As the dinner hour drew to its completion, dusk was approaching and the groundsmen initiated the time consuming task of lighting the numerous lanterns dispersed about the lawns. Darcy lent his arm to Lizzy, leading the Pemberley residents into the crowd and toward the roped off sections of the yard. It was now nearly time for the scheduled performances to begin.

First, however, Lizzy led her husband to the children's arena. Darcy faltered a bit, in truth having blurted the whole “egg race” comment just to irritate Caroline Bingley. His wife, on the other hand, took him at his word. All thirty-three of the orphans released squeals of delight when she entered the cordoned play zone. They adored their patroness, rushing her en masse to cluster about her legs and clamor for attention. Darcy kept a grip on her elbow, fearful that she would topple over in their enthusiasm. Naturally, his close proximity meant that they also bustled about his legs, not sure what to make of the gigantic, silent man, but in the typical innocence of youth deciding that if he was with Mrs. Darcy then he must be tolerable.

Lizzy laughed, bending and attempting to hug all of them while bestowing kisses and hair tousles. Darcy watched her obvious delight with rising pleasure, beginning to relax into the unusual situation when suddenly his attention was captured by a firm tug on his trousers. He glanced down into the tiny, serious face of a boy of perhaps three. He was staring at Darcy with great intensity, his sandy hair combed into a perfect slick bowl except for a swirl to the crown which stuck straight up. His eyes were huge, colored a lovely green with gold flecks, and he solemnly studied Darcy for several minutes, apparently eventually deciding the big fellow was safe enough as he abruptly lifted his chubby arms and reached toward the stunned man. Without thinking, Darcy bent and picked the little boy into his arms, resting him naturally on his hip.

“Hello, lad,” Darcy said, deep voice causing the boy's eyes to widen and thumb to implant between sucking lips. Still, he did not squirm and bravely examined his captor, reaching the other plump fingers to poke Darcy's nose then the cleft in his chin with avid curiosity. “Do you have a name, little one?”

“His name is Francis.” It was Elizabeth, watching the drama with misty eyes and a broad smile. “He is the newest arrival. His mother died not two weeks ago and his father before he was born. We hope to settle him with an aunt who lives in Exeter.”

“He is adorable,” Darcy said, Francis continuing his study with pokes and soft pinches. “Does the aunt want him?”

“She is willing, yes, but the orphanage needs to arrange the funds for her to travel so far. I have given some of my pin money. I hope you do not mind, love…”

Darcy was shaking his head, gazing at the boy who yawned and then laid his head onto Darcy's shoulder, entire soft body relaxing as a warm rag into his chest. Darcy's breath caught, an intense surge of what could only be paternal emotion lancing his heart. He looked to Elizabeth, gruffly clearing his throat. “Whatever is needed I will provide. Tell them so, Elizabeth.”

Darcy held the boy until he was soundly asleep, one of the orphanage staff women then taking him away. His arms felt strangely bereft, the need to touch his wife and their child overwhelming him. Lizzy was on the far side of the field, preparing the equipment for the egg race when Darcy snuck behind her, snaking one arm about her waist for a tender but brief hug and caress to her bulging belly. She twisted in his arms, planting a kiss to his chin with a smile. “Soon, my love,” she whispered, patting his cheek. “Very soon we shall have him to hold. You will be an amazing father.”

They did join the egg race, both Darcy and his uncle quite excellent, their natural grace and elegance evidenced in precise balance. Darcy drew the line at jumping rope himself, but he did twirl one end while the children, and Drs. Penaflor and Darcy took turns performing elaborate steps over the fast-spinning rope. Leaving George, Raul, and Anne to entertain the children, Darcy and Lizzy finally escaped.

Lizzy and her cohorts had conjured all kinds of ideas for entertainment, so enraptured with the various concepts that they attempted to do it all. Darcy had been frankly skeptical but had written to a number of people he knew, sending out requests for the skilled professionals required. To his amazement, most of what Lizzy dreamt up had been realized. Three unique offerings were scheduled for the bedazzlement of the assembly, each to be performed several times throughout the evening so all could watch in divided groupings.

Darcy was personally most thrilled by the equestrians to perform at the corral so steered his wife in that direction next. The success of Philip Astley's circus in London over the past thirty years had sparked a swarm of duplicators in traveling shows throughout England. Darcy hired a troupe with a stellar reputation that specialized in trick horseback riding. He had been to Astley's Amphitheatre dozens of times and had taken Elizabeth once while in London, never tiring of the astounding equestrian feats the riders executed. While he did not actually expect this group to be as proficient, he was praying for at least a moderate mastery.

Lizzy climbed the bottom rung of the fence, Darcy supporting her at the small of her back. They had missed the first performance. The riders and mounts needed time to rest in between sets, but Darcy had arranged for three sets to be played, allowing all guests time to view the other entertainments and not miss what he considered the highlight. With eyes shining, Lizzy laughing at his childlike exuberance, the act began.

Galloping wildly, a grey horse burst out the stable doors, a man dressed in flowing rags clutching frantically to the reins. His face was a study in absolute terror as he yelled and wailed, body bouncing crazily on the animal's bare back. Round and round the ring they flew, all the while the seemingly hysterical man clung to the horse and his hat. As they raced about, the rider began to flip and twist, always acting as if he was in a frenzy of terror and barely holding on. In time, the humor of it all hit the crowd as the man's actions turned from random and desperate to elegant and masterful. He flipped his body backwards, clinging to the horse's rump, hat flying off, and then proceeded to lift his legs straight into the air. With another abrupt swivel, he again faced forward, holding the reins with his feet while he casually removed the frayed jacket. Little by little, always while racing in circles and sitting sideways or steering with his teeth, articles of his threadbare clothing were discarded. Underneath, he wore a tight fitting garment of white with gold and silver sparkles interwoven.

The crowd cheered, clapping furiously. Finally, completely transformed into a stunningly fit vision of masculine athleticism, the barefoot man stood on the back of the galloping horse. He held the rein loosely in one hand, the other gallantly waving to the applauding spectators. The stable doors opened then and three more horse and rider teams emerged, all dressed in similar scandalous outfits and all standing on their mounts. Together, the four proceeded to run around the ring in dazzling arrays of antics. They leapt from horse to horse, straddled two animals at once, somersaulted, stood on one leg while bent completely forward, balanced upside down, lay flat over the horse's rear, and so many more tricks that it became a blur.

The only difference Lizzy could readily detect from Astley's program was the length, quantity of artists, and wealth of props and costumes. The riders themselves were amazing and the simple country folk of Derbyshire, quite likely none of whom had ever witnessed such an exhibit, were spellbound. Darcy was gazing with what could only be described as extreme infatuation and yearning, eyes glittering and bedazzled.

Lizzy leaned toward his ear and said, “Do not even think about it, William! The way you ride Parsifal is challenging enough. I do not wish to see the father of our child attempting to stand on a running horse's back!”

Darcy flushed, averting his eyes. “It never crossed my mind, Elizabeth.”

She laughed, kissing his earlobe. “Of course not.”

The crowd broke up as the horses and their riders retreated into the stable for a relaxing intermission. Darcy and Lizzy meandered, pausing for occasional chats, although most of the people were far too nervous to attempt conversation with their stoic Master. A number of blankets had been spread over the extensive yard, upon which sat feasting families or flirting couples. Encountering all three of the Bingleys, they together headed to the middle enclosure where another performance had just started. Colonel Fitzwilliam was already there with Kitty and Georgiana.

This roughly rectangular grid of lawn was intersected with ropes stretched taut and narrow beams positioned anywhere from one to six feet off the ground. An Italian family of acrobats, five male and one female, were displaying their skills of balance, flexibility, and agility. Dressed in skin tight clothing similar to the trick riders, tinted in vivid shades of red and blue with flowing gauze scarves attached to the arms, legs, and waists, they resembled human butterflies. In a truly impressive exposition, they walked along the ropes, the thinnest no thicker than a man's thumb, sometimes using long poles or umbrellas to balance. They flawlessly traversed all the ropes, stopping frequently to raise one leg in all directions, bending over both forward and backward, twirling about, hand standing, tumbling, swinging, and more. Usually, they performed individually, but on the wider beam they worked in teams. They leapfrogged over each other, climbed onto shoulders or feet as high as all six of them, and contorted their bodies over each other in truly grotesque ways.

The stronger men grasped the lithe woman and completely tossed her high into the air, always catching her after she spun and twisted while flying. The people gasped and screamed, clapping enthusiastically at each demonstration of incredible aerodynamics. Lizzy was sure they were going to fall at least a dozen times but they never did. The spectators went crazy, applauding loudly with whistles and shouted praise, the acrobats bowing deeply in all directions, at the last toward the Darcys.

The sun was nearly set, the fading rays casting long shadows over the landscape. All the torches and lanterns had been lit so the area was well illuminated. The younger children were asleep in the pavilion, the orphans being rounded up to return to their home, and the older children were finishing the games or chasing each other about the grounds amongst the roaming adults. Young singles fortuitously grasped the social situation to claim dances or, if very lucky, a stolen kiss. Adults reveled in the rare delight of large quantities of food, relaxation, and fun. The wine was brought out as the sun slipped lower on the horizon, stars appearing as the air cooled dramatically. The orchestra took their places on the platform and began the process of tuning their instruments.

The Darcys visited the refreshment tent for a cool drink and a snack, Lizzy unable to pass too many hours without ingesting something. To their incredible surprise, Mrs. Langton was lounging on a chair, large body barely fitting amid the armrests, glass of wine in her hand, laughing boisterously at something Mr. Taylor had said. Darcy humorously raised one brow, waving the cook back down as she ungainly attempted to rise.

“Stay seated, Mrs. Langton. I am delighted to see you enjoying yourself. You deserve to reap the bounty of your labors. The food is marvelous and I do believe you and your staff have eclipsed all prior feasts. Mrs. Darcy and I are forever in your debt.”

Lizzy bit her lip to forestall a case of the giggles as the hefty woman blushed and stammered at her Master's praise. Darcy smiled slightly and bowed, clasping Lizzy's elbow and steering her out of the pavilion to leave the servants at their unencumbered amusements.

All the Pemberley Manor residents converged at the last designated area, taking seats in the front rows to await the final show. A sudden hush fell over the audience as the tent flap opened to reveal a small man sedately walking onto the arena. He was costumed in a loose, garish patchwork suit of every shade in the spectrum, enormous blue shoes, face painted with colorful stripes, and head bald. If all that was not enough to awe the crowd, the little clown was walking on his hands! He advanced across the field unhurriedly, gigantic feet flapping and florid face grinning, until he reached the very end whereupon he abruptly crumpled into a heap, lying still as death. The audience collectively gasped, some even rising or taking involuntary steps forward, only to halt mid-stride when the tent flap exploded open and out blasted two more clowns. One was dressed as outrageously as the hand-walker, a fluttering ball of color with hundreds of brightly patterned strips of fabric apparently glued onto every inch of his body, a scarlet wig, oar-sized boots of green, and red circles about his eyes and mouth. He was running pell-mell and steering a rickety wooden wagon, inside of which sat the third clown. He was costumed as a proper English gentleman, only highly exaggerated. The collar of his waistcoat extended way past his ears, the cravat knotted at least three dozen times and some eight inches beyond his chin, jacket tails touching the ground, baggy breeches with three-inch wide knee buckles, and, of course, huge shoes. All this topped off with a ridiculously high beaver hat.