Chapter 16 #2
Darcy glanced toward Elizabeth before he could stop himself.
She was helping a maid loop garlands across the mantel, her fingers deft, her face calm.
Calm, but not at ease. When one of the younger ladies offered a comment—something light, edged with mockery—Elizabeth only smiled and answered it away, a feather’s touch of wit to deflect the blow.
She would not hide. She would not even flinch.But he could see what it cost her.
An idea took shape—not fully formed, but with the sudden clarity that always struck him in battle or business.
A contest of kindness. A diversion that would force the idle tongues into gentler service.
He could clothe it as a game, a Christmas trifle, but it would give him what he needed most: a way to honour her without speaking her name.
Richard was still teasing the maids, now about the star’s size. Darcy cut across him.
“If the house must have a new amusement,” he said, “let it be one that suits the season. We are well supplied with wit and industry—let us prove it. Each guest should contrive a small gift for another. Something made, not bought. A poem, a drawing, a keepsake—whatever ingenuity can produce. The names can be drawn by chance.”
The hall went still for a heartbeat. Then Lady Montford clasped her hands. “A splendid notion! Why did I not think of it myself? Yes—an exchange on Christmas Eve! We shall call it the Kelton Gifts.” Her smile warmed. “You have rescued my party again, Mr. Darcy.”
He inclined his head. “I thought it might divert the company.”
“It will do more than that,” she said, already turning to the footman. “Fetch a basket for the names. Colonel, you and Darcy must settle the drawing, and leave me out of the affair lest I be accused of partiality.”
Richard laughed, delighted. “Anonymity, then? Ah, we shall have mischief before we have virtue.”
Darcy barely heard him. His pulse had steadied into purpose. Around him, the house was suddenly alive—voices calling for paper, servants hurrying for quills and scraps of ribbon. Elizabeth had turned, drawn by the noise. When she learned whose idea it was, her eyes found his across the room.
She smiled—small, uncertain, but real. And for the first time in days, something in him eased.
He touched his pocket, feeling the ribbon there like a promise.
He knew what he would make.
The fire hissed where snow had melted through someone’s boots, sharp and wet against the heat.
The air smelled of chocolate and pine and too many candles.
Voices tangled over one another—chairs scraped, shawls rustled, someone laughed too loudly.
The house felt smaller every hour the storm held them fast.
Elizabeth bent to gather a fallen thread from her aunt’s workbasket. “If they bring any more candles, we shall melt before the snow does.”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled, stitching briskly, her colour stronger than it had been in days. “Better melted than frozen. I have not been so thoroughly talked at in a year. They mean well, poor things—one sees it by the effort.”
“They cannot help being kind,” Elizabeth said, lowering her voice. “Only it is a pity kindness should sound so much like curiosity.”
Her aunt’s needle flashed. “Then they deserve a new subject. We shall oblige them by being perfectly dull.”
Elizabeth bit back a laugh. Perfectly dull. She might manage that.
A draft crept under the door, bringing the faint muzzy scent of snow. Someone nearby muttered that the wind had turned; another predicted they would spend Christmas buried alive.
Then a ripple of laughter broke out near the hearth. Colonel Fitzwilliam was weaving through the crowd with Lady Montford’s plumed hat perched absurdly on his arm, scattering good humour as he went. Whatever scheme he meant to launch had already set the company whispering.
Mrs. Gardiner looked up from her work. “That man has mischief in him. I should wager we are all to be volunteered for something new before the hour is out.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Another diversion, no doubt.”
“Take care, child,” her aunt said lightly. “A woman who complains of too much diversion tempts Providence to send her none at all.”
Elizabeth smiled despite herself—and in the next breath, the colonel was beside them, grinning and bowing, the hat held out like a conjurer’s prop.
“Ladies—an inspiration has struck. We are to rescue Christmas from monotony!”
Mrs. Gardiner set her needle aside. “And how shall we accomplish that, sir? By good conduct or by chance?”
“By fortune, madam.” He tipped the hat toward her with mock solemnity.
“Each guest shall draw a name. Before midnight of Christmas Eve, every one of us must contrive a gift for the name we hold—something small, secret, and of our own making. No purchases, no help from the servants, and no confessions. The spirit of generosity demands mystery.”
Laughter scattered through the room. A few ladies protested they had no skill with needle or pen. One of the younger men promised a poem that would “astonish the muses.” The colonel basked in their amusement like a man born for applause.
“Now, then, who will do us the honour of being the first to draw? A game cannot begin without a brave soul.”
Elizabeth shook her head quickly. “Surely you must start with our hostess.”
But Lady Montford was already occupied directing two maids at the tree, her attention conveniently elsewhere.
“I have my orders,” the colonel said, lowering the hat with a conspirator’s grin. “Lady Montford deputed me, and I require someone to make an example. Come—fortune favours the bold.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes glinted amusement. “Better yield, Lizzy. He will never rest until you do.”
“Ah, ah,” he said, laughing. “I admire your spirit, Miss Bennet, but precedence and all that. I require your aunt’s good fortune first. Mrs. Gardiner, draw a name and seal our fates.”
Her aunt obeyed with good humour, drawing a folded slip and laughing softly. “If my talents fail, Colonel, I shall hold you responsible.”
The colonel bowed extravagantly. “I accept all blame! And now, Miss Hinton—your turn.”
Miss Hinton leaned forward, eyes bright, and reached into the hat. The colonel, gesturing too broadly as he offered it, jostled her hand. A flurry of small white papers cascaded onto the carpet.
Laughter burst from every side. “Colonel, you’ll ruin the suspense!” cried Lady Wilcox.
Elizabeth bent to help before thinking, gathering the slips that had scattered beneath a table leg. The colonel crouched beside her, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet—my enthusiasm has no discipline.”
“Plainly not,” she murmured, handing him a handful of papers.
He pressed the papers hastily back into the hat, his thumb lingering at the brim as though he meant to ensure something. “There. Now—justice demands that you draw next, Miss Bennet, since it was my clumsiness that set the trap. Topmost, if you please. Let us tempt fate properly.”
She hesitated, aware of how many eyes turned their way. “I think you overstate my claim, Colonel.”
“Not at all,” he said. “You are our rescuer; the honour is yours.”
Elizabeth reached in, drew the uppermost slip—and unfolded it before she could think better of it.
The name written there made her heart stumble.
Mr. Darcy.
For a moment, her breath simply stopped. The noise of the room dimmed until all she could hear was the steady crack of the fire and the faint rustle of paper in her hand. She read it again, as if it might change—Mr. Darcy. The ink sharp and dark, the letters confident. There was no mistake.
She folded it quickly, tucking it into her palm. When she looked up, the colonel was already turning away, announcing another victim with cheerful authority.
She folded the slip quickly, the sound of paper small and guilty in her hands.
Her pulse thudded in her throat. Across the room, Darcy stood near the window, speaking easily with Mr. Kendrick—something about sporting dogs or some nonsense.
The light from the fire caught the edge of his profile, the dark line of his coat, and something in her chest twisted.
Mrs. Gardiner’s voice cut softly through her thoughts. “Well, my dear? Who has fortune dealt you?”
She swallowed. “I—I shall keep that secret for now, if you please.”
Her aunt laughed, satisfied. “Then I hope your mystery friend appreciates ingenuity more than finery.”
Elizabeth nodded, though she barely heard.
The noise around her swelled again—more laughter, another shriek of delight as someone drew their husband’s name—but her mind was far away, circling the single impossible thought: what could she possibly give him?
What could she offer that would not betray her entirely?
Her gaze drifted once more toward the fire. Darcy had turned slightly, his profile caught in the glow. He seemed absorbed in whatever Mr. Kendrick said, yet she had the strangest certainty that he was aware of her still.
She looked away at once, pretending to rearrange the ribbons on her aunt’s sewing basket. The slip of paper pressed against her heart, warm and treacherous, and she could feel her pulse beating through it.