CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“COME, LIZZY, YOU must play! No Christmas is complete without a round of Blindman’s Buff.” Kitty cried, already tugging a small table out of the way so the middle of the room might be cleared.
Lydia had been the first to propose the game, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she declared that Christmas could not properly pass without a round. Mr. Bingley, eager for good humour, had seconded the idea at once, and as Georgiana Darcy offered no protest, the plan was set in motion.
Chairs were drawn back, a footstool spirited to a corner, and the elegant order of the drawing room gave way, for a little while, to cheerful confusion.
The older part of the company declared themselves unequal to the game, yet they were content to look on, though the shifting of seats obliged many to stand.
At the far end, a card table had been established where Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst preferred their more tranquil amusement; Mr. Hurst lounged beside them, and Mr. Collins took a solemn place with the cards, having already hinted that her ladyship did not approve of romps that involved running and catching.
Lady Catherine’s expression suggested he was not mistaken.
“Caroline,” said Bingley, laughing as the handkerchief was produced, “I could swear this was your favourite when we were small.”
“It was, when I was a child,” she returned, without raising her eyes from the cards.
“Then I shall be childish in your stead.” Bingley allowed the handkerchief to be tied and turned obligingly as the circle stepped back in a flutter of skirts and boots. He lunged and caught a sleeve.
“Aha—Mrs Wickham!”
Kitty squealed, slipping free. Lydia tossed her head and declared from a safe distance that no one who knew them well would mistake the one for the other, being so very unlike. The room rang with laughter.
Bingley, by acclamation, was allowed another attempt.
He groped forward with exaggerated caution, his hands outstretched.
Jane stood near the pianoforte—far stiller than she had been moments before when deftly evading him.
Her skirts, which had rustled with every cautious step away, now made no sound at all.
Elizabeth watched her sister with growing suspicion. Jane was deliberately not moving.
His outstretched hand brushed against fabric. His fingers closed gently around her wrist. He stilled, as though the feel of her hand beneath his had told him everything. A smile broke across his face even before he spoke.
"Miss Bennet!" he declared triumphantly.
The room erupted in cheers. Jane smiled, her cheeks colouring prettily, while Bingley beamed with satisfaction at his success.
Elizabeth bit back a smile. Jane had let herself be caught—she was certain of it. Whether to spare him further embarrassment or for some other reason entirely, her sister had stood perfectly still and allowed him his victory.
Mrs Gardiner caught her eye from across the room, one eyebrow raised in shared understanding.
Naturally, Jane was blindfolded next. She moved with graceful caution, hands outstretched as she reached into empty air. Finally, her fingers closed around Elizabeth's arm, and she smiled the instant Elizabeth laughed.
"I have you, Lizzy."
“Very well, you traitor,” Elizabeth said, laughing.
When the players settled for the game to continue, Elizabeth suffered the handkerchief to be tied.
Darkness fell, warm and close. The fire crackled.
Someone’s whisper died in a giggle. She stepped forward, hands extended.
Silk brushed her sleeve, a shoe slid upon the floor, the air stirred by someone’s breath as they escaped her.
She turned, took another cautious step, and found herself stopped by something unyielding.
Her palms rested upon a coat, firm and still beneath her fingers.
A clean, winter scent rose to meet her—snow and wool and something she could not name, only recognize.
A quiet steadiness, a certain height, judging by the warm breath that fell just above her forehead.
He is not in room… and yet, how can it be otherwise?
But she was almost certain. There was a scent to him, unmistakable in fact. She had detected it when they were skating on the frozen stream. And here it was again. It made no sense, yet she could not doubt it.
Her breath caught. "Mr Darcy?"
The room fell silent.
For a suspended moment, nothing moved. Then applause broke out, sudden and delighted, followed by laughter and cries of admiration.
Elizabeth snatched off the handkerchief, half abashed, half breathless, and saw him before her indeed—newly entered by the side door.
There was colour in his cheeks, and something in his expression she could not immediately name, caught between surprise and a quieter emotion that held her gaze a moment longer than propriety required.
“I did not know you had returned,” she said.
“I had not intended to intrude,” he replied.
Bingley clapped him on the back, still laughing. "A prodigy, upon my honour! She could not have been more exact."
"How did you know it was Mr Darcy?" Kitty cried. "He was not even part of the game!"
Miss Bingley observed the scene with marked displeasure, remarking upon the disorder of such games, while Lady Catherine followed with a pointed comment upon propriety. Their objections, however, were lost beneath the general amusement.
Captain Ashford stood near the hearth, watching.
His easy smile faltered, arriving a beat too late as his eyes moved from Elizabeth to Darcy and back again.
The understanding that crossed his face was swift and unhappy—the look of a man who has just seen his hopes quietly extinguished.
He recovered at once, his expression smoothing into polite interest, but not before Colonel Fitzwilliam caught it.
The Colonel, who had seen everything, only said with determined good humour, "Well, we know Darcy won't play now. Has he ever submitted to a blindfold in his life?"
"I was not part of the game," Darcy protested, though not with any real dismay.
"Precisely why it was so unfair," the Colonel replied cheerfully. "I believe it falls to me to restore justice. Bind my eyes, Bingley."
While the Colonel laughed with those nearest him and submitted to the handkerchief, Elizabeth stepped back to the circle's edge, grateful for the distraction.
Across the light and bustle she met Mr Darcy's gaze once more.
No word was necessary. The warmth that rose within her did not ask leave.
It settled quietly, as a truth long resisted finally allowed to stand.
The Colonel advanced to general amusement and immediate peril, for he lunged at Lydia, who shrieked and fled, then blundered into Georgiana, drawing another round of laughter from the younger set and a look of genuine alarm from Mr Collins regarding the safety of the card table.
Lady Catherine called for the chairs to be restored to their places at once.
No one heeded her for several moments, which did nothing to soothe her displeasure.
Elizabeth scarcely heard any of it. She felt again the living stillness she had known beneath her palms, the clean scent of wool and winter, the warmth that had met her through the cloth as though it had recognized her and waited.
She looked once more toward the doorway where he stood a little apart, watchful and composed.
The sight quieted her as music might have done.
Soon, Colonel Fitzwilliam declared himself defeated, tore off the handkerchief, and begged for a second trial, if only the ladies would condescend to give him fairer sport.
"Enough havoc!" cried Kitty, delighted. "We must have one more turn and then order shall be restored, for Lady Catherine's sake."
But the party had had enough. The game was declared finished, and the furniture was returned to its proper places amid much scraping of chair legs and good-natured complaint.
Only when the company's attention had fully settled elsewhere did Elizabeth lift her eyes toward the door once more. Mr Darcy had not moved. His look met hers—steady and grave, yet bright with something that made the candlelight seem pale by comparison.
She turned away at last, her heart beating rather faster than it ought.
The way he had looked at her just now—with such warmth, such open regard—it could mean only one thing.
He still favoured her. Whatever distance he had maintained these past days, whatever reserve she had mistaken for indifference, had not been coldness at all. He cared for her still.
The realization both thrilled and unsettled her.
Elizabeth found a seat near the window, her hands folded tightly in her lap to still their trembling.
She needed a moment to compose herself, to think.
But thinking proved difficult when all she could recall was the exact feel of that coat beneath her palms, the clean scent of him, the steadiness of his presence, and the absolute certainty with which she had known him—had spoken his name without hesitation, without doubt.
She had known him by touch alone. By scent. By the very sense of him.
What did that mean?