Chapter 10
The hall was a confusion of cloaks, damp shawls, and the hiss of melting snow. Servants darted between trunks; voices rose and overlapped as arrivals jostled for space near the fire. A child began to cry, was hushed, and began again.
“Mind the carpet! That case goes to the blue chamber—no, the other stair!” Lady Montford’s hair was coming loose beneath its ribbons; she pushed it back with one gloved hand as she directed a footman and a guest in the same breath.
“Jem, fetch more towels for the vestibule, and tell Cook we’ll need another pot of chocolate. ”
Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner stood near the wainscoting, watching the confusion unfold. A mountain of luggage had appeared by the stair, a trail of melted snow spread across the tiles, and one footman was trying heroically to balance three dripping umbrellas without impaling a guest.
“What a cheerful siege,” Mrs. Gardiner murmured. “I begin to suspect we shall be quartered by rank—eldest daughters to the attics, aunts to the linen cupboards.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I hope at least for a window.”
Lady Montford turned briefly, catching sight of them through the bustle. “Ah, Miss Bennet! Mrs. Gardiner! You are saints for your patience. We’ve more guests than fires tonight, but everyone shall be settled before supper, I promise it.”
She offered a breathless smile before turning back to rescue a footman from Mrs. Barlow’s cascade of instructions.
Elizabeth watched the scene with mingled amusement and sympathy. The air smelled of snow and wet wool and the faint sweetness of spiced wine someone had spilled near the hearth. Every few moments another knock rattled the door, and the hall shivered again with cold and noise.
Mrs. Gardiner laughed. “Then allow us to be of use, Lady Montford. I have managed a Christmas or two with a house full of relations—it is mostly a matter of finding the chocolate before anyone else does.”
Lady Montford blinked. “I would not wish to tax you, Mrs. Gardiner.”
“Nonsense. I am quite rested, and a bit of movement will do me quite well. I should like to help make the place merry, and I am sure Elizabeth would be happy to help as well.”
“Oh, indeed,” Elizabeth added, “And I am an excellent hand at locating missing gloves. If we must earn our lodging, you need only point us to the disorder.”
The lady’s relief was almost comical. “My dear ladies, you are angels. If you would see the younger maids supplied with towels and send anyone shivering toward the drawing room, I should adore you forever.”
Elizabeth glanced at her aunt. “Shall we, Aunt?”
“By all means,” Mrs. Gardiner said, tucking up her sleeves with mock determination. “Come, Lizzy—let us rescue what’s left of her household pride before the next carriage arrives.”
Mrs. Gardiner was claimed almost at once by Lady Montford’s housekeeper, who begged her opinion on where to store a trunk that refused to fit anywhere respectable.
Laughing, she allowed herself to be swept off toward the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “Try not to let anyone expire of confusion before I return, Lizzy!”
Elizabeth smiled and turned to where one of the younger maids was struggling to shake the snow from a pile of sodden cloaks.
“Here—let me help before the marble is ruined beyond forgiveness.” Together they spread the garments across a settee near the fire, and Elizabeth took up a folded cloth to wipe the tiles.
The work gave her a view of the hall in motion: the swirl of skirts, the gleam of wet boots, the sound of male laughter from the far end where Colonel Fitzwilliam was recounting some tale to an eager audience.
Darcy stood beside him, one hand behind his back, listening with the kind of half-smile that meant he was trying not to laugh, and succeeding with his usual aplomb.
The sight stirred something complicated in her—memory, affection, amusement—and she shook her head, smiling faintly to herself.
“You are very industrious, Miss Bennet,” came a smooth voice at her side.
Elizabeth glanced up to find Miss Kendrick approaching. She was holding a tangled length of ribbon, which appeared to have been part of her bonnet until some mishap in the doorway.
“If you could spare a moment,” Miss Kendrick said, “I seem to have undone my own handiwork.”
Elizabeth accepted the ribbon, deftly retwisting it. “Four hands are better than two. We can have it right again before anyone notices,” she said, her voice half-distracted by the task.
“You are very kind,” Miss Kendrick replied, adjusting her posture—the better to be admired, naturally. “I am forever undone by the weather.”
“At least it is only ribbons,” called Colonel Fitzwilliam as he passed, grinning beneath a heap of cloaks. “I have lost a button, a glove, and most of my dignity since morning.”
A ripple of laughter followed him through the hall.
Elizabeth shook her head, smiling as she tied the bow neatly in place.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam makes light of everything, but make no mistake. If he has lost it, there is a purpose to it and a means of reclaiming it. I told him once that if his cousin ever misplaced his composure, he would be the first to collect it and sell it back to him.”
Her tone was easy—perhaps too easy—and it earned exactly the effect she had not intended.
Darcy, standing near the doorway, turned at the sound of his cousin’s name.
For an instant, their eyes met: his expression dark and shuttered, but the intensity of it made her pulse stumble.
The ribbon slid a little beneath her fingers before she recovered it.
“I cannot think what you mean,” Miss Kendrick said sweetly. “Mr. Darcy never appears to misplace anything.”
Elizabeth returned the bonnet with a smile. “No? Then you know him only in the finest weather.”
A few of the nearby ladies laughed; even Colonel Fitzwilliam, catching the tail of her remark, grinned as he disappeared up the stairs. But Miss Kendrick’s laugh came too late, her eyes darting toward Darcy—who, still watching, seemed half inclined to come forward and half determined not to.
“Indeed? You speak as if you know them both rather well,” Miss Kendrick said.
Her cheeks heated. Oh, dear, had she so carelessly exposed herself? “Well enough to know the Colonel will forgive me for laughing at his expense,” Elizabeth said lightly, securing the bow. “And that Mr. Darcy will never forgive him for making him a part of the joke.”
A few nearby ladies, overhearing, smiled behind their hands. Miss Kendrick’s answering laugh was just a shade too bright. “You seem to have spent a most entertaining winter, Miss Bennet. I should not have imagined Mr. Darcy in such spirits.”
Elizabeth passed back the bonnet with a pleasant smile. “Perhaps it is only a matter of sufficient imagination.”
Miss Kendrick tilted her head, eyes narrowing with polite curiosity. “Or the intimacy of acquaintance afforded by opportunity.”
“Pure accident,” Elizabeth replied. “I am forever finding myself where I least expect to be.”
Her tone was cheerful, but something in the remark made Miss Kendrick’s expression tighten, as if the game had turned unexpectedly in her opponent’s favour. She murmured a vague word of thanks and retreated toward the pianoforte, her ribbon perfectly tied but her curiosity far from satisfied.
Elizabeth watched her go, resisting the urge to laugh. Then, tucking the cloth over her arm, she turned back to the task at hand—determined to keep busy and to think as little as possible about the man still standing across the hall, whose eyes had, more than once, found hers.
At that moment, Sir Edward entered the hall and clapped his hands. “If we are all to be marooned together, we must make the house worthy of the season! Monty, fetch in more greenery. The ladies will know what to do with it.”
A cheer went up from a few corners, though Elizabeth thought Lady Montford’s smile tightened before she summoned footmen to carry in baskets of pine and holly. Soon, the air filled with the scent of sap and the rustle of branches.
“We had meant for a modest display,” Lady Montford said lightly, as gentlemen shook snow from great branches of pine, “but since Providence has doubled our company, we must double our cheer as well. The hall will hardly contain us otherwise.”
Sir Edward laughed and clapped a guest on the shoulder. “Aye, holly and ivy to every lintel, or else half of you will be dining in the stables. Come, Fitzwilliam—up you go, man, the mistletoe waits!”
Several gentlemen vied for the ladders, branches in hand, while others hauled greenery toward the gallery railings.
Colonel Fitzwilliam reached one first, climbing with an ease that drew cheers as he dangled a sprig of mistletoe over the company.
Laughter and playful protests rose, ribbons were snatched from baskets, and Elizabeth found herself pressed among the ladies to knot bows and trim holly.
Her fingers moved of their own accord, but her thoughts strained against the noise; every burst of merriment rang too sharp, as if cheer had been demanded rather than given.
Elizabeth’s elbow was knocked as a gentleman passed with a pine branch, nearly tipping her basket of holly.
She bent quickly, busying her fingers with ribbon, knotting bows faster than she could think.
Laughter and chatter swirled about her, louder than the fire’s crackle, louder than her own breath.
Still, she smiled and busied her hands, because to do otherwise would be to yield.
Across the crush, Darcy lent his shoulder to the task, still unsmiling. He spoke little, yet she felt him every time her head lifted—his gaze steady, hers determined to avoid it. And still, she knew. He was watching.
Why, she could not say.