Chapter 17 #2
Elizabeth turned to find Miss Kendrick standing behind her, one gloved hand resting delicately on the chair, the other clutching a ribbon that had clearly been torn from some decoration in pique.
“Forgive me,” Miss Kendrick went on, her smile too sweet to be kind. “You were staring so fixedly across the room, I feared you might be unwell.”
Elizabeth returned the smile with perfect calm. “Indeed? I was merely thinking.”
“Of what, I wonder?” Miss Kendrick’s eyes flicked toward Darcy and back. “Or whom?”
A few nearby ladies—Miss Talbot and Mrs. Stanley among them—looked up with the sharpened interest of those who smell scandal before breakfast.
Elizabeth inclined her head slightly. “Why, of ribbons, of course. You appear to have sacrificed one.”
The other woman blinked down at the shred in her hand, momentarily disarmed. But only momentarily. “How very droll. Speaking of sacrifices—my brother was saying only this morning that one must admire your courage, Miss Bennet. To face company day after day, after… well.”
“After?”
Miss Kendrick’s colour rose with satisfaction. “Why, surely you do not wish me to say it aloud.”
“Oh, pray, do,” Elizabeth urged. “If it bears such constant thought, surely it can withstand being spoken.”
Miss Kendrick puckered her mouth in an approximation of pity, though her eyes glittered with mirth. “Very well. I suspect we all know, after all. I mean after the business of Lydia Bennet and that officer from Brighton.”
Elizabeth blinked. There it was, out in the open, spoken to her face, at last.
“We all heard about it in the gossip rags,” Miss Kendrick went on.
“A pity someone decided to put out an advertisement for the lady’s recovery—a grieving mother, they called themselves?
Why, I doubt any of us should have heard a thing of it were it not for that.
But Bennet? You are related, are you not? ”
The words landed with the soft weight of something rehearsed.
Elizabeth felt the small stir in the room—the half-breath of people pretending not to listen.
For one aching heartbeat, she wanted her aunt beside her, to help school her temper as she always had.
But Mrs. Gardiner was stringing mistletoe berries in the dining room, and a mercy it was.
At least she was spared the humiliation this time.
Elizabeth’s smile came slow and dangerous. “Indeed. Lydia is my sister. You may thank my mother for your knowledge of it—she has always believed the London papers a more reliable audience than her own household.”
A few nearby ladies tittered, uncertain whether to laugh. Miss Kendrick, emboldened, pressed on. “Still, it must be mortifying. To have one’s name so… connected. I should not know how to show my face.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “I can see how that might be difficult for you.”
Laughter burst from Mrs. Stanley before she could stop it.
Miss Kendrick stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, no pardon required. Only sympathy.” Elizabeth’s tone was all good humour, but her eyes were bright and sharp as a blade.
“It must be exhausting, Miss Kendrick — trying to attach yourself to every eligible gentleman in the county only to have your own name forgot entirely. At least my family’s scandal ensures we are remembered. ”
That did it. The laughter came fast and loud — genuine this time. Even Mr. Simpson, who had the misfortune to be passing by, turned his head with an expression of startled amusement.
Miss Kendrick went scarlet. “How very unladylike!” she sputtered.
“Do forgive me,” Elizabeth replied with a mock curtsey. “I have had so few examples of perfect womanhood to imitate. I shall endeavour to learn from yours.”
The room broke again — laughter, even applause from somewhere near the hearth.
And Elizabeth saw Darcy move.
He was still at the other end of the drawing room, speaking with Sir Edward, but at Miss Kendrick’s question, his posture had changed entirely.
The fine stillness of his shoulders had gone rigid; his gaze—oh heavens, his gaze—had found hers.
There was a spark in it that startled her more than the words ever could: fierce protectiveness, barely leashed.
He shifted half a step, as if to cross the room.
Elizabeth gave the slightest shake of her head.
Stay.
The tension in his posture eased; his gaze softened, pride and something warmer flickering there.
For a breath, they held one another’s eyes, and she knew he had understood. His jaw tightened, but he inclined his head almost imperceptibly and forced himself back into composure.
Elizabeth turned back to Miss Kendrick with her best, most innocent smile. “You know, Miss Kendrick, we must stop this dreary topic, or the gentlemen will think we can speak of nothing but our relations. And that would never do.”
Miss Talbot laughed aloud. “Indeed, it would not. I declare, Miss Bennet, you are quite right.”
The laughter spread, light and genuine this time, and Miss Kendrick, cornered by her own malice, excused herself with a brittle laugh and the pretence of a headache.
Elizabeth let her go.
She turned back to the circle of astonished ladies. “Now then,” she said cheerfully, as if the entire exchange had been about the weather, “if we have exhausted the topic of my family, perhaps someone will tell me how many gentlemen Miss Kendrick intends to rescue before Christmas.”
That brought the house down.
Elizabeth laughed with them this time, genuine and unguarded. She felt lighter than she had in months. When she finally left the room, her heart was hammering not from shame but from triumph—and from a peculiar new energy that carried her straight toward the quiet solace of her worktable.
She knew, at last, what she would make for Mr. Darcy.
Darcy had scarcely taken two steps into the corridor when the sound of laughter followed her—Elizabeth’s laughter, bright as a bell.
It rolled through the doorway after Miss Kendrick’s retreat, scattering the last of the ladies’ self-importance.
The moment passed quickly; Elizabeth collected her gloves and quitted the room with her head high, the faintest colour still alive in her cheeks.
She glanced back only once—at him.
It was no invitation, no plea, only a look of acknowledgment. He had wanted to cross the room when he saw the scene unfolding, every muscle in him urging to intercede, to spare her one more cut of cruel talk. But she had checked him with that minute shake of her head—composed, steady, sovereign.
Now, watching her go, he understood that nothing she might ever do could make her more beautiful than in that moment when she refused to be pitied.
A man could live a lifetime on the memory of such grace.
Darcy lingered only long enough to see Elizabeth cross the threshold and disappear. Then he turned back to Sir Edward, who was still speaking of the morning’s business with the steward. Darcy caught perhaps one word in ten.
He had thought himself a man long schooled in composure, but there were moments—rare and inconvenient—when every ounce of control felt borrowed. This was one.
A discreet cough sounded near the door. Montford’s butler stood just inside, hands folded, waiting until his master turned.
“What is it, Gibbons?” Montford asked.
“If you please, my lord,” the man said, “word has come from the stable-yard. The men believe that with a few more gentlemen to assist, the upper drive might be cleared before too late in the day. If so, some of the carriages could attempt the road tomorrow—or perhaps even this afternoon, should the thaw hold.”
Montford’s expression brightened. “Excellent news! Why, that will certainly cheer all the ladies and their restless gentlemen.”
Darcy’s head came up. “This afternoon?”
“Yes, sir,” the butler said, bowing slightly. “Those bound for Towcester or Northamptonshire might make the journey before dark, if they wished.”
“Splendid! The ladies will be quite revived by the prospect. We may see half the company restored to their own hearths and families before Christmas Day. Capital news, what?”
But Darcy’s stomach had turned to ice.
Before Christmas Day.
He imagined Elizabeth in a carriage, rolling away into a gathering dusk before he could give her his gift. Indeed, without so much as a word between them. The thought landed with the finality of a door closing.
“My lord,” he said abruptly, “it would be exceedingly rash to risk the road while the drifts remain. The thaw has not yet held a full day. If another frost comes when the sunlight fails—”
Montford chuckled. “You are cautious to a fault, Darcy. The gentlemen are eager for diversion; we may as well put their muscles to use. They are half mad with confinement.”
“Then let them play billiards,” Darcy returned, more sharply than he intended.
Montford blinked. “My dear fellow!”
Darcy caught himself, forced his tone to civility. “Forgive me. I speak only out of concern for the ladies’ safety. A single overturned carriage—”
“Then let us make certain no such thing occurs.”
Richard’s voice cut in easily as he approached from the side corridor, his gloves already tucked in his belt.
“Montford, you shall have all the diversion you like; I’ll take a gang of volunteers and clear the upper drive myself.
Darcy and I can ride out afterward and make sure the road to Towcester is fit for travel—or not. No harm in verifying, eh, cousin?”
He turned a look on Darcy that was half challenge, half rescue.
Darcy inclined his head, grateful for the lifeline. “Indeed. Better to confirm than speculate.”
Montford’s good humour returned at once. “Excellent! I shall see that spiced ale awaits your return. The stable hands will think Christmas has come early with such reinforcements.”
“Come along, then,” Richard said cheerfully, steering Darcy toward the door. “You heard the general—no one leaves till we say the roads are safe, which they never will be if we stand arguing in comfort.”
The butler moved aside as they passed into the cold, the door swinging wide to a world white and still beneath the pale December sun. Darcy drew in a lungful of sharp air. The dread that had seized him loosened, if only slightly; at least action was possible.
“Good man,” Richard muttered, clapping his shoulder. “You look fit to take on the whole of England with a shovel.”
Darcy managed a short laugh. “If it keeps them here one night more, I shall gladly do so.”
And with that, they strode into the yard, where the snow waited in unbroken fields of light.