Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth shivered as Kerr assisted her into a new gown and handed her a thick wool shawl.
“I do not know how you manage it, Miss Bennet,” the maid said, amused. “I do not think you ought to walk out of doors again until the spring.”
“I quite agree,” Jane said as she entered the room. “I understand you were on the losing end of a snowball battle with Mr. Darcy? Really, Lizzy,” she said with a gentle laugh, “how old are you?”
“I was winning,” Elizabeth explained. “But Miss Bingley snuck up on me from behind.”
“Then you were not winning,” Jane said, shaking her head. “Defeated by Caroline. A sad conclusion to your winter antics. How did you even know Mr. Darcy would be there?”
“I did not know,” Elizabeth told her sister, “but I could not pass up the opportunity.”
Jane and Kerr shook their heads together this time, but Elizabeth could see that they were entertained by her rather than annoyed.
“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Bingley, Miss Bennet, but Miss Bingley was asking about Mr. Darcy’s whereabouts this morning—and yours too, Miss Bennet. She was out of doors in search of you both, I imagine. Maybe she planned to toss herself in the pond too, so Mr. Darcy would have to carry her inside.”
“You realize, of course, that you have Mr. Darcy concerned about you again?”
“He really is too serious,” Elizabeth said.
“He shall go grey by the time he is thirty.” She pulled the shawl around her shoulders.
It was a favourite of hers, another gift from her aunt who knew all about Elizabeth’s fondness for wintery strolls.
“I suppose I shall have to make an appearance at breakfast to assuage his fears.”
“I think that would be best. Are you warm enough?”
“Yes, dear sister of mine, I am quite warm.”
The exercise in the cold air had done Elizabeth good, but she wished she had stopped to speak with Mr. Darcy before giving into the temptation to knock his hat from his head. But who could have predicted that Miss Bingley, of all people, would suddenly decide to take a walk in the snow?
Darcy heard Mrs. Bingley and Elizabeth chatting pleasantly as they approached the breakfast room, and he stood as they stepped inside.
“Thank you for our battle royale, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her fine eyes sparkling with unrepressed mirth. “It was the most fun I have had since—”
“Last winter,” Jane finished for her. “When you ambushed Lydia.”
Elizabeth’s cheer faltered for a moment, but she regained her composure. “I knew Lydia would not cry or be angry with me,” she said, glancing over at Miss Bingley, who pretended not to notice.
“No,” Mrs. Bingley said with a smile. “She just fought back.”
“I had to be careful, though,” Elizabeth said, glancing at Miss Bingley. “Because even more than winning, Lydia loves revenge.”
Miss Bingley covered her uneasiness by lifting her chin a little higher. “Revenge is beneath a true lady.”
“Ah, there are no ladies when it comes to snow battles,” Elizabeth replied smoothly. “You should know, since you must have pilfered that pail from somewhere.”
“Thank you, Charles,” Mrs. Bingley said as Bingley set her plate down before her.
Bingley just smiled at his wife and sat down.
“I found that bucket, I will have you know,” Miss Bingley said to Elizabeth, just as disdainful as ever. “It was left next to the shed on the path.”
“Oh, the raspberry jam, Jane, thank you!” Elizabeth exclaimed, completely ignoring Miss Bingley.
Clearly, Elizabeth was no worse for wear despite having an entire bucket of snow dumped over her head. Of course not. She was no dainty flower of the ton. And her mention of revenge had not been lost on Miss Bingley, either.
Darcy tucked into his meal with vigour.
“Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley said when she had finished her tea and toast, “I intend to play again today. Would you mind performing the office of turning my pages? You read music whereas alas, my brother does not.”
Before he could think of a way to decline, Elizabeth piped up. “I read music,” she said innocently. “I would be happy to turn your pages for you, Miss Bingley.”
“I would not wish to inconvenience you,” Miss Bingley replied, a little too sharply. “I am certain Mr. Darcy does not mind. We are old friends, you see.”
Both women looked at him, Miss Bingley with expectation and Elizabeth with humour.
“I have letters to write, Miss Bingley,” he said at last. “They will likely take until dinner to complete. You will forgive me.”
“Of course,” Miss Bingley said tightly. “Perhaps after dinner, then.”
“Perhaps,” he said, touching his napkin to his mouth and placing it on the table as he stood. He met Elizabeth’s eye with regret. “Good morning.”
As he mounted the steps, he cursed himself for coming up with an excuse that would remove him from everyone’s company, including Elizabeth’s, until dinner.
If he showed himself before then, Miss Bingley would force him to remain by her side—he had no doubt she would loiter near the staircase in order to have early intelligence of all movements in the guest wing.
It was time to change for dinner when he finally thought of a way around the clinging Miss Bingley.
He walked to the wardrobe and tossed open the doors.
All his clothing had finally been returned—it was a lucky thing that the last missing pieces of his clothing had reappeared in the wardrobe the night before—but he was looking for one piece in particular. His greatcoat.
If Miss Bingley would not allow him to speak to Elizabeth, he would allow his letter to speak for him. He reached into the inner pocket, but it was empty.
Drat. He must have dropped it in the snow.
And there was no time to rewrite it now.
He took comfort in the fact that he had not put Elizabeth’s name anywhere in the letter this time.
Even if it was located and the ink had not run, only his initials were written on the missive, and very few people knew his Christian name.
Small consolation when he faced another evening with Miss Bingley. Darcy determined to search for the letter in the morning, and if he could not find it, he would simply write another. He always expressed himself better in writing.
Elizabeth found herself wishing that Mr. Darcy had just agreed to turn Miss Bingley’s pages after breakfast. For now she found herself in a nightmarish repeat of last night’s performance.
While Jane and Charles sat together on the settee near the fire, Miss Bingley had trapped Mr. Darcy into attending her at the pianoforte.
Once he had committed himself to writing letters, he could not very well venture into Elizabeth’s company until dinner, and during the meal Miss Bingley had absolutely refused to allow him to speak more than a few sentences to anyone but her.
There was a growing shrillness in her behaviour that spoke of desperation, but Elizabeth could not feel any compassion for the woman.
“Jane,” Elizabeth said sweetly. Perhaps too sweetly.
“Yes, Lizzy?” Jane inquired, suspicion writ across her features.
“Do you recall how Lydia took revenge upon me last winter?”
“She waited until you were sleeping and then stuck your hand in a bowl of icy water.”
“She did. And do you recall how I revenged myself upon her?”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “You balanced a pail of snow water atop her chamber door.”
Elizabeth smiled. “It took days of careful planning,” she said, “but I had justice at last.”
Miss Bingley met her gaze at that last, and though she appeared bored, Elizabeth detected a flash of fear in the woman’s eyes.
There. Let her ruminate on that. She was rudely demanding all Mr. Darcy’s time and attention when all Elizabeth wanted to do was speak to the man privately for five minutes. Miss Bingley deserved every bit of disquiet Elizabeth could serve up.
Mr. Darcy laughed at Elizabeth’s vague threat. Miss Bingley glanced, horrified, between the two of them. Elizabeth was certain that Miss Bingley understood at last. Mr. Darcy would never be hers.
But Miss Bingley merely inclined her head to speak a quiet word to Mr. Darcy, who, Elizabeth noted with pleasure, leaned back from her.
Something was wrong.
His eyes narrowed, and he stood up so quickly that he knocked his chair to the floor. “That is my private property, madam,” he said sternly. “You will return it to me at once.”
“It is my property now, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley said artlessly. “For you gave it to me. I am only sorry I have not yet composed a reply.”
“What are you talking about, Caroline?” Charles inquired.
“Nothing, Charles. It is a private matter between Mr. Darcy and me.”
Mr. Darcy’s complexion had flushed a deep, disturbing red. “There is no private business between us, Miss Bingley.”
“What can you mean?” she asked, her eyes wide and dramatically frightened. “Have you not written to me? Do not break my heart by denying it.”
“Do not be ridiculous, Caroline,” Charles said with a sigh. “Darcy would never do such a thing.”
“Of course he would not,” Miss Bingley confirmed. “Unless we were engaged.”
Jane frowned and glanced uneasily at Elizabeth, who was watching everything play out before her. What was Miss Bingley even saying? Her mind could not comprehend it. A letter?
Charles stood and held out his hand. “If such a letter exists, Caroline, you will allow me to see it. Now.”
“But it is private,” Miss Bingley said, removing a folded piece of paper from her sleeve. “Can you not simply see that his signature is on it?”
“Darcy?” Charles asked, but before Mr. Darcy could say anything, Miss Bingley interrupted.
“I should never have accepted it, Charles, had I not believed Mr. Darcy and I would soon be wed.” She held the folded page out to her brother.
“Bingley,” Mr. Darcy said stonily, “that letter was not given to your sister. It was not delivered to anyone at all.”
Bingley glanced at the letter. “My first thought was that Caroline had forged something, but this is definitely your hand. I must ask, Darcy—how did it come into Caroline’s possession?”