“At the appointed hour,” Darcy said. If that hour was a little earlier than the others, it was none of her concern. He wanted to be certain to welcome them properly.
Miss Bingley stirred her tea. “And Miss Eliza? Does she ride, or does she still prefer to conquer the country on foot?”
“I presume she will arrive in the same carriage as her relations.”
“I had formed the impression she was quite indefatigable. Her shoes yesterday suggested a lady prepared for every ditch in Derbyshire.”
“Miss Bennet is always well dressed,” Bingley said.
Darcy reached for the butter.
“And yet,” Miss Bingley continued without acknowledging her brother, “one must admire Miss Eliza’s courage. I should never dare so much sun myself. It is so unkind to the complexion.”
Darcy buttered his toast with great care. He was conscious of his own silence and also that Miss Bingley was frustrated by it. It was not very gentlemanly of him, but just now he was unequal to parrying with her. He had done so at Netherfield, and he was ashamed of it now.
His cousin Richard came in at the end, having been out at the stables and smelling faintly of horse. He had arrived without warning only an hour before the others. Darcy thought Richard was concerned for him, for he had not been himself since April.
“Forgive me, Miss Bingley,” he said pleasantly as he took the empty seat beside her. “I have been admiring your brother’s mare.” He poured himself coffee, and breakfast resumed its rhythm. Darcy watched his cousin take in the room over the rim of his cup.
When the occasion demanded, Richard was capable of the most extraordinary discretion. Darcy wished that the occasion demanded it more often, but Richard had thankfully taken one look at Darcy’s face and had elected to ask no questions, which was a clear declaration of alliance.
He excused himself before the toast-rack made its third pass and went out to the lawn. Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Leeds were there with the head gardener and three of the maids. The rugs were down, the cushions placed, the linen spread. The long table where the food would be placed was being arranged beneath a marquee, and a second table stood ready on the other side of the rugs, in the shade of the oaks, for the great pitchers of lemonade that would come up later from the kitchens.
In the morning light, the lawn under the oaks was arranged exactly as he had wished it. Nothingappearedarranged. The place had simply been transformed into readiness for a summer’s day, with the kind of unobtrusive care that always required a great deal of organisation.
That, he supposed, was the trick of good hospitality, to contrive everything and yet appear to have contrived nothing. Miss Elizabeth would notice, of course, but she would enjoy herself. He certainly wished for her to.
“Mrs. Reynolds. Good morning. Everything appears in readiness.”
“Mr. Darcy.” She adjusted one of the napkins by a quarter inch.
Mrs. Reynolds had not been at Pemberley quite as long asLeeds, but she had seen, in her time, every variety of social arrangement his parents had attempted on this lawn.
Darcy was happy to let her manage the task.
He was not, he reflected, telling Mrs. Reynolds the entire truth about the importance of this picnic. But like Leeds, she had been here when Miss Elizabeth arrived with the Gardiners, had seen Darcy nearly flying up to his chambers to change and back down again to join them.
Mrs. Reynolds knew. He was sure of it. And therefore, he knew that today would be run as efficiently as possible.
There was nothing more to be done here, and remaining under Mrs. Reynolds’s calm, all-seeing eye seemed unwise. Darcy therefore did what any sensible man would do when confronted by a knowing servant and his own exposed feelings—he went in search of something, anything, to inspect.
The footbridge that spanned the river where it narrowed was an old one, built in his great-grandfather’s time, with stone abutments his father had been rather particular about and a timber deck that required more frequent attention. One of the boards had been noted as needing repair and had been replaced earlier in the summer. Darcy inspected it as a matter of habit, because while a man might fail in manners, humility, and the management of his own marriage proposal, there was no excuse for failing to identify a loose board.
The water beneath the bridge ran clean and shallow, showing, where the light caught it, the dark moving shapes of perch and grayling.
“You are either in love,” said someone behind him, “or ill.”
Darcy did not turn around. “Richard.”
His cousin took up a position beside Darcy and eyed him carefully. “I have been considering it on the walk across your lawn and cannot quite settle the question.”
“Then I would advise you not to make the attempt.”
Richard looked down at the water for some time before he spoke again. He was holding one of the Pemberley rods Mr. Leeds kept in the gunroom for guests.
Darcy tapped the boards again, then nodded, satisfied.
“Whatareyou doing?”