Chapter 15
Elizabeth woke to the hush of snow against the window and the faint crackle of the fire in the grate. Morning light softened the chamber; even the frost on the glass looked harmless. She lay for a few minutes without moving, allowing herself—for once—to feel content.
The night before had been… unsettling, yes, but not painful.
Darcy’s voice reading Moore still lingered in her mind, warm and low, the kind of voice that spoke less to an audience than to the one person who might understand it.
She had gone to bed half ashamed of how easily she had believed his tone meant something, but she had believed it all the same.
By breakfast, that feeling had dissolved.
The dining room was bright with noise and clinking china, the company already restless.
A few faces turned toward her as she entered—nothing overt, only a fractional pause before the conversation resumed.
She tried to dismiss it. They had all been thrown together too long; any new subject was novelty.
She took her seat beside her aunt and accepted a cup of tea. Opposite her, Mrs. Barlow was speaking in a voice that carried, though her words were trimmed to politeness.
“Such a charming reading last night—quite the prettiest moment of the evening, don’t you think? I never saw Mr. Darcy so animated.”
Miss Hinton’s answering laugh was soft and knowing. “Indeed! Though I cannot say which reading I admired more—his, or Miss Bennet’s. One might almost think they had rehearsed together.”
The remark drew a few knowing smiles from their side of the table. Elizabeth forced her eyes down, stirring her tea though it no longer needed stirring.
Mrs. Gardiner, oblivious or merciful, asked her if she would like more sugar. Elizabeth declined.
Another voice—Miss Kendrick’s this time, pitched just low enough to sound intimate but not private. “I would have expected Mr. Darcy to prefer the serious poets, would not you? Such a taste for the romantic says much for his… constancy of feeling.”
“I daresay it does,” said Mrs. Barlow. “Though some feelings are better kept to oneself—especially when so very public an audience might draw conclusions.”
Elizabeth felt the blood rise in her face. Her aunt’s spoon clicked against her saucer.
“Good heavens, Mrs. Barlow,” said Lady Montford lightly, “you will frighten us all into silence.”
“Only those who have reason to blush,” came the sweet reply. “And I daresay there are some who do.”
The laughter that followed was genteel, practiced, unbearable.
Elizabeth could not remember how she finished her tea. She heard her own voice answering her uncle once or twice, saw the snow outside the window falling thick and white, and felt only the dull pounding of her pulse.
By afternoon, the talk had spread. Not quite gossip, not yet, but suggestion—a turn of the head when she entered, the flutter of a fan, the faint rise of a brow. Miss Kendrick’s smile had grown indulgent; Mrs. Barlow’s, pitying.
Her aunt noticed at last. “My dear, you look pale. Are you unwell?”
“Only tired,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps I should read a while.”
She slipped away to the withdrawing room, hoping for quiet—only to find it already half-occupied.
A knot of ladies sat near the fire, their laughter too easy to be kind.
Elizabeth moved toward the far shelves, meaning only to collect a book and retreat again, but the choice betrayed her: the alcove there was narrow, boxed in by high cabinets.
Once she stepped inside, retreat would have drawn more notice than remaining still.
She sank onto the window seat, the book open in her lap, and tried to look absorbed. But the voices carried—clear, deliberate, too near.
“Such composure. I suppose trade must teach one to bear attention.”
“Indeed. Though I had not thought good breeding so easily imitated.”
A pause, then one voice—thin, curious. “Bennet, was it not? There was talk of a Miss Bennet this summer—some little scandal with an officer, I think.”
“Oh yes. A regiment somewhere near Meryton, was it not? I remember it now. Such a pity.”
“Surely no relation?”
“A sister, I believe,” came the satisfied reply. “Someone put a report for the missing girl in the papers at the time, I am quite sure.”
Elizabeth’s vision blurred. The words struck like cold air through a crack in the glass. She stared at the page before her, seeing nothing but the trembling of her own hands.
“A tradesman’s niece?” cried another voice. “I wonder that anyone should care at all.”
“Well! Mr. Darcy certainly seemed to care last night.”
“Nonsense. I am quite sure he was looking at you, Miss Kendrick.”
“Do you think? Yes, he was rather glancing my way, was he not? I shall see what the man thinks of mistletoe, mark me.”
Somewhere behind the bookcase, a log shifted in the fire, a sharp pop like laughter.
She knew—she knew—that at least one of them had seen her come in, and that every syllable was pitched for her hearing.
She held still, scarcely breathing, until her pulse slowed enough that she could rise without staggering.
The door opened, and men spoke in greeting. “Darcy! There you are, old chap.” That was Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice.
Oh, bollocks, When did he enter the room? But his voice had sounded by the door, and that was where his cousin’s voice replied from. With any luck, neither of them had heard the gossip or knew she was there.
She risked a peek around the corner. Darcy was now speaking with Sir Edward about the state of the road.
Elizabeth shrank back a little, the edge of the bookshelf pressing cold against her sleeve.
Through the narrow gap between the volumes, she saw him cross the threshold, tall and composed, the lamplight striking off the dark wool of his coat.
He could not see her from where she sat, but she saw at once that he felt the change in the air.
Conversation faltered as he drew near; fans lowered, ribbons stilled, eyes turned.
The ladies’ laughter sharpened into brightness—too clear, too brittle—and Elizabeth’s stomach clenched with the certainty that they meant him to look her way.
He did not. Yet even from her hiding place, she felt every glance that fell between them like heat against her skin.
Sir Edward was laughing. “Come, Darcy, tell us—is the north road passable? Or are we prisoners still?”
Darcy gave the expected answer—calm, courteous—and might have passed on. But Mrs. Barlow was not finished.
“Prisoners? Oh, some would not call it such. A forced stay among agreeable company can yield surprising attachments.”
The tone was light, but the meaning clear.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She stared down at her hands, waiting for the next blow, praying that no one would call her out directly.
Another voice—Miss Hinton, or perhaps her sister. They sounded alike. “Indeed! Why, even a passing admiration can warm the coldest of seasons. A pity when it falls where it cannot prosper.”
Darcy turned.
The room seemed to still around that single movement. He did not speak at once; the fire cracked behind him, the only sound.
“I would not presume,” said he, “to judge where affection may or may not prosper, Miss Hinton. But I have learned that those who speak most freely of others’ hearts often know least of their own.”
A pause, sharp and absolute.
Mrs. Barlow’s fan stilled in her hand. Someone coughed. The silence lengthened until even the fire seemed to draw breath.
When he bowed to the crowd of fluttering fans, it was with perfect composure. “Forgive me. I did not mean to interrupt your conversation.”
He turned and left the room.
When he was gone, the silence he left behind felt heavier than his words. No one moved. A teacup rattled faintly on its saucer; someone laughed, too easily, to mend the air. The sound fell flat.
Elizabeth kept her gaze on the open page before her, though she saw nothing of it. Every breath in the room seemed to scrape against her skin. To move now would be to admit too much.
So, she waited—counting heartbeats, listening to the chairs creak and the rustle of departing skirts. One by one, conversation resumed in cautious murmurs, the company re-forming its polite disguise.
Only when the group near the hearth began discussing the weather did she rise. Her limbs felt unsteady, her smile worse. She murmured something—thanks, perhaps, or apology—and slipped through the nearest door as if the draft had carried her.
In the corridor, the cold struck her like a reprieve. She pressed her back to the paneling, eyes closed, willing her pulse to quiet. Gratitude warred with humiliation—gratitude that he had spoken, humiliation that he had needed to.
He had defended her—publicly, unmistakably, against women whose favour most men would have courted.
He had made her the object of every whisper in the house.
And she did not know whether to thank him or to weep.
The storm had eased at last, leaving the yard crusted in white and dazzling under the thin winter sun.
Darcy crossed from the stable to the covered walk, his boots crunching over packed snow.
The grooms were already at work—hauling water, brushing down the horses, cursing the cold with cheerful resignation.
Inside, the heat and noise of the house had grown unbearable. Here, at least, the air was clean.
He drew a long breath, letting it frost on the morning air.
For once, he had managed not to think of her—almost. He told himself he had only come out to see how the horses fared, that he was restless after too many hours penned indoors.
But even now, every quiet moment seemed to echo with her voice.
“Darcy!”
He turned. Fitzwilliam was striding across the yard, his greatcoat unbuttoned, snow melting on the brim of his hat. He had the look of a man half amused, half uncomfortable—a combination Darcy had learned to dread.
“There you are,” Richard said. “I’ve been looking for you. You’ve managed to create quite a storm in there.”