Chapter 12
The hall was thick with people and noise.
Trunks lined the stairwell like barricades, forcing everyone to edge past sideways.
A footman wrestled with a hatbox that refused to stay shut, scattering bonnets and ribbons across the floor each time he tried to stack it.
A small dog skittered through the confusion, pursued by a boy whose apologies only made matters worse.
“Mercy,” Mrs. Gardiner murmured as Elizabeth guided her toward the fire. “Has the county taken to living all in one house?”
“Apparently, the Montfords’ hospitality has grown legendary overnight,” Elizabeth said, steering her aunt through the crowd.
“A maid just told me that there was a party gathered at Thornhill Lodge in Stonely, until a beam gave way in the upper hall. It seems collapsed roofs are the fashion this season.”
“More roofs collapsing!” Mrs. Gardiner lamented. “Why, that seems to be something of a theme this season.”
“Yes, I begin to suspect that certain hostesses might have seen the merit of a judicious axe to important structures,” Elizabeth chuckled. “In any case, Lady Montford did not think of it soon enough, for here they all are.”
Her aunt made a wry smile. “Then I trust our hosts will not depend on fashion. Survival, rather, seems the order of the day.”
Elizabeth laughed and helped her aunt to a chair near the fire, where a harried maid appeared with a tray of tea.
“Go to your uncle,” Mrs. Gardiner said, unbuttoning her gloves. “He will attempt to move all these families in himself if no one stops him.”
Sure enough, Mr. Gardiner was already on the stair, directing three porters wedged halfway round the bend with an enormous trunk.
“Lift here—no, at the corner. That’s the thing.
Mind the wall, there’s a good man.” His good humour carried above the din, and the men responded with grins as they heaved the load up another step.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had caught up a different case entirely and slung it across his back. “This way, madam,” he announced, following its flustered owner upstairs as though engaged in gallant rescue. The ladies laughed, and even the weary servants seemed to move faster for it.
Elizabeth shook her head with amusement. “He has found his element,” she said to her aunt. “If another roof falls in, he will expect a medal.”
Darcy was near the far door, his height setting him apart in the crush.
He had taken charge of a young man with a profound limp and walked him carefully across the flagstones until a maid could lead him onward.
Then, without fanfare, he turned back. No quip, no bow, no smile for the audience as Colonel Fitzwilliam gave; only the sense that he would keep at the work until every last straggler was seen to.
Elizabeth’s eyes followed him before she caught herself. He was efficient, unshowy, leaving no mark of himself beyond the task completed. The memory of another time—his proud reserve at the Meryton assembly—rose unbidden. How strange, to see him in the same role, and yet so different.
Not all bore the crush with grace. Near the door, two young women shook out their cloaks with audible sighs, the fur trim dusted white with snow.
Their trunks stood in a forlorn heap at their feet, a maid tugging vainly at one strap while they gave her no more attention than they would a draught horse.
“And here we were promised such an elegant Christmas,” said the first, her cheeks flushed from cold and displeasure in equal measure. She tugged at her bonnet strings so hard they knotted before they loosed. “Assemblies, music, some sense of festivity—something worth the journey.”
“And gowns to match,” the second replied, adjusting the fall of her cloak. “Instead, we are to be packed in like travellers at an inn. All our things creased before they are even worn! We may as well be snowed in at the Red Lion.”
Elizabeth caught her aunt’s eye and leaned close. “I daresay the Red Lion would not welcome them either,” she murmured. Mrs. Gardiner bit back a laugh behind her teacup.
The first lady made a sound of disgust, but as her gaze swept the hall, she suddenly clutched at the other’s arm, nails catching the fabric. “Wait—look. There—do you see? Is that not Mr. Darcy of Pemberley? What do you suppose he is doing here?”
The name was not spoken softly enough. Several heads turned; a servant near the fire nearly dropped the poker for craning.
The two young ladies stood straighter at once, their sour expressions replaced with bright expectancy.
The storm no longer appeared to matter. To be snowed into Kelton with such a gentleman was apparently fortune of the rarest kind.
Darcy himself came through the press of travellers a moment later, a bent old gentleman on his arm.
His stride never checked when the two young women leaned forward, their smiles blooming like flowers turned to the sun.
He guided his charge across the rushes, settled him gently into a chair, and with a brief word to the servant standing by, turned again toward the stairs.
The young ladies all but sparkled in his path, but his eyes passed over them as if they were no more remarkable than the trunks piled by the wall.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. He was coming directly across the hall, and with the crush so thick, there was no room to give way gracefully. She rose, meaning to step aside, but a porter lurched past with another trunk, forcing her straight into Darcy’s path.
For the briefest instant, his sleeve grazed hers and the back of his hand brushed her elbow—steadying her with a touch so light it might have been imagined, except that it seared through her like fire.
She drew in a sharp breath, and his fingers twitched, as though he felt it too, before both pulled back at once.
She retreated a step, her pulse hammering.
His eyes flicked to hers—startled, stricken—and then he turned as if nothing had happened, retreating into the throng with almost desperate haste.
The press of people swallowed him again, but the spark of that accidental contact lingered, alive on her skin long after he was gone.
She had no time to master her composure before Miss Kendrick stepped neatly into his path.
She greeted him with a smile that suggested no accident in the timing.
He inclined his head at once and answered her with a warmth Elizabeth had rarely heard from him.
At her request, he bent to inspect a muff she “thought she might offer to the newcomers, for their comfort.”
What earthly reason the lady might have for asking Mr. Darcy such a question, Elizabeth could only guess at, but he stood quietly, as if it were all a matter of course that he should be asked, offering his opinion with the same care he had shown the frail gentleman only moments before.
He looked—if not eager—then at least pleased to have been detained.
Elizabeth told herself to look away. It was unseemly to stare, and worse to care.
Yet her eyes clung to the scene against her will, caught by the willingness with which he bent his head toward Miss Kendrick, listening as though her trifling request were a matter worth his full attention.
Heat rose in Elizabeth’s cheeks. To have seen him pass the other ladies untouched and then offer this measure of regard—however slight—felt like a twist of the knife.
The faces of the ladies in the hall fell for an instant, then brightened again as one leaned to the other and whispered, not quietly enough, “I do not know who she is, but I swear I only heard a fortnight ago that he was still quite available. No doubt she thinks to make use of the storm, eh? But surely, her dowry cannot be beyond compare.”
The reply came quick as a spark: “No, and ours would not suffer by it. Oh, look! There is Fitzwilliam, the Earl of Matlock’s younger son. A mere colonel, but—”
“But well connected,” the other murmured in agreement. “I daresay this storm may serve us very well indeed.”
Elizabeth turned her gaze back to her aunt. The hall was still thick with trunks and travellers, but it already felt too small for what the next days would hold. The air itself seemed crowded with rivals, and yet the only touch that lingered was his.
“Ideclare, the house is bursting at the seams.” Mrs. Barlow set down her teacup with a little clatter that made the nearest maid flinch. “It is fortunate Sir Edward has no delicate furniture, or half of it would be in splinters by now.”
A ripple of laughter rose, though Darcy did not join it.
His gaze had already gone to the corner, to Elizabeth.
She sat beside her aunt, a cushion tucked carefully at Mrs. Gardiner’s back, her own cup cradled between her hands.
The noise of the room seemed not to touch her, yet Darcy—who knew the tilt of her head and the tightening of her lips too well—saw the effort it cost her to appear composed.
Richard had already made himself comfortable at the card table, shuffling the deck with practiced flair. Lady Wilcox leaned in at once, smiling over the edge of her teacup. “Colonel, I shall rely on you to keep me from ruin. Do not betray me with unlucky cards.”
Her tone drew another ripple of amusement. Richard, never one to waste an audience, bowed extravagantly from his chair and dealt with a flourish.
Darcy inclined his head politely when Lady Wilcox cast a glance his way, but his attention had already shifted.
Across the room, Elizabeth lifted her eyes.
Their gazes met—brief, startling—and then she bent at once to adjust Mrs. Gardiner’s cushion, as though the glance had been an accident.
The faint colour that touched her cheek left Darcy’s own pulse unsteady.