Chapter 14
Kelton was already awake when Elizabeth came downstairs.
The corridors rang with footsteps and laughter, the bright clatter of trays, the muffled thump of boots drying by the hearth.
Outside, snow stretched unbroken to the horizon, dazzling beneath a sky so pale it seemed made of glass.
The chimneys poured smoke into the cold, and the air smelled of pine, beeswax, and toast.
Someone—Elizabeth never learned who—had declared that if they were snowbound, they would at least keep Christmas properly. The servants had taken it as a challenge. Garlands trailed from every banister; ribbons bloomed along the stair. Even the portraits seemed to watch the commotion with approval.
In the dining room, the candles burned somehow brighter today, their light glancing off silver and steam. Mrs. Gardiner sat near the fire, a cup of chocolate warming her hands. Mr. Gardiner stood by the window, surveying the white drifts with the satisfaction of a man taking inventory.
“Too much for the coaches to attempt the roads in the next day or two,” he said. “But fine weather for the farms—ground frozen firm, no rot. It’ll keep the wheat sound through Christmas.”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled faintly. “You would find comfort in a field, my dear.”
“And you, my dear,” he returned with a chuckle, “would find fault with idleness. I half expect you’ll have us out carolling before nightfall.”
“I should,” she answered with a teasing grin, “if I thought you would sing in tune.”
Elizabeth laughed and set a plate before her aunt. “Perhaps the rest of the house will sing loudly enough to cover us. Lady Montford means to have charades and dancing tonight. It is all the talk below stairs.”
Her aunt sighed, stirring her chocolate. “Then I must rest this morning if I am to endure the evening. My head still feels as if it were stuffed with snow.”
“You needn’t attend at all,” Elizabeth said gently.
“Indeed, I shall. I will not have you hiding with me while everyone else makes merry.” She reached out, catching Elizabeth’s hand. “You look better for being among cheerful faces, even if they are strangers.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “They are… less forbidding than I feared.”
Her aunt’s smile turned knowing, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Even Mr. Darcy?”
“Aunt!”
Mrs. Gardiner puckered her lips and arched her brows. “Your Mr. Darcy must be determined to please someone. Those sugared almonds you brought up last night were exactly the sort I adore. You say he fetched them from the kitchens himself?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “So he said. I believe he meant to please you.”
“Well, then, he is a man of discernment,” her aunt said, settling the shawl at her shoulders. “A strange hour for generosity, but I’ll not question good intentions.” She smiled over her cup. “If he keeps at this pace, Lizzy, I shall begin to think you misjudged him.”
Elizabeth tried for composure, though her voice came out softer than she intended. “He has been very obliging since we arrived.”
“Obliging, indeed. That is one word for it,” said Mr. Gardiner, turning from the window. “He seems more at home with a load of trunks than half the young men here. I like a gentleman who will work beside his servants, whatever his fortune.”
Elizabeth busied herself with pouring tea, unwilling to meet either of their eyes. “You mustn’t tease. It was only boredom.”
“Boredom!” Mrs. Gardiner scoffed. “A ‘bored’ young man takes up his port and cigars. But a better one finds more gainful employment.”
Elizabeth made a face. “Very well, then. Since you will not abide hearing less of the gentleman, perhaps one must confess that there is a certain… kindness to him.”
“Kindness,” Mrs. Gardiner murmured, sipping again. “A dangerous word, that. It can mean so little—or so much.”
Before Elizabeth could answer, Sir Edward’s cheerful voice filled their corner of the drawing room.
“Ah, the Gardiners! I have come to beg your niece’s assistance—Miss Bennet, Lady Montford has you on her list for this evening’s entertainments.
A reading, she says. Poetry, or whatever pleases you best.”
Elizabeth froze halfway through pouring. “A reading, Sir Edward?”
“Indeed! Every guest is to contribute some small amusement, and yours was decided by acclamation. Do not look alarmed; it is all in good fun.”
Mr. Gardiner laughed. “Lizzy reads beautifully, sir. Though I’ll warn you, she has a mischievous taste in authors.”
“The very thing! We need a little mischief to season the merriment. Choose something bright, something fitting for the season.”
When he had gone, Mrs. Gardiner reached for her hand again. “You see, my dear? Christmas will not wait for us to be ready.”
Elizabeth tried to smile, though her mind was already spinning. A reading, before all the house—and before him. “Then I suppose I had better find something worth saying.”
The house had grown unbearable. Laughter carried from every passage, bright and relentless as sleigh bells, and everywhere he turned, someone was speaking of Christmas gaiety or family cheer.
He could not endure another moment of it—the warmth, the noise, the sight of Elizabeth moving through the crowd, avoiding his gaze while he stood silent at the edge of every room.
So, he had come back to the stables.
The air was warmer than the yard but sharp with the scent of hay and restless horses. Steam rose from their flanks, and the floor was slick with thawing snow. Grooms moved between stalls with harried efficiency, pitchforks and currycombs flashing in the lamplight.
Darcy had come only to look, or so he told himself. Yet when he saw the chaos—the youngest groom struggling to settle a fractious mare while another cursed over a half-frozen bucket—he shrugged off his coat and stepped in.
“Not that way,” he said quietly, catching the bridle as the mare tossed her head. “She’ll think you mean to strike.”
The boy fell back, flushed and relieved. Darcy soothed the horse, his hand closing over the warm, trembling neck. She blew out a cloud of breath and pawed once at the straw before yielding. He stroked the glossy withers until her muscles eased, feeling the tremor fade through the reins.
She was only anxious, penned up too long. He understood the feeling.
“Bring a rug,” he said. “I will walk her in the courtyard a few minutes—she needs movement, not punishment for restlessness.”
The boy ran off and returned with an oiled rug.
Darcy led the mare into the half-sheltered yard, where snow fell lightly through the open roof beams. The world outside the walls was white and soundless; within, only the steady rhythm of hooves on stone.
The mare tossed her mane and danced sideways, impatient but no longer wild.
He let her prance round the cobblestoned yard once, twice, before drawing her back to a walk.
The cold bit clean through his gloves, but it was honest cold—nothing like the fever of the drawing room, with its laughter and pretence. There, he could barely breathe for wanting to look at her. Here, at least, he could remember what stillness felt like.
He was halfway across the yard again when a familiar voice called from the doorway.
“Mr. Darcy! I feared I might find you buried under a snowdrift.”
Mr. Gardiner came in, his coat dusted white, his expression bright with good humour. “They told me you’d been out here half the morning. I thought I’d see how my poor nags were faring.”
“I do not know which are yours, but most are well enough,” Darcy said, yielding the lead to the waiting groom. “A little restive from the cold. I was only walking one that had been too long confined.”
“Ah. Yes, that one is mine.” Gardiner watched as the boy led the mare back inside. “My thanks for that. You’ve saved me the trouble of playing ostler. My wife would say I’m too old for such heroics.”
Darcy smiled faintly. “Your horses give less trouble than most of the guests.”
“That may be so.” Gardiner brushed snow from his sleeve. “Though my wife would say you give her the lie there as well.”
Darcy turned, startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“She told me of your thoughtfulness last night.” The older man’s tone was mild, but the look in his eyes was keen. “Sir, I have been in trade too long not to recognise a man who knows the worth of a gesture.”
Darcy felt the heat rise under his collar. “It was a trifle.”
“Of course.” Gardiner smiled as though humouring him. “But trifles can matter. Especially to a lady who has known some sadness of late.” He hesitated, his gaze sharpening. “To more than one lady, I think.”
The words landed gently, yet Darcy felt them as if struck. “I meant no impropriety,” he said quickly.
“Nor did I imply it. I only mean to say—my wife, in particular, has a soft spot for those who mean well.”
“I am gratified to hear it,” Darcy managed.
“And as for my niece…” Gardiner’s smile deepened, amused and not unkind.
“Well. You must allow that she is usually a good judge of character, though I have heard her admit—only once, mind you—that her judgment might not be infallible. But when she is forced to revise her opinions, she will do it honestly.”
Darcy met his eyes, uncertain whether to feel hope or caution. “You speak as if she were obliged to revise them.”
Gardiner’s answering smile was mild, but thoughtful. “Obliged? No. Only… capable. My wife and I have kept company with a few of our young nieces over the years. One learns how quickly the heart can change when it has reason.”
The words were gentle—neither presuming nor probing—but they struck Darcy all the same. He looked down at his gloves, tracing the faint indentations the reins had left in his palms. “You are kind to think so.”
“Not kind, Mr. Darcy. Only observant. Elizabeth has a steady judgment, but she is not unfeeling.” He hesitated, then added more softly, “I daresay you understand something of that yourself.”
Darcy’s throat tightened. There was nothing he could safely answer.