Page 24 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Twenty-Four

May 30, 1812

L ongbourn was in chaos.

Ribbons trailed over chairs, bonnets dangled from banisters, and the scent of lavender starch clung to every hem as the Bennet household prepared to descend upon Meryton’s annual Planting Festival—a yearly affair where country manners collided with town gossip and no one’s waistcoat escaped unwrinkled.

“I need my green gloves!” Lydia cried from somewhere upstairs. “Not the yellow—Kitty, did you take them?”

Kitty’s voice echoed back. “Why would I want your ridiculous gloves? You sit in the grass and then cry when they stain!”

Mrs. Bennet was in rare form, fluttering between rooms and demanding that someone pin her brooch straighter. “The festival will be half-wasted if we do not arrive before the Netherfield party,” she declared. “And I want us seen. All of us! Even you, Mary, though heaven knows you will scowl your way through the flower carts. Lizzy, do try to smile—oh, I shall have to introduce you to Mrs. Long and Mrs. Purvis…”

Elizabeth stood in the corner of her room, twisting the tie of her bonnet with a reluctant hand.

“It will not kill you to smile,” Jane said, adjusting a pearl-tipped pin above her ear. “The festival is harmless, and Mama has been planning our arrival for more than a week.”

Elizabeth gave her a dry look. “So has Napoleon. That does not make me eager to march into battle.”

Jane suppressed a smile. “Hardly a battle. It is only a village fête.”

“A fête where half the guests think I am someone I am not, and the other half wonder why no one has asked. Forgive me if I do not thrill to the prospect of parsnip displays and curious glances.”

“No one doubts you, Lizzy, and before you protest, let me remind you that nobody listens to Collins. You are being dramatic.”

Elizabeth turned from the mirror. “I am being strategic. I spent the first week in this village blundering around in borrowed shoes. I would rather not compound that by letting the vicar’s wife ask if I am fond of root vegetables while she tries to place my face. What if someone recognizes me?”

Jane leaned over to adjust the ribbon on Elizabeth’s bonnet. “You have been to Meryton half a dozen times before and no one knew you as anyone but our cousin. Why should today be any different?”

“Because we…” Elizabeth stopped and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Because Mr. Darcy sent a letter that made it seem like I had gone elsewhere. What good will that do if I am seen in town today?”

Jane frowned speculatively. “Well, I know nothing about that. But I do know that Mr. Bingley spoke to him at length about plans for the day, and Mr. Darcy voiced no specific concerns.”

“You mean beyond his usual glowering and grumbling?”

Jane squeezed her hand. “Nothing will go wrong. Mr. Bingley will be beside us at all times, and Mr. Darcy close by. You will not be alone, Lizzy.”

“The prime minister was not alone when they shot him, now, was he?”

Jane’s face paled, as if it was the first time she had thought of it. “Well… But surely, if Mr. Darcy did not think it too dangerous…”

Elizabeth sighed. “Very well. But I draw the line at admiring anyone’s marrow crop.”

Downstairs, a loud crash signaled the fall of someone’s bonnet box. Elizabeth sighed and tied her bonnet with an air of martyrdom.

They descended together into the fray, stepping over a fallen shoe and dodging Mary’s attempt to read aloud from a volume of devotional poetry.

In the foyer, Mr. Bennet leaned against the newel post, watching the scene like a man observing a distant battlefield.

“Well, this is festive,” he said. “All this for the chance to stand about a muddy field admiring turnips and pretending to care what the vicar’s wife planted last year.”

“I was just saying the same,” Elizabeth murmured, drawing alongside him.

Mr. Bennet cast her a sidelong glance. “Ah, but your reasons are likely nobler than mine. I simply hate crowds. You, I suspect, are concerned about being noticed.”

“Should I not be? I still cannot believe my ‘guardian’ thought this at all a reasonable idea. Should I not be hiding here at Longbourn while we wait to see if that decoy letter has fooled anyone about my whereabouts?”

“Unfortunately, my dear ‘niece,’ I am afraid that would only cause more talk, for Mr. Collins would find it irregular enough to make a comment or three, do you not agree?”

She grimaced and nodded. Not only Mr. Collins, but Mrs. Bennet and Lydia would express their disappointment over her absence rather vocally as well.

“And it would be inadvisable for you to be here alone, so naturally you must have a capable ‘bodyguard.’ If it were observed—as it would be, of course—that Mr. Darcy is similarly absent from the festivities, we would have a different sort of scandal on our hands. So, you see, there is some safety in numbers.”

“There is ‘safety’ in company that does not gossip,” she muttered.

He patted her hand. “I used to entertain that fantasy myself, until I learned its futility. It will pass, my dear. Just keep walking and do not answer any questions you do not like. It is what I have done these past twenty years.”

A footman opened the front door, and the breeze caught Mrs. Bennet’s voice mid-command. “Girls! Into the carriages now—unless you mean to miss every eligible gentleman within thirty miles!”

Mr. Collins, meanwhile, stood stiffly by the door with his hat clutched to his chest and a grim sort of anticipation gleaming in his eyes.

“Mr. Bennet,” he announced, “as your guest and as a devoted servant of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I believe it is most proper that I should escort your eldest daughter in the first carriage. Miss Bennet, if you please—”

But before Jane could formulate a reply—whether courteous or otherwise—the clatter of hooves on gravel interrupted them.

A chestnut gelding crested the drive. Mr. Bingley, beaming and windblown, doffed his hat.

“Good morning, Longbourn!” he called. “Have I missed the parade?”

Mrs. Bennet clutched her shawl in delight. “Mr. Bingley! Oh, what a joy—you must ride beside us to the green! Such a gallant escort! Jane, Lizzy, and… oh, I suppose Mary, you shall ride in this carriage so that Mr. Bingley may ride beside us.”

Mr. Bennet gave a soft grunt of amusement. “Timely, that one,” he murmured to Elizabeth.

Mr. Collins blinked rapidly and took a step back, clearly flustered. “Well… I… I suppose—though—I had intended—that is, it would have been—”

Mr. Bennet, without blinking, said, “I suppose that leaves us in the second carriage, Mr. Collins. Kitty, Lydia, you as well.”

Mr. Collins opened and closed his mouth like a startled fish.

Bingley dismounted to aid in assisting the ladies into the carriage. “My sisters are still dressing, and Mr. Hurst volunteered to accompany them. I thought I might ride ahead and offer my services.”

“Consider yourself most welcome, sir,” gushed Mrs. Bennet as she patted his shoulder when he helped her inside. And Elizabeth had to suppress a giggle when she turned to Jane and, in a rather loud-ish “whisper,” bubbled something about feeling no padding under the gentleman’s coat.

Mr. Bingley only blushed at her remarks and leaned a little closer to Elizabeth as he offered to hand her in. “Darcy will be arriving separately, but rest assured, he intends to remain… vigilant.”

Elizabeth blinked, then nodded once. “Of course. I would have expected nothing less.”

Bingley smiled. “Shall we, then?”

And with that, the door of the carriage closed, and the slow descent into the lion’s den began.

D arcy stood just beyond the main green, half-shielded by the edge of a vendor’s canopy, trying to look disinterested. A boy darted past him with a fistful of barley-sugar sticks, nearly colliding with his boots, and Darcy took a slow breath.

There she was.

Elizabeth moved through the crowd like she had always belonged to it—ducking between flower stalls and ducking again as Kitty tossed a loose shuttlecock that nearly hit her bonnet. She laughed, quick and bright, and reached to return it, her grip steady, her back straight. Darcy watched the motion—a flick of her wrist, a shift in her weight as she sent the bird whirling upward again. It arced too wide for Lydia to catch.

The Bennet girls shouted at their friends—the Lucas girl and someone named Mary King. Scattered, regrouped, and set for play again.

That was when Elizabeth’s gaze cut toward the crowd, scanning.

And then—she stopped.

When she saw him.

Her eyes caught his, just for a heartbeat, and something in her expression softened. Her lips parted, curved. She turned back to the game too quickly, as if nothing had happened.

He exhaled. Too sharply. Almost angrily.

God help him, he had waited for that smile.

“Rustic,” came Caroline Bingley’s voice, somewhere off to the right.

Darcy blinked, turning just enough to see her gliding toward the circle of girls with her most brittle smile in place, a fan dangling from one gloved hand.

“You exhibit such… charm in this quaint pastime,” she said, aiming her words like darts. “Perhaps the game of graces would offer a more elegant display.”

Elizabeth turned, and whatever she had been about to say died on her lips. Darcy saw the spark in her eyes. She was not flustered. She was planning something.

“I adore the game of graces,” Elizabeth said. “Shall we?”

Caroline smiled and granted a dip of her head. Darcy crossed his arms and prepared to be amused. Caroline had no idea who she was trying to best…

The footman fetched the rods and the hoop. The Bennet girls drew back, making space.

Darcy watched, arms crossed, mouth set.

The first pass was Caroline’s—slow, stiff, overly rehearsed. The ribbon fluttered. Elizabeth caught it easily and launched it back in a clean arc, the motion so fluid it barely looked intentional.

They continued, and Caroline’s timing frayed with every exchange. Elizabeth never looked triumphant. Just amused. Calm. Bright-eyed and maddening, like she always was.

Darcy wanted to laugh and strangle something at once.

Then Elizabeth sent the hoop high and spinning, and Caroline lunged too late. It fell at her feet.

There was a pause. Then polite clapping. Lydia giggled.

Elizabeth stepped forward and bent—graceful, always graceful—and handed the hoop back with a bow of her head.

“A delightful diversion,” she said sweetly. “Thank you.”

Caroline took it without reply, her knuckles white against the ribbon.

Darcy turned away before anyone could see the expression on his face. He needed air. And distance. And a stronger will than he possessed.

For the next quarter hour, Darcy stayed where he was, at the edge of the festivities, half in shadow and half in torment. Elizabeth had moved on from the game of graces and now stood beside Jane Bennet near the booths lined with preserves and hand-painted ceramics. An older matron was gesturing grandly with a pot of quince jam, but Elizabeth’s attention kept drifting. Every few minutes, she would glance sideways, scanning the green, eyes moving past the horses, the fiddlers, the girls with sugar sticks, until—

There .

Her eyes met his again. No flourish. No surprise. Just a spark of greeting, or perhaps relief, and then—deliberately—she looked away.

Darcy felt the moment like a blow to the chest. She was content to know he was there, watching, but she did not need him for her pleasure. Never would.

Nor should she.

He turned aside, pretending to study the angle of the sun through the trees, as if that might explain why his breath had caught or why his stomach twisted whenever she looked at him like that. She was not flirting. She never flirted. That was part of what made her so damnably dangerous. She just saw him.

And it undid him.

A bobbing horse head cut through the crowd, threading in the opposite direction of most of the activity.

Darcy straightened instantly, instincts overriding emotion. This rider had all the look of a courier, carrying a message.

Not one of his.

No, an express rider. Horse lathered. The man rode with an object, weaving between festival carts and startled children. His coat was unmarked, but his satchel bore the crest of a noble household—which one, Darcy could not see from that distance. Dust caked his boots to the knee. He dismounted near the market stalls, his eyes scanning faces. Then he began moving from group to group, asking questions.

Darcy could not hear the words, but the gestures were clear. The rider lifted a folded express—thick, with a large seal set in wax—and pointed vaguely across the green.

Darcy moved without thinking, weaving through a knot of youths near a cider stand. The rider was asking again—this time a butcher’s wife—and she pointed, almost too casually, toward the far end of the field.

Where Collins stood.

Darcy’s blood ran cold.

The vicar was at his most insufferable, posturing beside a rather uninspired squash display. His hands moved as if delivering a sermon on the moral superiority of root vegetables. The express rider cut across the field.

Darcy stopped walking.

The rider reached Collins and handed him the envelope with a crisp bow. Collins’s face lit up like a boy being given a puppy. He broke the seal immediately, eyes devouring the page.

Darcy did not need to read the words to know.

Lady Catherine.

A flush of self-importance colored Collins’ cheeks as he cleared his throat and, without hesitation, began reading aloud to those nearest him. Heads turned, conversations hushed, and a ripple of whispers spread outward like wildfire.

Darcy’s pulse thundered in his ears as he slipped through the crowd, trying to remain unseen without being unseen—a trick he had mastered in drawing rooms, but never before in a public square ripe for spectacle.

Collins was still crowing over the letter, now fluttering it in the air for the benefit of a clutch of middle-aged matrons who leaned closer with a kind of delighted horror. Darcy could not make out the words, but he could see the effect. The women gasped and tittered, glancing toward the cider stalls—and then directly at him.

One put a hand to her mouth.

Another whispered something to her companion, and they both turned away, but not before he caught the faintest sneer.

And that was only the beginning.

Caroline Bingley stood several yards away, dressed too finely for an open-air gathering and watching the scene with a tightening frown. She had not heard Collins’ letter—of that, he was certain—but she was hearing enough now to know something was amiss. A gentleman near her made a remark Darcy could not catch, but he gestured toward Darcy, then toward Bingley. Caroline’s head jerked, her fan stilled mid-sweep, and her mouth fell slightly open.

She turned in a slow, horrified circle, scanning faces. Looking for her brother.

He moved again, quickly now, toward the cider cart where a knot of laborers and farmers had formed an unhurried ring around a barrel-top table. Tankards in hand, boots scuffed from the field, they leaned on elbows and spoke in half-lowered tones, the kind reserved for matters both scandalous and satisfying.

Darcy slowed his steps, pausing just beyond the edge, half-shielded by a faded canvas tent. A potboy from the inn dashed past with a pitcher. No one noticed him listening.

“…never liked the look of him,” one man was saying. “Too stiff. Walks like he is afraid to catch a crease.”

“Thinks he’s better than the rest of us, that’s plain,” said another. “Did you hear what was in that letter?”

A scoff. “Letter, nothing. Old Carrick knew something weeks ago. Said the fellow tipped obscenely high and asked too many questions.”

“That’s the one—Darcy, is it? The guest at Netherfield? Wonder if Mr. Bingley ever heard of this. Shoddy affair, it is.”

A collective murmur of agreement passed through the group.

“Strange business, him coming down here at all. Nothing to interest a London man in a place like Meryton. Not unless he was hiding from something.”

“Or someone.”

Darcy’s pulse flickered. He shifted slightly, just enough to catch a different angle of the crowd. Beyond the green, Elizabeth moved with her sisters among the booths—trailing just behind Kitty and Maria Lucas, who were laughing over a painted fan and mostly ignoring the murmurs.

But they had caught Elizabeth’s ear… he could tell that by the flicker of her jaw muscles. She turned her head, searching.

Found him.

And something in her face softened.

Pity.

He looked away first. Pity was the one thing he could never bear… most particularly not from her. He swallowed once. Hard.

“Strange lot, the whole company,” a voice was saying now. “Darcy, and that red-haired one—Bingley.”

“He is polite enough,” another offered, “but I would wager he knows something. Always flitting after the Bennet girl, that quiet one.”

“Miss Jane?”

“No, no, the other. The one who showed up out of nowhere.”

There it was.

Darcy did not move.

“…and she said she was a cousin, right? Only did you hear what that fellow Collins said yesterday? No one remembers Daniel Bennet ever having a daughter. Odd, that.”

A grunt. A shrug. Then— “Odd, nothing. Remember that afternoon—first day she was in town? Walked out of the inn half-blind and barely standing?”

“Aye, drunk as a lord, she was,” came the answer. “And it was him—Darcy—who paid her reckoning and bundled her off into a carriage. Told Carrick to keep it quiet. And gave him a purse fat enough to buy his silence.”

A pause.

Then a sharp intake of breath. “You are sure it was the same man?”

“Aye, the tall one. Darcy.”

The name passed between them like the first spark from a flint.

Darcy closed his eyes.

He could still see the flash of her pale face that first night, the way she clung to the doorframe, blinking into the lamplight, and how she looked at him with something like loathing.

Not at him, precisely—but at the rescue. At needing it. At what it said about her. And he—fool that he was—had thought that if he paid enough, concealed enough, covered his tracks well enough, kept quiet long enough, it would never follow her.

It had followed.

He opened his eyes.

A pair of young ladies hurried past behind him, hands clutched together, faces turned toward the green.

“…not even a cousin, they say. Invented the whole connection. Imagine the audacity—”

“Mrs. Blount told Mama it was some scandal in Town. That she fled from it.”

Darcy’s eyes snapped to their retreating backs.

Someone else whispered, “She’s ruined, surely. And him with her. What will come of Mr. Bingley, I wonder?”

Heads turned.

First toward Darcy.

Then toward Elizabeth.

A single ripple had become a flood.

T he Bennet drawing room was too full—of voices, of panic, of the smoke-sweet breath of lamp oil thickening the air. Elizabeth stood in the center of it all, hands clasped tight before her, feeling the walls press inward like jaws.

Mrs. Bennet was crying into a handkerchief that had not been clean since breakfast, her voice rising with each fresh wave of despair. “Ruined! Absolutely ruined! I told you that cousinship was nonsense from the start! A scandal, in our very household, and with the worst man in England, no less!”

Jane had a gentle arm wrapped around her mother, but her eyes were fixed on Elizabeth. Wide, stricken. Uncomprehending.

Kitty and Lydia huddled near the hearth, their skirts bunched in their fists, whispering. Mary stood a little apart, her brow drawn in fierce lines of confusion, clinging to a prayer book like a shield.

Collins, puffed with indignation, stood in the center of the room like a self-inflated toad, his eyes darting between Darcy and the Bennet family with theatrical horror. “It is appalling, utterly appalling,” he declared, his voice climbing in righteous volume. “Had I known she was no relation—had you all not insisted on lying about it—I should never have permitted such familiarity beneath this roof. I acted only in good faith, under the impression she was family. Instead, I find myself entertaining the company of a woman of mystery and a man ”—he turned and jabbed a finger toward Darcy— “whose disgrace has been well-documented by better sources than mine!”

Darcy’s eyes glittered with rage, but he did not move.

Collins wheeled on Bingley next, his voice reaching a new pitch of self-satisfaction. “And you, sir, playing host to such a man! You cannot plead ignorance, not when Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself has spoken. She wrote me in the strongest terms. She is aggrieved, naturally, but not without compassion. In her beneficence, she has taken care to warn the good Mr. Wickham—yes, he is in London for the Season, as you may know—that her nephew is once again stirring trouble, this time from such a close vicinity as Hertfordshire!”

Darcy’s spine snapped rigid. Elizabeth could almost hear the bones and sinews cracking as his frame flexed from sheer wrath, viciously checked.

Bingley took a step forward. “She did what?”

Collins blinked, as if surprised anyone would interrupt such a noble pronouncement. “She felt it her duty to protect decent society. Naturally, she wrote to me at once—and to Mr. Wickham, who will, I daresay, not be slow to act if his generous nature is once again tested by Mr. Darcy’s… presence.”

“You fool,” Bingley breathed. “You absolute cretin.”

Mr. Bennet stepped forward then, his tone unflinching, each syllable cold and clean as a blade.

“Collins.”

The parson turned, puffing up again. “Sir?”

“Get out of my house.”

“But I—I am the heir!”

“And I am still very much alive. Collect your things while I still grant you time to do so. You may walk back to Meryton to catch a post-chaise or hire a hack, I care not what.”

“But… but I have a trunk! My prayer journals, my clothing!”

“And whatever you cannot take with you now, I shall burn tomorrow. Out, sir.”

Collins gaped at him, jaw slack, as though he had been struck. Then, flustered and muttering about duty and the burdens of moral guardianship, he turned and made for the hall door—only to trip over the hem of the rug in his haste. He stumbled into the entryway with all the grace of an overturned teapot, clattered up the stairs to his room, and the door slammed behind him with a clap that echoed like a final verdict.

Elizabeth’s voice, when she finally found it, was soft. Broken, even. “I… I never meant for it to fall on all of you.”

Jane caught her hand. “You have not done this. They have.”

Mr. Bennet, grim-faced, turned to Darcy and Bingley. “My study. Now.”

Elizabeth met Darcy’s eyes as he passed her. He did not speak. He only looked. And she knew well enough what that look meant.

She turned to Jane. “Come help me, Jane. I need to pack.”

Jane’s brows flew upward. “Lizzy—no. What are you talking about?”

Elizabeth’s voice cracked like glass. “I cannot stay.”

Jane stared at her, lips parted in shock, but she said nothing. She only turned, lifting her skirts, and followed Elizabeth up the narrow stairs without another word.

Their small shared room was warm and dim, the scent of rosewater lingering in the folds of the curtains. Elizabeth did not hesitate. She crossed to the wardrobe, yanked open the doors, and reached for the old linen wrap she had folded there days ago. Not the trunk Darcy had procured for her—there was no time for that, no strength to carry it, and no sense in taking more than she could run with. Just a satchel, a warm cloak. Just enough.

She gathered only the essentials—a change of gown, a ruby ring she had worn to Buckingham House that first night tucked in a kerchief, a clutch of undergarments procured for her by a bachelor, and the most unremarkable bonnet she could find.

“Lizzy,” Jane said behind her, helpless, clutching a pair of gloves in both trembling hands. “Where will you go?”

“I do not know. But I cannot stay here. I have made your home unsafe. For you. For your father. For everyone.”

“You cannot just vanish into the night!” Jane whispered.

“I can,” Elizabeth replied, wrapping her things tighter. “And I must.”

Jane stepped closer, resting a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “But what will you do? Who will be with you?”

Elizabeth paused. Her hands stilled around the knot in the fabric. “He will help me. He is already thinking of a plan, I am sure of it.”

Jane blinked. “Mr. Darcy?”

Elizabeth nodded once.

Jane’s eyes went wide, her lips parting in horror. “But… he is not your husband! If you go with him now—Lizzy, you would be—”

“Ruined?” Elizabeth let out a breathless, broken laugh. “It will certainly not be the first time I vanished into the night with him. Remember?”

Jane flinched as if struck. “That was under the Prince’s orders. This… this is Collins’ stupidity and that pompous patroness of his. It is not fair, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth turned to face her, bundle in her arms. “None of this is fair. But if I stay, I will die. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and probably others with me. I would rather be ruined and breathing than dignified in a box.”

Jane’s eyes filled again. “You cannot know that would happen.”

“I do. And he knows it too. He has had some trouble keeping me alive this long, and now it is worse. They know the name I have lived under. They know this house. And worse, thanks to all the gossip in town, they know now that Mr. Darcy was the one helping me to remain hidden. They will try to kill him now, too, Jane. We cannot wait for them to come knocking.”

“But… where will you go?“ Jane demanded once more, as if she still could not believe Elizabeth truly meant what she said. “Where can a bachelor and an unmarried woman run off to together? And this late in the day!”

“I do not know,” Elizabeth said again, this time softer. “Wherever he thinks safest.”

Jane’s face crumpled. She crossed the room in two steps and flung her arms around Elizabeth, clutching her with a desperation that shook them both.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. “You are the closest thing to a sister I have ever had.”

“Oh, Lizzy!” They held each other like girls again, like they had never pretended to be ladies, and time had not passed so cruelly.

“You must write to me,” Jane said fiercely, pulling back just enough to look at her.

“I will. When it is safe. Not before.” Elizabeth gave a damp, tired smile. She reached out and brushed a tear from Jane’s cheek with her thumb. “In the meantime, you must promise to think of me every time you smile at Mr. Bingley.”

Jane laughed and mopped her sodden cheek with the back of her hand. “Why should that be my particular memento?”

Elizabeth sniffed and grinned. “Because I know it will be often.”

Jane laughed again, burying her face in her sleeve until she sobbed. Then they both stood in silence for a moment, until Elizabeth pressed a kiss to Jane’s forehead and stepped back, her small bundle clasped tight in her hands. “Goodbye, sweet Jane.”

No trunk. No plan. Just a promise.

And a man waiting below.