Adventures at Morecastle, Part One B

            The very next day the gentlemen arrived to collect the sisters. The Gardiners had been invited to come as well, but they declared that they could not leave their children to the sole care of the nurse, and sent the young people on their way with many good wishes.  They, like Elizabeth, were eager to encourage a reconciliation between Mr. Bingley and Jane. That young lady had been very quiet, but Elizabeth knew that she was very happy, very happy and fearful too, not knowing what would come of this latest encounter.

                Instead of one boat that would hold the four of them, the gentleman had instead chosen, by mutual unspoken agreement, to rent two boats which would each hold only two passengers. They took an open carriage to the dock, which they found to be located in a small bay. The object was the opposite shore, which provided a number of delightful picnic spots.

                Mr. Darcy had decided that Elizabeth had been teasing him the day before, perhaps trying to provoke him into a declaration. Although as a rule he disapproved of those sorts of arts, in Elizabeth’s case he was inclined to be indulgent. It wanted only opportunity to settle things between them; perhaps he would get it today.

Elizabeth, however, was rather less than pleased to be riding the breadth of a bay alone in a tiny boat with Darcy. She dare not even be too rude, lest he lose his temper and tip her into the water in revenge. Besides, not for the world would she disturb her sister’s happiness, this day of days. She had never given up her belief that Darcy was influential in removing his friend from Jane’s side; why he had apparently withdrawn his objections for the time being she didn’t know, but she vowed to do nothing that would offend him.

The gentlemen handed their ladies into the boats, shed their coats, and proceeded to row. Mr. Bingley’s boat tossed and turned about quite a bit at first, which only caused him to laugh very heartily as he worked to right it. Darcy handled his oars with ease, but Elizabeth was too busy watching the others to notice.  For his part, he was content to watch her. She made such a pretty picture, sitting only a few feet away with parasol and bonnet, her profile turned for his admiration.

“What an astonishing coincidence it is that we should all have met at the same seaside town, so soon after Kent!” she remarked eventually.

“Astonishing, yes, but not, I think, unwelcome?”

Her eyes on her sister’s laughing face, Elizabeth said softly, “No. I could not say it is unwelcome.”

He smiled to himself. “Perhaps you could say that fortune has favored us.”

“Perhaps.” Then, suddenly becoming aware of what he had been saying, she gave him an odd look. “Mr. Bingley certainly appears to find it fortunate.”

Now he appeared slightly confused. “Mr. Bingley?”

“Yes, he appears uncommonly pleased to see my sister again.”

He shifted, pulling on the oars with long, smooth strokes. “I suppose he might be.”

After a final, measuring glance, she turned her gaze back onto the other couple. The two boats were too far apart to converse between them, but not so far they couldn’t wave. Their progress was not rapid; Bingley worked about twice as hard as Darcy, who often ceased rowing altogether to give the others time to catch up.

“Is this your first trip to the sea shore, Miss Bennet?” asked Darcy after a time.

“Indeed it is.”

“What do you think of it?”

“I think the sea quite beyond any descriptions I have read or paintings I have seen. Its beauty and vastness are without possible description.”

“I have often felt the same way myself,” he said. He missed Elizabeth’s faintly incredulous look.

“Are you a studier of nature then, Mr. Darcy?”

“Not, perhaps, to the extent that you are a studier of people, ma'am, but I am certainly not immune to its beauties. Derbyshire has many wonders I have yet to tire of viewing. Hertfordshire,” he added after a moment, “is also lovely.”

“And Kent. Let us not forget to give Lady Catherine her due.  She was entirely justified in her choice of Rosings as a home.”

He smiled. “You certainly enjoyed the best of its attractions. I expect that, however well you come to know the formal gardens, you will always prefer your grove, and with good reason.”

There he was, doing it again: implying that she might someday stay at the main house. Not to mention referring to the grove as hers. The first time he did something of the sort, on a walk one day, she thought he might be referring to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s apparent attraction for her, but she failed to see how he could still think anything might arise in that quarter. What did he mean by it? Trying to cover her confusion she laughed lightly and queried, “My grove, sir?”

He had been watching his strokes in the water, but at that he looked up and his eyes met hers directly. “Very well. Our grove.”

That startled her into absolute silence. Surely… Mr. Darcy could not be flirting with her, could he? Worse yet, did he believe she was trying to flirt with him? A vivid blush rose into her cheeks at the thought and she turned her face away.

Darcy saw her embarrassment and contemplated making a declaration on the spot. It was not the most convenient timing, as he was engaged in the rather vigorous exercise of rowing two people across a lengthy expanse of somewhat choppy water, but they had, at least, a measure of privacy. A few words, and they might be engaged before they reached shore.

A pause came, when he could rest on his oars while waiting for Bingley to navigate his way through the currents. The boat rocked slightly, the sky above was very blue, and Elizabeth herself too entirely enticing. “You cannot be at a loss, Miss Elizabeth,” he said slowly, at last, “to understand my meaning.”

Elizabeth, who was completely at a loss, wondered if he was preparing to deliver a scornful harangue to let her know how entirely beneath his notice she really was. She clinched her hands and pressed her lips together, still not looking at him. “I—”

“I should, perhaps, have spoken to you when we were in Hertfordshire, but I remained silent out of scruples which I am sure you can appreciate, considering your situation and my own. I thought by separating myself from you I could overcome the necessity, but when I saw you in Kent, I knew that it had all been in vain.” He took a deep breath.

“Mr. Darcy, I cannot think that we have anything to discuss!”

He looked at her incredulously, and was just opening his mouth to answer when there was the splash of other oars, and Bingley called out, “Hey there to the other boat!” as he pulled his own alongside theirs within speaking distance. “Darcy, must you rub my face in how incompetent I am by lounging around like that?” His face was ruddy and shining from the effort, his grin just as bright. Jane cast her sister an eloquently beaming glance.

Biting back an oath, Darcy replied as coolly as he could, “May I remind you, Bingley, that this was your suggestion, not mine?”

“Oh, certainly! It’s a delightful day, and if Miss Bennet doesn’t mind my blundering I’m sure I don’t either.”

“I think you are managing very well, Mr. Bingley,” she replied demurely.

“See, Darcy, she thinks I row well enough. Why, I daresay Miss Elizabeth is positively bored from being guided so effortlessly across the water. You had much better dance about, as I do!”

“Why, of course!” Elizabeth laughed, pleased enough on their behalf to forget her irritation and mortification for a minute. “Fortunately we are near now. Oh, look, there are people there already.”

“My servants, Miss Elizabeth,” replied Darcy. “I sent them ahead to prepare for us.”

Rather than being impressed at this bit of extravagance, Elizabeth was just annoyed. Heaven forbid that that the lofty Mr. Darcy get his feet wet pulling a boat up to shore! Or that they be required to spread their own picnic blankets and unpack their own baskets!

Fortunately for her equanimity, Mr. Bingley managed to keep his boat near theirs for the rest of the way, near enough, at least, to preclude any private conversation of a particularly sensitive nature. As further security against insult, she began suddenly to chatter about their uncle and aunt and young cousins, and how Edward had been sick and why the doctor had recommended a journey to the sea shore to completely restore him. Darcy listened courteously enough, but she could see the frown in his eyes and the tense set of his jaw. Too late she realized that such behavior would appear as confirmation of her flirtatious ways—why she would be sounding as cloying as Miss Bingley soon!—but she saw no other alternative.

Once their boats had been duly drawn up to land by the waiting men, she accepted Darcy’s hand out of the boat, but lost no time in attaching herself to her sister.

It was not lost on Darcy that she avoided him assiduously for their time on shore. He determined that it must be maidenly anxiety that caused this strange behavior. He had not expected Elizabeth, of all women, to behave so, but he found it oddly endearing. He would have to find a way to move past her embarrassment and nervousness—while not rowing a boat.

The picnic lunch was certainly plentiful for only four people. They were waited on by a manservant who looked utterly out of place, standing there stiffly with sand all over his shoes and his plain black coat buttoned against the sea breezes. Jane and Mr. Bingley kept up a brisk, bright conversation which Elizabeth joined in eagerly, trying not to look at Mr. Darcy. He was as silent as he had ever been, only speaking when directly addressed.

When they had finished and all risen from their blanket on the sand, Mr. Bingley offered to show Jane something further down the beach, and they took off together with hardly a backward glance. Lizzy and Mr. Darcy stood about awkwardly watching the servants pack everything up, and when she finally walked off towards the water, he followed her. Annoyed, she walked off again, over a small, grassy dune. Again he followed her.

“I would like to finish our earlier conversation, Miss Bennet,” said Darcy, with great intrepidity.

“Oh, look! Sand crabs!” She moved away to view them but he, refusing to take the hint, followed her yet again.

“You will not escape from me so easily! I will have my say!”

She froze, and clenched her hands. “Very well,” she said at last, resentfully. “Say what you will!”

He bent over a little to peer under her hat. “I had not expected such diffidence from you, Elizabeth. Why so anxious to avoid me? Surely you are not frightened?”

At that her chin came up and her eyes flashed. “I? Frightened of you? Indeed not!”

“You have no cause to be.” He took her hand. Startled, she pulled it away. He frowned. “Elizabeth—”

“I have not given you permission to address me so, Mr. Darcy!”

Now he was beginning to look vexed. “Must everything be a competition  with you?” he demanded. “You must know my desires.”

“Your desires?“

“My most ardent desires.” He caught at her hand again. Elizabeth stared at him in confusion. “And I think that I know your desires as well.”

“Now that, sir, you do not,” she replied tightly.

“Are you angry with me because you think I’m being presumptuous?” He sounded a little incredulous.

“Presumptuous? Yes!”

“You are too sensible a woman to destroy your own happiness for such a reason.”

“I have no intention of destroying my own happiness!”

“Then we are in agreement.” He finally caught both her hands now in a firm grip, and pulled her toward him.

Feeling like the situation had gotten wildly out of control and quite beyond her understanding, she gasped, “Sir! I must demand that you explain yourself!”

He smiled a slow smile. “That is precisely what I have been attempting to do, is it not?”

“Yes, but—release my hands at once!”

He did so. “You intend to have no mercy on me, I see.”

“Have you need of my mercy?” Had he drunk more wine that she realized during the picnic?

But his look was surprisingly open and disarming. “Of course.”

“For what purpose? Surely there is nothing I can do for the great Mr. Darcy!”

He raised his eyebrows, somewhat offended. “Let’s not speak nonsense. If you are under the impression that I enjoy that kind of teasing, you are wrong.”

“I’m afraid that I have not yet learned to cater my teasing to your tastes.”

“I shall give you ample opportunity to learn, then.”

The suggestive nature of his comments was beginning to have its effect on her. This could not be Mr. Darcy being amorous, could it? She had feared on the boat he was flirting with her, until she decided he was far more likely to be taking her to task. But this present conversation could make sense in only one context. What had he said? My most ardent desires? Her eyes suddenly widened, and she gasped slightly. “Mr. Darcy,” she said desperately, “I really must return to Jane. It’s not proper to leave her and Mr. Bingley alone—nor for us to stand around alone either!” She hurried to leave, but again he moved in front of her.

“You will not let me speak to you!” he exclaimed. “You are shy! Why? Is it—” Without thinking, he reached for her hand again, and again she backed away. His eyes lit up with sudden comprehension and his face softened. “My dear,” he said gently, “you need not be uncomfortable around me. I will not attempt to kiss you if you do not wish it.”

That was too much. “Mr. Darcy!” she cried. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Kiss me? Why should I suppose you wish to kiss me? We are nothing to each other!”

He blinked.

“And now I must beg you to restrain me no longer. I must see my sister!” She stormed off across the sand, while he watched her, dumbfounded.

Nothing to each other? Well, he supposed they were nothing to each other now, but had he not been seeking to change that? And had she not flirted with him time and again in Kent, while they enjoyed leisurely walks and talked of marriage, travelling from home and other pertinent topics? She had encouraged his advances—in the most delicate way possible, of course, without that overt chasing he found so distasteful in a woman. He had been impressed that she seemed content to let him do the pursuing, but there was no question that she had used her considerable charms on him on numerous occasions. Her arch smiles, speaking eyes and witty speeches had been turned on him too many times for him to be mistaken.  She had encouraged him, and now she was behaving as it had never happened.

Mr. Darcy was angry.

~%~

                The ride back across the bay was to be an exceedingly uncomfortable one. Elizabeth would have begged Jane to switch with her, but it was unthinkable to remove her from the joy of Mr. Bingley’s presence and subject her to his company instead. She tried a suggestion that she might ride home in a carriage with the servants, only to have Mr. Darcy inform her coolly that there was no room. She said she was afraid she would be queasy riding in the boat with a full stomach, but Jane poo-hooed the suggestion. “Nonsense, Lizzy, you’re never sick!”

                So, anxious, unhappy and not a little sulky, she found herself right back in the same boat she’d been in earlier, with Mr. Darcy glowering at her.

                With a few powerful pulls on the oars, Darcy left the other boat behind. As soon as they were out of earshot, he began without preamble. “Miss Bennet,” he said, “I believe I have a right to an explanation.”

Elizabeth gaped at him. “An explanation? For what, pray?”

“For the difference between your behavior in Hertfordshire and Kent and your behavior now. What have you to say for yourself?”

“My behavior? What on earth do you mean? It is you who must answer for your behavior!”

He ignored that last comment. “Your manner, madam.”

“My manner?”

“Yes, your manner. Your flirtatious, enticing, provocative manner.”

She gasped, turning quite crimson with indignation. She had been right the first time! “I have never flirted with you!”

“Please do not attempt to deny it. I abhor deceit. You knew very well what you were doing, teasing and alluring me in that way, encouraging, nay, I might say positively forcing my attraction for you to increase! You gave me every reason in the world to believe that you expected a declaration from me, yet the moment I come ready to make it, you rebuff me! Perhaps you think I am the kind of man who is content to be a woman’s plaything, but you are sorely mistaken! My character requires justice, and so I demand an explanation from you!”

“Once again, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth through her teeth, “I have never, ever flirted with you! Alluring you? Encouraging you! I never knew there was anything to encourage! Why, I don’t even like you! Until this afternoon I was certain the feeling was mutual. Of course, if your manner of expressing an attraction is to insult the woman you’re attracted to, then it’s no wonder that you couldn’t discern the difference between a woman who’s flirting with you and one who’s genuinely trying to offend you!”

If Elizabeth was red, Darcy was pale. “And is this all the answer I am to receive?” he demanded after a speechless moment.

“Mr. Darcy, women who accuse you of pride, vanity and a propensity to hate everybody are not trying to entice you!”

He opened his mouth and shut it again, wildly casting around for an example to throw back at her. “You invited me to walk with you in the grove!” he pointed out triumphantly. 

“I did no such thing!”

“Yes, you did! You told me repeatedly that it was your favorite place to walk.”

“So that you would avoid it!”

“Well, what about our conversation on women settling near their families? You said very pointedly that a woman could be settled too near, and blushed because you knew we were both thinking of Derbyshire!”

She gasped again. “Derbyshire? Why should I be thinking of Derbyshire? I was thinking of Jane and Netherfield!”

There was a long silence after that one. Darcy, still pale, rowed with vicious swiftness while Elizabeth clung to her seat and refused to look at him. “I think it is deliberate sophistry on your part to pretend that you did not notice my regard for you,” he said at last, in a resentful tone.

“Why, of course! I always take refusal to converse as evidence of admiration.”

“I paid you pointed attentions, you know I did!”

“What attentions? Staring at me from across the parlor? When did that become a part of proper courting etiquette?”

She couldn’t help but look at him as she spoke; his face was flushed from exertion, his hair tousled by the breeze; in his shirt sleeves, he looked little like the inscrutable gentleman she was used to meet. He met her eyes almost sternly. “Do you imagine that I stared out of indifference? Or that I sought you repeatedly in the grove because I disliked you?”

Since that was precisely what she had so foolishly imagined, she blushed anew, her gaze falling. Yet at the last she rallied herself enough to say, “What I thought, sir, was that I wasn’t handsome enough to tempt you.”

The tips of Darcy’s oars skidded across the water as he missed his stroke. His eyes widened in alarm and chagrin. It seemed they had reached an impasse in their argument, each having scored an unanswerable point. Both were extremely embarrassed at their current situation, although only one was suffering pain of another sort. But Darcy pushed aside the rending in his chest for now; there would be time enough to feel it later.

Mr. Bingley had been left far behind by Darcy’s efficient passage across the bay. When they reached the dock, Darcy climbed out, tied the boat up, and extended his hand to Elizabeth. She took it out of necessity, but released it as quickly as possible, and they stood awkwardly, as far apart as the narrow wooden platform would allow them.

Watching the other boat’s agonizingly slow progress across the waves in their direction, Elizabeth’s thoughts returned to her sister. Remembering her very great happiness throughout the day, she was emboldened to speak again, no matter the awkwardness. “Mr. Darcy,” she began, and felt rather than heard him shift beside her, “I must beg of you not to let the unpleasantness of today’s encounter interfere with the happiness of your friend and my sister. Do not take him away, please! Jane has been disconsolate since he left Netherfield, and while he has not proven himself very steady in his actions, his affections do not appear to have altered from what they were. She is the best of all women; if there is any chance that he may make her happy by his choice, do not deprive them both. I know you have influence with Mr. Bingley, and again I beg you not to use it against Jane in your anger at me.”

“I have as much concern for my friend as you do for your sister, Miss Bennet,” he replied stiffly. “I would never seek to interfere with his happiness for selfish reasons.”

“Surely you can see, after today, that that happiness lies with her?”

“I do not believe that is for me to say.” She pressed her lips and looked down, and despite himself, he found himself relenting toward her. Even in his anger and disappointment, he could not deny her. “But I shall certainly not seek to remove him, or hasten his leaving.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. It was the last thing either of them said until the others joined them.

Adventures at Morecastle, Part One A

Blogger seems to be having trouble handling this whole thing in one post, so I'm going to be splitting each part in two. There are five of them and they are plenty long! I will post A and B (and C if necessary) all one after the other, so that you can get a whole part.


                                                                    Adventures at Morecastle

Part 1: Boating

“Oh, Jane!” declared Elizabeth. “What are men to sand and sea?”

Jane smiled. “I never knew it could be so beautiful,” she admitted. “The paintings I’ve seen didn’t do it justice.”

“Justice? Not any more than mud pies do Hill’s blueberry tarts justice!” Laughing, she began to run along the sand, albeit a bit awkwardly. Jane followed her, clutching her bonnet and joining in her laughter good naturedly. Lizzy’s own bonnet fell off her head and several of her curls came undone or clung to her face as she came to a gasping halt. When she could breathe again she collapsed on the sand with a sigh of contentment.

“Lizzy,” said Jane in mild reproach, “you’ll ruin your dress.”

“Oh, what is muslin to the superior pleasures of the earth? Jane, how I wish we had come here earlier. How glad I am after all that my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner could not go to the Lakes. I could never have gone there with you, you know, and everything is better with you nearby.”

Jane seated herself in lady-like fashion on a nearby rock. “It is too bad about little Edward becoming so ill, though. I am sure no one ever wished to have to go the coast, or for such a reason.”

“He is well, dearest,” smiled her sister reassuringly. “The doctor said he was well indeed; he just needs some healthy air and sunshine to recover completely. It was so kind of Aunt Gardiner to wish to bring us along! I am just sorry that the whole time I was in Kent you were dealing with such anxiety.”

“I thank God that none of the others got sick.” She repeated her frequent comment of the last week. “And I am glad that I was there to help care for the children while our aunt was so distracted.  Were you sorry to leave your friend so soon?”

“Not really.  My time there did pass more pleasantly than I had expected. I enjoyed Charlotte’s company very much, and the frequent visits from Colonel Fitzwilliam were very agreeable, but I believe I have had enough of Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine to last me another year at least.”

Jane looked rather slyly. “You must tell me of this Colonel Fitzwilliam. He sounds like a most pleasant man.”

“A very pleasant man indeed,” she agreed with a laugh, and slight color on her cheeks. “A most gentlemanly man, with all the charm and manners which his cousin lacks.”

“I am sorry you should still dislike Mr. Darcy so much. Surely he was not uncivil to you?”

“Oh! No more than to everyone else. He was generally uncivil; generally silent and uncommunicative, that is. I must say he treated me to his glare rather more often than the others, but at least he never said anything slighting to me that I noticed.”

“But you enjoyed speaking with the colonel.”

“Oh yes. We talked on all manner of subjects. I don’t know that I’ve ever had the opportunity to converse with a man who had such a well-informed mind.”

“And his father is an earl?”

“A real life earl. Now, Jane, don’t start talking like our mother!”

“Of course not, dear. But I cannot help but wonder if he might have formed an attachment to you.”

Again she blushed a bit. “I do not think so. Oh, he came often, but there wasn’t really anything else for them to do, you know. Why even Mr. Darcy came often!”

“I imagine you were the main attraction for both of them, Lizzy. Why else would they have called so often? Surely not only to see the Collinses.”

“Well we shall each agree to think as we please on the subject. You’ll begin to sound like Charlotte next.” She stood up and dusted her sandy posterior. Jane joined her arm with hers, and the two sisters began to stroll back up the beach the way they had come.

“What did Charlotte say?”

“Oh, she tried to make out that Mr. Darcy admired me.”

Jane thought about this. “I do not see why he should not admire you,” she said. “It seems perfectly natural to me.”

“Of course it does! Dearest Jane!” She smiled affectionately and squeezed her arm.

“If it’s true that he looked at you a lot I am sure she was right. Why else would a man want to look at  you but to admire you?”

“To criticize me, I suppose. It’s what I always thought.”

“I think you are being unkind to Mr. Darcy to be always suspecting his motives so. “

“Perhaps. But on a day like this, what does it matter?” She turned her face up to the sun and would speak no more of serious subjects.

~%~

“Do you think she will like it?” asked Charles Bingley anxiously where he stood on the sea wall.

His friend Fitzwilliam Darcy shrugged. “Well enough, I dare say.” He seemed a little distracted, almost as if he was searching the beach for something.

“I still don’t understand why she wants to come here instead of Weymouth or Brighton, but it is very pretty, isn’t it?”

“Yes, very pretty,” replied the other, who, however, was not really thinking of the sand and sea at that moment.

“I do appreciate your coming here with me to check out the houses.”

That finally caught Mr. Darcy’s attention. “Really, Bingley,” he said, “you must have greater confidence in your ability to make your own decisions. Surely you can rent a house at the sea shore without requiring a second opinion!”

Mr. Bingley grinned back, not in the least offended. “But how should I get your company if I did not always need your opinion?” he asked.

“By asking for it, of course.”

“Well, but you do give the best advice, Darcy. Why, without you I would have taken that house in the middle of town!”

“That’s because you didn’t consider how little your sister would like to have every passer by staring into her parlor window.”

“Exactly! I never think of these things, but you always do!”

“That’s because I’ve been arranging my own affairs for rather longer than you have,” said Darcy, in a gentler tone. “Would you care for a walk along the beach?”

“Oh, yes, what a fine idea!”

They set out immediately, although they weren’t really ideally dressed for walking through the sand. Darcy wondered for the hundredth time just how big a fool he actually was being, even if as he could not help but peer at every female figure they passed.

It had been a considerable shock to him when Miss Elizabeth Bennet left Kent earlier than planned so that she could join her uncle and his family at the sea shore. He had been just on the verge of proposing to her, holding out with a sense of virtuous reluctance even while he daydreamed about married life with her, when the news had arrived. It had arrived over his morning eggs and coffee, too, which was an added aggravation. The decision, apparently, was the work of little more than a day. According to Mrs. Collins, when he and his cousin had visited the parsonage to get details, Elizabeth had been very anxious over the welfare of a young cousin who had taken ill shortly after her arrival in Hunsford. Then one day a letter arrived saying that he was much improved but the doctor thought they should take him to the coast for a holiday, so the whole family was going, including the elder Miss Bennet, and would Elizabeth like to come too? She liked very well, and had written immediately to accept, and then been gone before the gentleman even realized she was going.

Darcy had been more than a little put out. What did she mean, leaving like that, without even bidding them goodbye? Didn’t she know that he was only seeking an opportunity to speak to her? Nor could Mrs. Collins even recall exactly which seaside town they were to visit—she thought perhaps it hadn’t been determined yet when the letter arrived.  He was as petulant as a debutante the first day, thinking himself ill-used indeed.

The second day the reality of the situation dawned. Elizabeth was gone. She was gone—out of his life entirely, if he didn’t take some measure to actively pursue her. At first he tried to persuade himself that it was for the best. He had been about to make a dreadful mistake and had been saved. But that opinion did not outlast the third day.

By the time he had left Rosings and returned to his house in London, Darcy was determined to find Elizabeth Bennet. If need be, he would wait until her holiday at the sea had come to an end and go to Longbourn. Maybe he would even go to Longbourn now, get her father’s permission and find out from him where she was. But he shrank from declaring his intentions to her father before he had declared them to her and hesitated. While he was hesitating, Bingley had written to tell him that his sister had made up her mind to spend the summer in Morecastle, and was anxious that they choose a house early before they all were taken, and would Darcy like to come with him? Besides the fact that he disliked disappointing his friend (especially after his earlier, greater disappointment the November before), the coincidence seemed too fair, too Providential, to be overlooked.

But now, trudging through soft sand past one unfamiliar face after another, he felt ridiculous. Why, of all the sea side towns in the south of England, should Elizabeth be in this one? Not to mention the fact that he was here with Bingley, which couldn’t help but be awkward if they did meet. His early optimism fading quickly, he began muttering imprecations under his breath.

All of a sudden the man beside him halted abruptly. Looking up, Darcy was blinded for a moment by the glare off the water, but as his eyes adjusted they came to rest on a pair of flushed, familiar young women walking merrily over the sand in their direction. He drew a deep breath.

“Miss Bennet!” exclaimed both men at once.

~%~

Elizabeth experienced a sense of irritated shock. He! What was he doing here? Was she never to be rid of him? “Mr. Darcy!” she replied, and heard Jane’s voice saying, “Mr. Bingley!” at the same time. Only then did she notice the other young man who was staring at her sister in a sort of awed wonder.

The greetings were awkward.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

“Mr. Bingley.”

“Miss Bennet.”

“Mr. Darcy.”

“Mr. Darcy.”

“Miss Elizabeth.”

“Miss Bennet.”

“Mr. Bingley.”

Having now established that they all knew each other’s names, they fell silent. Elizabeth was too busy watching Mr. Bingley watch her sister to realize how Mr. Darcy was watching her. “Good day,” said Bingley at last. “How are you? What brings you to the sea shore?”

“My cousin. Good day. Very well,” answered Jane, not very lucidly.

He didn’t seem to mind. “That’s excellent. I—um,” he swallowed. “How is your family?”

“They are perfectly well,” said Elizabeth on her behalf, when Jane didn’t immediately reply. “And you? How are your sisters?”

“V-very well. We are—that is to say, my sister Caroline and I are to take a house for the summer here. Will you… be here for the summer?”

“A few weeks. We are not yet certain how long it may be.”

“Indeed.” After which word he and Jane promptly lost all civility in admiring gazes.

Elizabeth was much too pleased to be offended, but she was surprised to suddenly find Mr. Darcy at her side, and smiling down at her in a way that made her vaguely uncomfortable.

“Well met, Miss Bennet,” he said softly.

Thrown off guard by his warm tone, she said, “I… did not expect to see you here.”

“Yet here I am,” he replied, looking rather smug. “In truth I did wonder if this might be the town you and your family had removed to. I am relieved to find it so.”

She blinked. Relieved? He was relieved? “And your reason for being here, sir?”

“I came to advise Bingley.” And search for you.

“Oh.” Of course. Did the other ever make a move without him?

Down the beach a few paces, Mr. Bingley was slowly recovering his wits, and had the presence of mind to offer a deeply blushing Jane his arm. “May we escort you to your destination, Miss Bennet?”

“We should be honored, sir. We were about to return to the house.”

“Of course. This way?” It was not, in fact, that way, but Jane was not paying attention and merely nodded. They began to walk, forgetting entirely about the couple behind them. Before she knew it, Elizabeth found herself on Mr. Darcy’s arm, being tenderly escorted over the beach. Most unnervingly of all, he had placed his hand in proprietary fashion over hers. She told herself that he was just trying to give her that little bit of extra support, but it was all she could do not to jerk away.

“Your friends at Rosings were surprised to find that you had departed our company so quickly, and without notice,” said Darcy.

She almost gaped at the hint of hurt in his tone. “I meant no offense to Lady Catherine. It was simply that my aunt was to depart almost immediately and I had to hurry if I was to join them.”

Darcy frowned at her apparently deliberate misunderstanding. “Lady Catherine was not the only one at Rosings.”

“I am afraid that Miss de Bourgh and I never had a chance to develop much of a friendship,” she replied sweetly, “but I hope Colonel Fitzwilliam understood why I had to leave.”

His frown grew. “He was surprised, but not certainly not angry. Fitzwilliam has many ladies among his acquaintance, you know, and although I know he enjoys female company I do not believe he has ever held one particularly above another.”

She nearly gasped at this pointed cut. “I did not suppose he held me particularly high, if that’s what you mean,” she said tartly, “but I am certain he considers me his friend.”

“I am certain he does,” he replied in a gentler tone. “But you must know he was not the one to whom I was referring.”

She was about to say something about her not having any other friends at Rosings—which doubtlessly would have gone down very badly indeed—when Mr. Bingley turned. “I say, Darcy!” he called back. “Miss Bennet and I have had the most capital notion! We should get up a boating party!”

“Are you sure you can row well enough, Bingley?”

“Well of course I am! I may not have won acclaim at Oxford for my rowing skills, but I can get a boat around well enough. What do you say?”

“I am agreeable, if Miss Elizabeth is.” He looked at her.

She blinked in surprise, looked at Jane’s imploring face, sighed and said, “Of course. I should be delighted.”

The rest of the way back to the house—once Elizabeth had pointed out the correct street—was spent discussing the finer particulars of their proposed outing. She was further surprised to discover from Mr. Bingley that Mr. Darcy had, indeed, won several prizes in the course of his university career for various athletic events, boating among them. Mr. Darcy himself appeared rather embarrassed at this intelligence; she supposed it was because he thought it beneath his dignity to participate in such plebian pursuits.

It was a very surprised Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner who greeted the entire party. They had long been curious about Mr. Bingley in particular, though of course they had heard of Mr. Darcy as well. Both men were more or less exactly as they had been described: Mr. Bingley the picture of affability, Mr. Darcy of reserve.  Oh, he said everything that good breeding required, but no more, and looked around the modest rented house with a most critical gaze. However, he seemed bent on accompanying their nieces and his friend on this expedition, so they must suppose he was not as fully disapproving as he appeared.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I'm back! I know I've neglected this for a few weeks; I can only blame it on the end of school-year craziness. Of course, now we've entered the summer holidays craziness (as in, three children who require activity and entertainment), but here is one of my favorites.

I began this after watching the musical Annie Get Your Gun for the first time. I really think it's an example of the way that fan fiction writers see every plotline as potential fan fiction. It took me quite a while to finish it (as it always takes me quite a while to finish things), but it was a concept I enjoyed working out. Along the way, a few eighties song lyrics crept in. What can I say? It's my story.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“I hope, Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Bingley over breakfast at Netherfield, “that you mean to give us a display of your splendid marksmanship.”

Mr. Darcy raised his eyebrows slightly. “I wasn’t aware that accomplished women took an interest in shooting, Miss Bingley.”

She preened slightly. “Accomplished women admire accomplished men, sir, and none shall deny, I hope, that marksmanship is a fine gentleman’s accomplishment.” She looked around the table almost challengingly, but no one showed any inclination to contradict her.

“I say, Caroline, that’s a capital idea!” declared Mr. Bingley. “I haven’t seen Darcy shoot in an age.”

“On the contrary, you saw me shoot only yesterday.”

“Oh, hunting! That’s not at all the same.”

“Yes, shooting at birds in flight is much easier than shooting wafers,” murmured Miss Bennet, who had been listening with interest.

Mr. Darcy, who had somehow ended up sitting near her at the breakfast table, caught her words and his lips twitched. “Quite,” he replied in a low tone, surprising her, then addressed the table. “I hardly think very many members of our party would be interested in watching me show off, Bingley.”

“Well of course we would,” protested Mrs. Hurst on behalf of her sister. “I know I can speak for Mr. Hurst in this and as for Caroline and I, I don’t think anything delights us more than a true demonstration of skill.”

Mr. Hurst actually roused himself enough to voice his support and Miss Bingley, of course, was all flattery. Mr. Bingley seemed ready to send for servants to set it up immediately. Mr. Darcy, however, did not appear satisfied. He had noticed the amused serenity of Miss Bennet in all of this. “I do not believe Miss Bennet, for one, has any interest in such a display,” he said. “You think it a great folly, I daresay.”

She met his eyes and smiled her maddening smile. “That depends, Mr. Darcy, on how fine of a marksman you actually are.”

“My dear Eliza,” exclaimed Miss Bingley, “Mr. Darcy is one of the first marksmen in all of England! Why, he’s renowned for it! Isn’t that right, Charles?”

“Perfectly right,” he agreed. “He carried off all the honors in school, and even now he’s often asked to give a demonstration at house parties. You could say, in fact,” he smirked, “that Darcy’s part of the in house entertainment.”

“In that case,” replied Elizabeth, “I should very much enjoy observing. I do so appreciate a little good entertainment.”

~%~

Accordingly, later that morning, all guests of the house except Miss Jane Bennet assembled on the south lawn, the side most protected from any wind. Fortunately it was a very still day, perfect for shooting. A table had been set up with an array of weapons spread out on it, from pistols to rifles. Instead of pasteboard wafers as targets, the servants had set up a wooden disk on a pole, marked with a center point. A small boy was employed to run up to the target and point out the latest bullet mark after each shot.

Miss Bennet’s last mocking remark had put Mr. Darcy on his mettle. He was not, contrary to the opinions of some young ladies, a vain man, and usually downplayed his personal accomplishments, but it could not be denied that her presence at the demonstration may have added to his other inducements to do well.

For about a quarter of an hour he shot the various guns, each by turn, at increasing distances, until the target was set some twenty paces away. He cut a rather fine figure in his tailored clothes, tall and straight, aiming each gun precisely, and, true to Miss Bingley’s word, he never missed. The ladies (except Elizabeth), clapped at every successful shot while the gentlemen observed him with an eye that suggested they were attempting to discern his secrets. Darcy endured both with perfect composure and indifference, but it could have been noticed by the observant that he glanced rather often at Miss Bennet, who watched everything with great interest but without appearing unduly impressed.

Presently he stopped to take a break and refresh himself with a glass of lemonade while the servants reloaded and replaced the now bullet-ridden target. While the others crowded around Darcy, Elizabeth strolled over to the table and began to inspect the weapons. One in particular attracted her, a medium sized, pearl handled pistol made by Joseph Manton. She picked it up, studying it closely.

Miss Bingley saw what she was doing, and her eyes widened in alarm. “Miss Elizabeth!” she cried, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Darcy glanced over sharply and began to stride in her direction.

Elizabeth glanced up. “It’s perfectly all right, Mr. Darcy,” she said calmly. “I know how to handle a gun.”

He halted a few feet from her, looking at her dubiously and obviously ready to lunge for the weapon at any moment. “It is loaded, you know.”

“Yes, I assumed as much.” She smiled innocently, continuing to finger it.

“Don’t be absurd, Eliza!” said Miss Bingley sharply. “Shooting guns is for men only! No lady could possibly do it properly!”

“Do you agree?” Elizabeth asked Mr. Darcy.

He hesitated. “I have known some women who could shoot a pistol reasonably well. The force of the recoil is more than most females are strong enough to control, though, and the noise overpowering. I have seen women break down into tears after attempting it. If you wish to shoot, Miss Bennet, I would suggest something smaller.”

She looked at him consideringly. “You think me so faint of heart, Mr. Darcy?”

“Not at all, but you will allow that I have some advantage of experience over you, and that is not a lady’s weapon—”

Something about the autocratic way he spoke the words you will allow made up Elizabeth’s mind. Casting only one swift, sharp glance at the target (which lay not only twenty paces back, but a few feet to her left), she raised her arm and fired.

Miss Bingley shrieked and Darcy jumped and cursed, leaping to wrest the gun from her hand. “Miss Bennet!” he said sharply, clearly very angry, “This is not a game, madam! This is a dangerous weapon, not a toy. To fire like that, carelessly, when there are so many people about is an act of almost unprecedented foolishness which I would never have believed that you, of all women, would be capable—”

“Uh, Darcy?” said Mr. Bingley.

But Darcy ignored him. “What point were you trying to prove?” he continued furiously, laying the gun down on the table before turning back to her. “Did you really think you could win an argument by behaving like a willful child? I thought you had too much sense to—”

“Darcy!” said Bingley again, more forcibly.

Darcy looked at him impatiently. “Well? What is it?”

He grinned. “Look.” He gestured. Following his gaze, Darcy saw that a servant had brought up the new target and to his utter astonishment he further followed the man’s pointing finger to a bullet buried neatly in the exact center. For a moment he just stared at it, his mouth slightly agape, and then the color began to rise in his face. Speechless, he looked from it to the woman in front of him, and back to it.

Elizabeth, who had remained perfectly calm during his tirade, just smirked slightly and, moving past him to the table, ran a last, caressing hand over the pistol. “It’s a beautiful weapon,” she said serenely. “I only wish I had one as fine myself.” Then she pulled her shawl a bit more securely around her shoulders and walked back to the spectators, perfectly satisfied in having achieved her point and lowered his pride.

But Mr. Bingley was not about to let either of them get off so easily. “Why didn’t you tell us you were a marksman too?” he demanded delightedly. “I’ve never seen a woman who could shoot like that before, and I would love to see you do it some more! Why don’t you join Darcy?”

“Oh, no, I assure you I have no intention—”

“Don’t be a fool, Bingley!” said Darcy tersely, channeling his embarrassment into anger. “It was a one time, lucky shot! I doubt she could make such a shot again if her life depended on it!”

The woman who had been just about to modestly decline Bingley’s invitation, having no real desire at all to shoot further, stiffened, and her eyes flashed. “Would you care to wager on that, Mr. Darcy?”

“First shooting guns and now laying bets?” Miss Bingley sneered. “Why, Eliza, you are becoming positively mannish.”

“I do not make wagers with women,” he replied irritably, “and since nothing could prevail upon me to take your money, I see no reason to make an exception in this case.”

“Your answer presupposes that you will win. But since I am much more familiar with my shooting abilities than you are familiar with my shooting abilities, reason lies on my side. No, Mr. Darcy, you will not have to take my money.”

A sudden feeling of being out of his depth overtook Darcy, with a, despite himself, curiosity to see what she could do. “You do not seriously mean to say that you shoot guns on a regular basis.”

“Why not? My father has no sons, and being an expert marksman himself, it is not unnatural that he felt the need to pass his skills on to someone else. Of all his daughters, I am the most like him—in every way.”

“Well I don’t care what Darcy says, I want to see you shoot again!” declared Mr. Bingley. “I think it’s fabulous that you have such a skill.”

“Come, Darcy, let the girl shoot,” expostulated Mr. Hurst, aroused to unaccustomed animation.

“Fine,” he said in a clipped tone, “but Miss Bennet will pardon me if I refuse to bet on the outcome.”

“I’ll bet on it,” said Bingley cheerfully. “I’ll bet ten pounds that Miss Elizabeth repeats her shot and more. Who’ll take it? Hurst?”

“Not I.” He shook his head.

“I’ll take it, Charles!” proclaimed his sister suddenly, leaping with admirable promptitude to her idol’s defense. “I bet she fails with the first attempt.”

“Far be it from me to instruct you on how you should spend your money, Miss Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “but I would reconsider if I were you.” Receiving nothing but a disdainful look for her trouble, she sauntered back over to the gun table. “Shall you like to go first, Mr. Darcy? To show me how it’s done?”

Irritated, wary and excited all at once, Darcy stalked up silently, selected a small pistol, walked back to stand opposite the target, jerked his arm up, took rapid aim, and fired. The shot went true. “That I can duplicate,” he said, but then to her surprise he himself reloaded the weapon and handed it to her.

Offering him a small curtsey, she moved into the spot he had just occupied, and without any apparent effort to take aim, hit her mark. “You lose, Miss Bingley,” she said lightly, handing the still smoking weapon to the footman. That woman scowled.

“My, she’s very fast, isn’t she, Darcy?” exclaimed Mr. Bingley. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you shoot so quickly!”

“That’s because I’ve never regarded marksmanship as a race,” said Darcy tightly. “Since we are neither fighting a battle nor killing live birds, haste is both unnecessary and undesirable. Precision is the desirable characteristic of an expert marksman, not speed.”

“I don’t think Miss Bennet lacks precision!” chortled Mr. Hurst.

“Would you feel better if I shot more slowly?” asked Elizabeth sweetly. “I can fiddle with my gown perhaps, or squint at the target as if I had difficulty seeing it properly. Would that please you, if I did that?”

His only response was to scowl at her and take up another small firearm, a particularly elegant dueling pistol. “Move the target back another five paces!” he barked.

Bingley gaped a bit. “I say, that’s a bit far, isn’t it? It’s not actually possible to be accurate at that distance, and certainly not outside.”

“So they say,” agreed Darcy suavely, as he took up his stance. His aim was steady, his arm very straight and firm, and when the sound of the shot died down the boy gladly pointed out his hit, located not far from the center of the target. The group broke into applause.

“Now that, Eliza,” called Miss Bingley, “is what they call superior marksmanship.”

“Indeed,” agreed Elizabeth calmly. “May I, sir?”

“Do you believe you can?”

“Certainly.”

She was handed, in this case, that pistol’s matching partner. Darcy moved to the side and watched her closely, his heart beating with an unexpected excitement to see how she would do. He did not want Miss Bennet to beat him at his own game—but he had to admit, if only to himself, that he would be a little disappointed if she failed now.

She did not fail. She took, admittedly, a little more time to line up her shot, and to his amusement gripped the larger gun in both hands instead of one this time, but it was still only a moment before it jumped and barked. Her mark, when it was revealed, was even closer to the center than his.

Elizabeth turned to Darcy, a triumphant tilt to her brow. She expected to see him even angrier than before, but he seemed to have regained his customary infuriating composure. “I will concede that you shoot remarkably well for a woman,” he said.

“Remarkably well for a woman?” she repeated incredulously.

“Come now, Darcy, that’s ungenerous and you know it,” called Bingley.

“You mistake, Mr. Bingley,” replied Elizabeth quickly, “I have no need of Mr. Darcy’s generosity. I simply resent the implication that, just because I am a woman, my skills are necessarily inferior to his, regardless of whose bullet hit closer to the mark.”

“Miss Bennet,” he said, “your skill with a pistol, though surprising, is certainly impressive. However, to truly match me, as you appear to wish to do, you would need to have equal skill with hunting guns such as shotguns and rifles, which are hardly a woman’s weapons.” He smiled smugly as he spoke.

Her eyes moved to the rifle lying on the table behind him, and she smiled. “Who says I do not?”

His smile vanished. “You cannot be serious.”

“Why ever not? Why, Mr. Darcy, only a few minutes ago you were exclaiming on how impossible it was that I should manage to hit that target twice—and yet I have done so, three times in a row now, and at an even greater distance. Do you not think you ought to temper your assertions before you make them?”

“A rifle is far too large and powerful for a woman to control,” he spoke with conviction, “especially one of your stature. You would injure yourself in the attempt, and I cannot allow it.”

“Cannot allow?” She lifted one eyebrow. “Mr. Bingley,” she called, “may I try out your rifle?”

“Yes, of course!” he exclaimed, coming happily towards them rubbing his hands together, like an eager schoolboy.

“Bingley, this is madness!” protested Darcy, frowning heavily as admiration for Elizabeth warred with genuine concern. “Do you want to have a second sister put up in your rooms, with the doctor called? What will you tell her father to explain how you came to allow her to do such a thing?”

“Mr. Bingley, if my father was here he would assure you that I am as competent with a hunting gun as I am with a pistol—a point which I mean to prove to Mr. Darcy, if you will but let me.”

Bingley hesitated, obviously torn between following his friend’s advice and doing what he really wanted, which was to see Elizabeth shoot some more.

“Mr. Darcy,” interposed Elizabeth, “since you are opposed to wagers, how about a  competition? The first person to miss a shot retires. If, as you expect, I miss on the first attempt, then I will retire without further complaint and concede that women should not attempt to shoot anything larger than a pistol. My parents will in no wise blame you, I promise,” she added. “They know my stubbornness as well as anyone.”

Once again Darcy found himself drawn in by her. What power was it in her eyes, that they always made him act against his better judgment?

Caroline Bingley, more than a little dissatisfied with the results of the shooting display so far, and jealous over the conversation that was taking place, had drawn near enough to hear Elizabeth’s last comment. “I’m surprised your mother hasn’t warned you that men don’t like stubborn women,” she said. “If you ever marry I’m sure I shall pity your husband.”

Darcy, whose feelings towards Elizabeth’s future unknown husband did not include pity, found himself strongly suppressing the urge to defend her. “Surely there can be no harm in a little friendly competition, Darcy,” said Bingley easily.

“Hear, hear!” cried Hurst.

“Miss Elizabeth will tell us if it becomes too much for her, won’t you?”

“Indeed I shall.”

“And you’ve shot rifles like this before?”

“Many times—although none quite so finely made.”

“Have you ever injured yourself in past?”

“Not for many years, I assure you.”

“There now, Darcy, what further objection could you have? You wouldn’t want it to be said that you shrank from competing with a woman, would you?”

“Yes, would you, Mr. Darcy?” echoed Elizabeth tauntingly.

“The only one to say that would be you, Bingley,” muttered Darcy.

“Perhaps you think it beneath your dignity to trade shots with a woman at all. Very well, perhaps that may be your prize if you win. None of us here shall ever mention it happening again, will we, gentlemen?” Hurst and Bingley agreed. “And I am sure we can count on Miss Bingley’s and Mrs. Hurst’s discretion.”

He pursed his lips and raised his own eyebrow at Elizabeth. “And what do you propose as your own prize, Miss Bennet?”

“Ah, so you concede there is a chance I might win.”

“Not at all, I am merely curious as to your ultimate goal in provoking me to this.”

Her smile broadened. “Nothing but satisfaction, Mr. Darcy. Nothing but satisfaction.”

“Do you envision yourself bragging to all your acquaintances of how you bested me?”

She shook her head. “I fear my mother would not approve. No, you are safe from me, regardless of the outcome.”

“If that’s so then the prize you offered me is hardly a prize at all. What incentive do I have to engage you in this so-called competition?”

“Besides avoiding Mr. Bingley’s teasing? I’m afraid I cannot tell you. I would offer you the opportunity to choose your own prize, but I doubt there’s anything I could give you that you might want.”

Ignoring the attractiveness of several obvious but inappropriate options, Darcy looked at her thoughtfully. He had every confidence of prevailing in the match to come. “You forget that you have not yet named what you wish from me, should you prevail. Then perhaps I might better understand what sort of prizes we are contending for in the first place.”

Elizabeth looked at him speculatively, the mischievous gleam in her eye increasing by the moment. “How  certain are you that you shall win?”

“Very.”

“Then I might name any forfeit without objection from you.”

“Provided it is within the bounds of propriety, yes.”

“Oh do not fear for that! Mr. Bingley, are not you planning on holding a ball soon?”

“Without question, Miss Bennet.”

“Then this is what I chose for my prize. If I should win this contest against one of the foremost marksman in England, then at Mr. Bingley’s ball you shall dance—how many sets do you think, Mr. Bingley?”

“Oh, four at least, Miss Bennet,” he answered, grinning widely.

“Four sets, and with partners of my choosing.”

Darcy compressed his lips together; she thought at first he was going to be angry, but then he also looked as if he might laugh for a moment. “A hefty forfeit indeed, Miss Bennet,” he replied gravely, at the last. “I rather doubt my ability to ask anything comparable of you—while remaining a gentleman, of course.”

“By all means let’s keep you a gentleman, Mr. Darcy.”

His thoughtful aspect increased, making him look rather severe. He looked at her face, at the tip of one boot, and at her face again. “Miss Bennet,” he said in a very even voice, “if I win against you, regardless of the level of skill you exhibit, you will give me your word to never shoot a rifle or other hunting weapon again, unless out of some terrible necessity, such as to save your own life.”

Whatever Elizabeth had been expecting, it was not this. She stared at him in blank astonishment. “I don’t understand.”

“Hunting weapons are dangerous, madam, regardless of who handles them. While recent advances have improved them somewhat, the fact remains that the size and strength of the weapon and the unreliability of gunpowder pose significant dangers. They can misfire. They can explode in your face, causing burns and scarring, even blindness. I’ve seen it happen before. I should hate to see it happen to you.”

Elizabeth blinked a few times, tried to feel offended, and failed. His gaze was so earnest, his voice so solemn. “Is not horse riding also a dangerous past time?” she ventured. “Horses are at least as unpredictable as gunpowder, and surely far more people are injured in falls than explosions. Yet if I had a love for riding horses you would not ask me to give that up, surely.”

“That’s true,” he conceded, “but riding has additional benefits to it—healthy exercise, the ability to travel to areas that carriages cannot reach. Since you do not hunt, you have no real reason to fire a hunting gun other than to demonstrate your skill, which I believe you are amply able to do with pistols. You notice that I did not ask you to give up shooting altogether, though pistols can be dangerous too. Their smaller size reflects a proportionally smaller danger however, and I realize I have no right to request you completely set aside something you do so well.”

“No sir, you do not.” She eyed him in a perplexed fashion. “I am sure that this is simply a ploy to make me refuse.”

“You may perceive it so if you chose, but the fact remains that I will not engage to shoot against you in a contest on any other terms.”

She frowned now, weighing her own assurance against his decidedly presumptuous demand. What had begun as a game to tease and humble him had turned unexpectedly serious, and she could not understand what he was about. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, “I have a stubbornness in me which always rises at every attempt to intimidate me. But what if I should marry in a few years, and my husband wishes to encourage my talent and resents my adhering to a promise made to another man?”

He bowed. “In that case, I would consider you released.”

“I also think that a lifelong vow deserves at the very least an entire evening in exchange. I will agree to your terms, but in return I shall expect you to dance every dance at Mr. Bingley’s ball, and you shall have no power to refuse any partner I point out to you. Moreover you shall be required to make conversation with all of them, tolerable or not.”

A slight smile touched his lips. “Will you allow me two dances to choose my own partner?”

“If you wish.”

“Excellent!” cried Bingley. “I declare, I can’t remember the last time I was so entertained. If only Miss Bennet were well enough to join us, I would think the day quite perfect.”

“Oh, my sister!” said Elizabeth. “You must excuse me for a few minutes that I may go check on her. If she is well enough, I will return immediately.”

This request was immediately agreed to. While she was away, the three gentlemen, with great animation, selected two rifles they all declared well matched, and discussed the specifics of the proposed contest. Miss Bingley, finding herself vastly bored by conversation in which she had no part, and more than a little irked at Miss Bennet’s unique ability to monopolize Mr. Darcy’s attention, sidled up to that gentleman.

“What do you think of country manners now, Mr. Darcy?” she asked him. “Myself, I have never been so excessively shocked in my life than at Miss Eliza’s conduct. Surely you can’t find her eyes fine when they appear over the barrel of a smoking gun.”

“Miss Bennet is… unusual,” he replied carefully.

“You are always so kind in your opinions. Of course, I know what you must be feeling. Imagine finding yourself forced to endure the indignity of a contest with her, as if she was a man!”

“She does not make me think of a man.”

“No, for she lacks the strength, the abilities, the dignity and skill a man might have, and in its place has only that abominably impertinent confidence, coupled with a total lack of ladylike modesty. She has the virtues of neither sex, and the vices of both!”

“Miss Bingley!” he said rather sharply. “I would hardly call the ability to fire a gun with accuracy a vice. Whatever else Miss Elizabeth may be, her virtue and respectability are not in question.”

“I did not mean to imply that they are,” she said hastily. “But don’t tell me you didn’t think her earlier display—the display to come—absolutely appalling!”

“If her marksmanship had not proved to be as superior as it is,” he admitted, “then I might have. But as it is, I can only admire her skill.”

It was at the moment that Elizabeth immerged from the house, putting an end to further conversation.

~%~

                “Well, Darcy,” said Charles in a sympathetic tone that did little to conceal his glee, “I’m afraid you’ll just have to resign yourself to dancing.”

“Nonsense!” he snapped. “This competition is far from over yet.”

“Yes, but… well, look at her.”

Darcy was looking. He had been looking on, in consternation and increasing amazement, as she coolly fired off round after round with unfailing accuracy. She was so small, her slender form and light muslin gown a striking contrast to the large rifle she handled with such ease. She had wrapped her shawl around her shoulder as padding, but he still winced every time he saw her take the force of the recoil against it. He wondered how much his own performance had been affected by her distracting presence, by the curls trailing down her neck and the delicacy of her profile as she focused on her target. Then she would walk by him, casting him a merry, mocking glance that just made him want to prove himself further before her.

The target had been moved a staggering thirty paces off now, and he knew he was at the limit of what he could achieve himself. He was still hitting it, but barely, while Elizabeth’s shots were as consistently center as ever. Unless a miracle took place, it was only a matter of time before she would be declared the victor. Bingley really would never let him live this down.

The undisguised joy with which Hurst and Bingley had watched the whole affair did little to placate his feelings. Miss Bingley had sullenly retreated to the house some ten minutes or so ago, apparently receiving little satisfaction in watching all the men watch Miss Bennet, who disobligingly failed to make a fool of herself. “My dear Mr. Darcy,” said Mrs. Hurst to him at one point, “I can only imagine your feelings. To think of the impudence of that girl, attempting to put you to shame so!”

“Would you suggest she let me win on purpose?” he asked irritably. “I assure you I would not wish it!”

What would he wish? He would wish to beat her, fairly and honestly, earning her respect and admiration as she had earned his. He would wish she was as rich in connections as she was in abilities. He would wish to take her in his arms and kiss her with force and passion.

But none of that translated to reality. He could not kiss her, she had no connections, and he was increasingly certain that he could not beat her either. Frustrated beyond words, he scowled as he took up his stance, peering at the distant target.

A rustle next to him distracted him. Elizabeth had moved near to watch. When he turned his head he met her eyes, warm and deep and brilliant, her face disturbingly close, so close he could see the light freckles dappling her cheeks, and the way the hairs in her right eyebrow grew to give it that distinctive arch….

“Hit me with your best shot.”

As if fighting his way out of a daze he blinked rapidly and shook his head.

Taking that to mean he had not understood her, she stepped a little closer. “I said,” she murmured, her lips puckering in the most provocative fashion, “why don’t you hit me with your best shot?”

Speechless, wound tight as a bow string, he turned back, tried in vain to focus, and fired before he was ready. The shot went wide.

Darcy lowered his gun and pressed his lips together, fighting to compose himself. His strongest immediate emotion was anger. She had done it on purpose. He was sure that she had deliberately used her charms—used his own attraction to her, of which he was sure she must be aware—to distract and befuddle him. It was entirely her fault. This would never have happened if she was a man.

Elizabeth, who in all innocence had no notion of the effect her teasing words had had on him, wondered what had happened to rattle him so. One glance at his grim profile made her decide not to taunt him about it; rather, she stood back as he moved to the table, almost throwing his rifle down.

Bingley, likewise, cleared his throat and tried to look serious, although he couldn’t forebear to send Elizabeth a smirk behind his friend’s back. Hurst laughed outright, earning a glare that would have silenced more sensible men. Mrs. Hurst was smart enough to remain silent.

Mr. Bingley brought her her rifle. “One more shot to win, Miss Elizabeth,” he told her in a low voice. “I am certain you can do it.”

She was certain too, but had the uneasy feeling that she would be winning by some mischance on Darcy’s part. She would have liked to have offered him the chance take his shot again, but knew he would not accept it. Slowly, she turned toward the target.

Just then a distinctive voice floated across the lawn. “Mr. Bingley… oh Mr. Bingley!” The entire party turned to see a group of three women hurrying across the grass, the front most one fluttering a handkerchief as she came.

Elizabeth groaned. Mother! All at once she felt like hiding behind the gun table. What she did do was thrust the rifle rapidly behind her back.

“Oh, Mr. Bingley,” said Mrs. Bennet breathlessly as they arrived on the scene, “such a fine house as this is, don’t you think! I can’t imagine you’d find a finer one, no matter how hard you look.”

“It is very pleasing, ma’am,” he answered good naturedly.

“The butler told us that you were out here having a bit of sport, and so we thought we would come out too, for surely we couldn’t be so rude as to visit without seeing you and thanking you in person for your kindness to my poor, dear, sweet Jane.”

“Not at all. I’m delighted to have been allowed to help her in some way.”

While they were talking Lydia had looked around with interest at the setting. She noted the presence of the table, and then its contents, and then Elizabeth’s proximity to it. She saw how her hands were behind her, moved a little forward, and… Lydia’s eyes widened and sparkled. “Mama!” she exclaimed. Mrs. Bennet did not answer, being too caught up in speaking to Mr. Bingley. “Mama!” she said again, more loudly this time.

Mrs. Bennet paused and looked at her irritably. “Well what is it, Lydia?”

“Mama, Lizzy’s got a gun!”

“… And her whole world’s come undone,” muttered Lizzy. Darcy, overhearing, glanced curiously at her.

“What?!” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened in horror and she clasped her hand to her heart. “Lizzy, you bad girl, what are you doing?”

“Nothing, mother.”

“How can you say nothing? You’ve been shooting guns again, haven’t you? Oh, I always knew you hated me! Do you mean to ruin us? What must Mr. Bingley think of you now?”

“I think she’s a fantastic shot, Mrs. Bennet,” he hastened to reassure her. “We are all admiration for her abilities.”

“Oh Mr. Bingley, you are too kind, but you needn’t make excuses for her. Miss Lizzy knows I have never approved of that dreadful habit of hers. When she came out I made it a point to put a stop to all such nonsense, I can tell you. What man wants to marry a girl who shoots a gun better than he does? If I’ve said it to her once I’ve said it a hundred times!”

“Lizzy beat all the local boys at shooting contests by the time she was thirteen,” related Lydia to the world at large. “Mama made her promise to stop, but she and papa still go out and practice in the north field nearly every week.”

Elizabeth wondered if it  was possible for one’s face to actually catch on fire from blushing so hard. She was painfully aware of Mr. Darcy’s eyes on her, an sardonic glint in them. Sighing, she abandoned pretense and handed the weapon to him. “Mama, do come in the house. You must see Jane for yourself, to decide how she gets on. Mr. Darcy, please excuse me.”

“I don’t see what difference it makes how Jane is doing when you are so determined to destroy all her hopes!” she wailed as Elizabeth led her away.

The gentleman watched their retreat. “Well, Darcy,” said Bingley, “I believe you owe Mrs. Bennet your gratitude.”

Mr. Hurst snickered. “She saved your hide, no doubt about it!”

“If you think I mean to take advantage her appearance to renege on any agreement I made with Miss Bennet—!”

“I think you’d prefer to forget the whole thing ever happened,” said Bingley frankly. “However, I know you too well to think that’s what you’ll do—no matter how much you hate dancing! Your blasted pride wouldn’t let you.”

Yes, his blasted pride. It was his pride that got him into this in the first place… that and his weakness for a certain fine pair of eyes. Well, he was smarting for it now. And yet… when he thought back over the morning, Darcy knew that if he had a chance to erase the experience, he wouldn’t do it. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was undoubtedly the most infuriating, challenging, stimulating woman he would ever know, and that image of her, rifle cradled against her slim shoulder, eyes so clear and unafraid, that image would stay with him for the rest of his life.

~%~

                “Miss Bennet.” Elizabeth turned from seeing her mother off to find Darcy behind her. The gentlemen, it seemed, had returned to the house.

“Mr. Darcy?”

“As it was perfectly obvious to everyone present that you would have made that last shot had we not been interrupted,” he began in the tone of one reciting an unpleasant lesson, “it only seems fair and sporting of me to offer to fulfill the conditions of our agreement, even though the competition was never officially concluded.”

“That is very magnanimous of you, sir,” she replied after a moment, her voice very dry. “However, I should not like you to think me eager to claim a victory I didn’t earn. When last I checked, we each had completed the same number of successful shots.”

“But yours were closer to the mark than Darcy’s,” contributed Mr. Bingley helpfully, earning himself a glare from his friend and a smothered laugh from Elizabeth.

“True, but those were not the terms of the competition,” she reminded him. “To earn a successful point we only had to hit the target.”

“Are you suggesting, then, that we abandon the competition and agree to a draw?” asked Darcy, whose very fervent desire to not have to dance at the ball was warring with his gentlemanly sense of honor.

But again she surprised him. “By no means. I am suggesting that we finish it.”

“Miss Elizabeth,” said Bingley, “I’m afraid that the conditions changed since you left the field. The wind has picked up and there’s no possible way you could be expected to shoot accurately outside any more.”

“Have they packed everything up already then?”

“Not yet, but they were just about to start.”

“We could delay it until tomorrow,” offered Darcy in a voice of longsuffering.

“Wait a whole day for a single shot? No, gentlemen, not when it was I who left the field today.  I think that would hardly be fair and sporting of me.” She cast Darcy one of her typically mocking looks. “I will  take my shot now, if you have no objection.”

“In the wind?” repeated Bingley.

“In the wind.”

Darcy looked at her uncertainly. Was she attempting to throw the competition on purpose? “I do object.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

“Because we agreed to shoot under equal conditions, and this would not be an equal condition.”

“Yet you cannot guarantee the weather for me tomorrow, not to mention the fact that I would be fresh instead of tired.” Seeing the obstinacy on his face she sighed. High-handed, immovable man! “I truly have no desire to draw this out, sir. Please let me do this now.”

He could not civilly object further. Relief fought with pique and won out. Mr. Hurst, who had been about to lapse into a daze on the sofa, jumped to his feet again at the news, and Miss Bennet made her way back out to the makeshift shooting range with the three men trailing after her.

The wind had grown stronger. Elizabeth stood for a moment, her eyes shut, feeling it. It was very, very difficult to shoot well in the wind, but she and her father had often done so, and she had slowly learned how to gauge it; how to compensate for it. She could not say quite how she did it, any more, except that it had become something of an instinct, as all aiming was instinctual for her. She could tell, almost without conscious thought, how this wind would tug at the ball, the direction it would push it, and how quickly. She opened her eyes, focused for a moment on the target, memorizing its position, then, to the utter astonishment of every person present, closed her eyes again, lifted the rifle, and fired.

~%~

                “I can hardly believe it!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Mr. Darcy, dancing with my Mary!”

“He danced with Charlotte first,” pointed out Lady Lucas.

“He’s dancing every dance, and with the plainest girls in the room,” marveled Mrs. Long. If either lady noticed how unflattering that remark was to their daughters, they did not say so.

“There, there now,” said Sir William, coming up just in time to hear, “did I not tell you that he must be more amiable than he appeared? I’m sure it was just that he felt strange, that first night—or perhaps he tired, or unwell.”

“Perhaps he had a headache,” suggested his wife. “That would certainly account for it; nothing is more aggravating to a headache than movement.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Bennet, “is why he keeps going back to Lizzy between every dance, and yet never asks her! He can hardly claim she’s not handsome enough tonight, after all the other girls he’s led out. Why, compared to them she’s a positive beauty! It must be her behavior that has created such a determined dislike in him.”

Mrs. Bennet was mistaken in this instance, though. Mr. Darcy felt no determined dislike for Miss Elizabeth, and had every intention of asking her to dance. When Elizabeth had allowed him the supper set as the one where he would be free to choose his partner, she had no idea that she would be his choice.

“Me?” she repeated in surprise, looking at his outstretched hand. “I would think I was the last woman in this room you would wish to voluntarily dance with tonight!”

“Then you would be mistaken,” he said simply.

Eyes wide, she took the hand, and he led her out to the floor. They danced for a few minutes in silence, Elizabeth casting curious glances at him while he continued in apparently perfect calm.

“Do you hate me for subjecting you to this?” she finally asked, when she could bear the silence no longer.

“Not at all.”

“But you despise dancing with strange woman, and I’ve made you do it all night.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged, a bit of a wry smile disturbing the impassivity of his face. “But it was, after all, my forfeit.”

“A mischievous one.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged again, the smile growing just slightly.

“I should never have baited you.” She really didn’t know why she was suddenly apologizing and explaining.

His eyes met hers. “I should never have insulted you.” Then his gaze shifted. After a moment Elizabeth realized it was resting on her shoulder and, glancing down, saw that her lace had slipped a bit and was exposing the very edge of a fading bruise. She blushed and her hand moved up involuntarily to adjust it.

“Was it worth it?” he asked her softly.

She met his eyes fearlessly again. “To see you dance with my sister who, like you, rarely indulges in the past time? Absolutely.”

They moved through some figures and when they came back again he said, “You, Miss Bennet, are an enigma.”

“I would have said the same of you, Mr. Darcy.”

More figures.

“I think I may have mercy on you, sir.”

“By releasing me from any further obligation?”

She bit back a laugh at the sudden eagerness in his voice. “Not quite, I fear. But after supper I give you leave to dance with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, who you are particularly acquainted with, and also my sister Jane, who in addition to being the only handsome woman in the room, will make you a good conversation partner. That is, if you can persuade your friend to relinquish her.”

“And once I am finished with them?” He made no attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his voice this time.

Her smile grew. “Then you will report back to me, of course. I am sure I shall have further use for you by that time.” He bowed stiffly as the music came to an end and she curtsied to him. “I’ve never had a man at my disposal before, you know, and I’m afraid that your apology, such as it was, was simply not handsome enough to tempt me.” Then she leaned forward slightly, whispering. “Don’t look so thunderous, Mr. Darcy.  From your expression anyone would think that that it was you I shot, instead of merely a wooden target.” And then she swished away, leaving him gaping yet again.

“Shot me?” he muttered at last. “Yes, though the heart. Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame! You give love a bad name!”

 

 

Annie Oakley, who was the inspiration for the musical Annie Get Your Gun, which was in turn the inspiration for this bit of nonsense, could shoot a dime tossed in the air at ninety feet. Also at ninety feet, she could hit the edge of a playing card laid flat, and then put five or six holes in it before it reached the ground. Although I realize that she was using later model rifles that were more accurate than those available in 1811, knowing that gave me the boldness to give Lizzy a similar target distance, if not quite such spectacular targets.