the ball closer to the wicket in your next turn,” Darcy said, not even bothering to hide his amusement.
Charlotte took her turn, and Lizzie wasn’t certain whether she’d accidentally hit her ball off to the right as well or if she’d done it out of solidarity, but on the next round, they both ended up on the far right of the lawn, watching as everyone else (much closer to the wicket) took their turns.
Lizzie was, by nature, somewhat competitive. She liked having goals, and she liked them even more when she knew that someone else was also striving for the same thing... and there was motive for her to accomplish it first. This drive, however, did not extend to yard games. It was just hitting a ball with a stick! Under the sun! And soon everyone was spread out across the great lawn, so it was impossible to hold a conversation—theothers had to shout at them when it was their turn as they advanced across the green space toward the next wickets.
“This is driving you mad, isn’t it?” Charlotte asked as they both managed to (finally) nudge their balls through the first wicket. The others cheered from the third (and in Darcy’s case, fourth) wicket, and Lizzie waved at them.
“What is even the point of a house party,” she whispered, “unless it is to torture your guests with tiresome activities and take bets on who will leave first?”
“I believe the point is to socialize, but in a different setting,” Charlotte replied with a laugh.
“I can socialize perfectly well back home,” Lizzie grumbled, but she didn’t have it in her to be truly grumpy. After all, Jane appeared to be smiling, and their younger sisters were entertained. Caroline wasn’t complaining for once, and it was nice to see Bingley and Darcy ribbing each other as they continually knocked their balls into each other—Lizzie couldn’t deduce whether that was part of the game or just how Bingley and Darcy played it.
“You are like your father,” Charlotte said. “You love the work, so it’s difficult to be away.”
Lizzie looked over her shoulder to the tent where her parents sat. “I suppose.”
“Have you forgiven him yet?”
Lizzie looked in surprise at Charlotte. “Pardon?”
“You can tell me if I am overstepping,” her friend said, “but you seem to have made your peace with Darcy. However, you’ve hardly spoken to your father since you arrived.”
Lizzie sighed. Charlotte was right, of course. “I just... hate it when he makes decisions that concern me without consulting me.”
“I know. But he loves you. And he wants you to be safe. Well, as safe as you can be while still investigating various suspicious deaths.” Charlotte nudged her, her smile teasing.
Lizzie strained to return it. Charlotte didn’t know about the letter from Lady Catherine that Lizzie had received that morning... or the promise she’d extracted from Darcy to keep it secret for now. But she looked out across the lawn. Her sisters were happy and safe. Her dog was running across the grass, tongue lolling, and Darcy was chasing him. Her mother was napping in the shade of her married daughter’s country estate, which was quite possibly the pinnacle of all her hopes and dreams these past twenty years.
“You’re right,” Lizzie said reluctantly, thinking for the first time that maybe it was a good thing they’d left London after all, despite Lady Catherine’s note.
“Did you learn anything of interest this morning?”
Lizzie caught Charlotte up on their visit to the Burtons and the strange encounter between Sally and Miss Jeffries in the graveyard, and then Mr. Oliver’s confrontation. She finished with Sally’s parting words, and Charlotte’s expression turned thoughtful.
“What an interesting question,” she said. “What if the man from the fireplace wasn’t a guest or servant but a thief?”