Chapter 10 #2
Darcy had never felt more superfluous in a house.
The hall bustled with voices, servants darting with baskets, branches trailing sap across the floor.
Boots thudded, laughter spiked too close to his ear, ribbons fluttered down like snow.
He shifted a trunk out of the path, brought round a chair for an elderly gentleman, caught a garland before it slipped from the banister.
Paltry tasks—but they kept his hands busy when every idle moment turned his thoughts toward her.
Elizabeth was among the ladies, her head bent over ribbons and holly.
He glimpsed the sure motion of her fingers, the curve of her smile—gracious, calm, but no more than borrowed light.
How different it was from Hertfordshire, where her laughter had come quick and unguarded, bright enough to unman him.
Now her brightness was a candle shielded from every draft.
He longed to tear away that shield, to see her alight once more.
“Mr. Darcy,” Miss Kendrick’s voice intruded at his elbow. She stood with a spray of ivy, eyes too intent for her casual smile. “You must have an opinion—should this be placed at the gallery or near the hearth? You look the very picture of discernment.”
He inclined his head. “The hearth, perhaps. The greenery will sweeten the smoke.”
“Ah, so practical.” She rewarded him with a smile that lingered, hungry for something more. But before he could answer, another young lady called across the hall, “Mr. Darcy, your assistance! This holly is quite unruly.”
He crossed to her, adjusted the branch, and stepped back at once. Their thanks, their laughter, fell against him like rain on stone. Harmless. Meaningless. Every polite word he gave them felt false when compared with the silence he longed to break with Elizabeth.
“Darcy!” Richard called. “Where shall we put this monstrous branch? Come, you cannot glower in a corner while the rest of us make merry. Lend me a hand.”
Darcy moved to take one end, his cousin gripping the other.
Together, they hoisted it above the gallery rail to a cheer from the company.
Richard laughed, triumphant, and Darcy shaped his lips into what might pass for a smile.
To anyone watching, he was a dutiful cousin lending his strength.
In truth, each cheer pressed heavier on his chest. Richard thought to rescue him, never guessing that such rescue was torment itself.
The bough was heavy and the nails uncooperative, but he found that the true difficulty lay in keeping his attention upon it. Each time he glanced down the hall to gauge the symmetry, his eyes found Elizabeth instead—her head bent over fripperies, a glint of ribbon caught between her fingers.
“Higher on the left,” Richard called from the ladder. “No—my left, your obstinate right.”
Darcy adjusted the branch and said something about balance, though he scarcely knew what. Across the room, Elizabeth laughed at some remark too distant to hear, the sound soft but unmistakable. He felt it more than he heard it, like the echo of a long-remembered chord.
Lady Montford passed beneath the ladder, all rustling silk and fragrant pine. “Perfect, gentlemen! You make the hall look quite festive—though I daresay twice the company will give us twice the work.”
Richard bowed from his precarious height. “We live to serve, my lady.”
She smiled, swept on, and was gone before Darcy could compose a proper reply. The scent of the greenery lingered—sharp, clean, maddeningly alive.
He turned back to his task, determined to see it finished.
But when he risked another glance, Elizabeth had looked up.
The ribbon in her hand gleamed green in the firelight, and for one reckless moment, he thought she held that ribbon—but no, that one was folded away in his pocket at this very moment.
The hammer slipped. Darcy caught it before it fell.
“Careful, man,” his cousin said with a grin. “You’ll do the lady’s walls more harm than good.”
Darcy muttered thanks and bent again to his work, the blood hot in his face. He would not look at her again. Not now.
But his gaze betrayed him, straying once more across the hall. For one aching heartbeat, it was Hertfordshire again—her face alight, her voice like music. But as swiftly as it came, it was gone; her eyes fell, her smile closed, the brightness shuttered.
Darcy drew a breath that caught tight in his chest. He would endure every stare, every expectation, if only she might look at him so once more. Tease him, the way she once did, even if it was only to provoke him.
The noise swelled until the hall seemed to pulse with it—branches hauled up the stair, ribbons fluttering down, laughter ricocheting off stone.
Servants rushed to keep pace, their arms full of pine and holly.
Darcy stepped back to the shadows at the edge of the crowd, letting Richard’s cheer fill the gap where his silence might be noticed.
Elizabeth’s laughter no longer carried to him. He saw only the bow of her head bent over her work, fingers busy with holly. A hollowness spread through him—sharper for having been pierced a moment earlier by that fleeting glimpse of her happiness.
“Gather round, gather round!” Sir Edward’s voice boomed over the din.
He strode into the centre of the hall, arms flung wide as if to embrace them all.
“News from the roads, my friends. The ostler has trudged from the village with his report. The pass south is impassable, and the northern turnpike fares no better. We are all prisoners of Kelton Manor until the weather relents.”
Stranded! A chorus rose at once: some laughed, calling it an adventure; others frowned, tallying engagements missed. Lady Montford’s smile stayed fixed, but Darcy saw her hand curl briefly at her side before she smoothed it over her skirts. Twice the company indeed—and now twice the burden.
“I say,” Sir Edward continued, “if we are prisoners, let us be merry ones! We have warmth, music, and enough company for ten Christmases. I declare we shall have the finest holiday in all Northamptonshire.”
The hall answered with applause, cheers, laughter. Darcy could not join them. He saw only Elizabeth, her smile shaped by courtesy rather than joy. She had found her aunt again, her hand resting protectively on that lady’s arm.
The sight cut him twice over: admiration for her devotion, torment that he had no right to admire her at all. She bore disgrace with composure, while he—who might have warned her, might have shielded her—had been silent until too late.
And now? To look at her was torment. To be seen looking at her would be ruin.
Darcy turned away, though every fibre in him strained toward her still. The storm had trapped them all within Kelton, but his true prison was here: a crowded hall where Elizabeth Bennet stood within reach, and yet as far from him as if a world lay between.
By evening, the hall had been transformed.
Branches of holly framed the doorways, pine boughs filled the air with their sharp perfume, and candles blazed so brightly in their sconces that the shadows seemed driven into corners.
After dinner, the company drifted toward the ballroom, a restless current of conversation carrying them along.
Elizabeth walked with her aunt, listening as a gentleman lamented the absence of the post, while his neighbour boasted of once being stranded in a hunting lodge for a fortnight and surviving on little more than venison and claret.
Candles blazed so brightly the heat stung Elizabeth’s cheeks, and laughter seemed to echo twice as loud against the walls.
The air was thick with perfume and pine, with the restless shift of gowns as chairs scraped and skirts brushed her own.
A cluster of young ladies compared the fashions in London to the more serviceable gowns they had donned for travel, each laughing a shade too loudly.
Chairs were carried in, the crowd pressed close, and the voices rose higher, as though determined to laugh away the storm.
Elizabeth found a place beside her aunt, close enough to offer her arm if needed.
Mrs. Gardiner smiled at the bustle but leaned more heavily against the cushions than she had that morning.
Elizabeth pressed her hand, whispering, “But you are scarcely rested. Are you certain you should not retire?”
Her aunt shook her head. “I should like to hear a song or two. We must let them make merry. You must not keep me from it, Lizzy.”
The first performer—a young lady in pale silk—sat at the pianoforte and launched into a showy sonata.
Fingers flashed, ornaments sparkled, and she tossed her curls with every flourish, glancing often at the gentleman who bent dutifully to turn her pages.
He did so with a smile that seemed as much for her as for the music, and the company answered each brilliant passage with murmurs of admiration.
The room erupted in applause at the end, the lady rising with a curtsy that lingered just long enough for her champion to bow in return.
Another followed, a dark-haired beauty who sang a Scottish air with a voice both sweet and rich.
The melody trilled prettily through the hall, and one gentleman in particular leaned forward in his chair, as if each note were meant for him alone.
The singer’s eyes strayed often in his direction, and her modest curtsey when she finished was met with fervent clapping from his hands before the rest joined in.
Elizabeth applauded with the others, but her palms felt clammy against each other.
Every performance seemed to sharpen the circle of expectation, the company’s glances turning lightly from one lady to another as though already deciding who should come next.
She added her claps, yet felt her breath shorten with each burst of admiration, for she knew the moment must soon arrive when those same eyes would fall upon her.
She was not mistaken.
“Miss Bennet must favour us next,” cried the colonel, smiling in her direction. “She cannot have been in Kent without proving herself a fine musician.”
Elizabeth’s heart thudded. “Indeed, Colonel, I beg to decline. I should not think of intruding where so much real talent is at hand.”
“Oh, you wrong yourself,” he laughed. “Darcy, you can vouch for me—did you not hear Miss Bennet play with spirit at Rosings?”
Elizabeth’s face flamed. To be discussed so openly, with half the room’s attention turning toward her, was torment enough.
She had hoped—in vain, it seemed—that the full measure of her acquaintance with the most eligible bachelors in the room might be somewhat minimised, the less to have her name bandied about.
But to hear her name on Mr. Darcy’s lips—here, now—was more than she could bear.
He shifted in his chair, his voice low, almost reluctant. “Miss Bennet does not court exhibition. It would be unjust to press her.”
The colonel only grinned wider. “Nonsense. A little music will brighten the company. We cannot let you hide behind modesty, Miss Bennet.”
Murmurs of agreement stirred among the guests. Mrs. Gardiner touched her hand gently, murmuring, “Perhaps one piece, Lizzy. Then they will not ask again.”
Elizabeth rose on unsteady legs. She walked to the pianoforte with her head held high, but her palms were damp against her gown. She had played in company before, surely, and without terror. Why should tonight be different?
Because every eye was on her. Because she could feel whispers like threads tugging at her back—some of them about her music, most, she feared, about her family.
She seated herself and placed her fingers on the keys. For a moment she could not hear the instrument at all; her pulse roared too loudly in her ears. She drew a breath, forced her hands to move, and began a simple, familiar piece.
The keys blurred at first, her pulse hammering too loud to hear the notes. She could almost feel the company’s glances like hands at her back—testing, weighing, whispering. Each stumble seemed to prove them right.
The notes rang true enough, though her touch was stiff. She fixed her eyes on the keyboard, refusing to glance at the faces ranged around her. A slip on the treble made her cheeks burn hotter, but she pressed on. Better to stumble and finish than to falter and sit in silence.
When the last chord faded, she stood at once and curtsied. A polite ripple of applause followed—enough to satisfy the room, though nothing like the fervour that had greeted the more accomplished ladies. Elizabeth returned quickly to her seat, wishing the floor might open and swallow her whole.
Her uncle smiled kindly. “Very pretty, Lizzy.”
“Charming,” said her aunt, though Elizabeth heard the strain in her tone.
She folded her hands tightly in her lap and forced her breathing to steady. Let them whisper. She would give them nothing more.
She dared a glance across the room, certain—hoping—dreading—that Darcy had watched every note. But he had turned to the fire, his profile rigid, his gaze fixed anywhere but on her. The discovery struck colder than the whispers.
She had thought his stare unbearable; his silence was worse.