Chapter 18
The yard behind the stable blocks was alive with motion and good cheer. Grooms, guests, and footmen were all pressed into service, their laughter ringing against the low white sky.
Darcy joined them without ceremony, shedding his overcoat and taking up a shovel. The cold bit hard at first, but the work soon burned through it. He fell into rhythm—thrust, lift, turn—the scrape of metal against packed snow almost soothing.
“Good God, Darcy,” Richard called, “if your tenants could see you now, they’d take you for a man paying off penance by the hour.”
Darcy managed a breathless reply. “Then I shall work until I am absolved.”
Laughter followed, light and unguarded. Even Sir Edward looked pleased, calling encouragements from the steps. The great house that had felt close as a prison for days seemed, for a little while, almost merry.
When they paused to rest, Darcy leaned on his shovel and glanced eastward. The clouds were breaking there—the palest hint of blue threading the grey. If the thaw held another day, the roads would open. If it quickened, they might be clear afternoon.
Freedom. And separation.
The thought struck sharp as ice. He had prayed for the snow to ease, for the world to right itself—but now, the prospect of departure made him cold in earnest. If Elizabeth left before nightfall, he would lose his chance to give her the gift, to make his meaning known at last.
He sank the shovel hard into the drift.
“Steady, man,” Richard said lightly. “You’ll dig your way to the cellars if you go on like that.”
Darcy gave a short, humourless laugh. “I am anxious for our success.”
Richard arched a brow. “Success at what—escaping, or remaining?”
Darcy said nothing, and Richard, reading the truth in his silence, let it drop.
An hour later, Sir Edward declared the drive respectably navigable and dismissed them all with praise and promises of mulled wine. The other gentlemen cheered, triumphant. Darcy stood apart, watching the narrow line of exposed gravel wind down toward the trees like a road to exile.
He gathered his coat from the fence post, the wool stiff with frost, and turned toward the house.
“Darcy,” Richard called, catching up beside him. “Montford means to send a groom as far as Towcester with the news. I told him before that we save him the trouble and ride out ourselves. We can judge the road before any coach risks it.”
Darcy nodded. “Very well.”
Within half an hour, the two men were mounted and away, the horses breaking through the last stretch of untracked snow beyond the cleared drive. The air was sharp, clean, and quiet; the sun hung low and pale, throwing long shadows over the frozen fields.
They rode in companionable silence for a time. The snow along the hedgerows was pocked with thaw, the ruts beginning to show through.
“Looks passable enough for the Towcester lot,” Richard said at last. “A good wind and they’ll be snug in their own beds by midnight.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Too soon.”
Richard’s smile flickered. “For them, or for you?”
He did not answer. Ahead, the road dipped through a grove of bare elms, their black limbs arching like cathedral vaults over the path. Darcy reined in and surveyed the stretch. The ice had crusted in places, treacherous under the thinning snow. One wrong rut, one turn too fast—
“No,” he said quietly. “Not safe. If another frost comes when the sun dips late in the day, this will glaze over again. Any carriage attempting it after dusk would be at risk.”
Richard nodded, still watching him sidelong. “Then we’ll carry that report home and make certain no one attempts it.”
They turned back toward Kelton Hall, the sun already sliding high over the ridge. The horses’ hooves made soft thuds in the slush; the wind carried the faint scent of woodsmoke from the chimneys ahead.
Darcy looked up at the house—the great grey mass half buried in snow, its windows gleaming with early firelight—and felt an odd mixture of dread and relief. The roads were not safe. Providence, for once, was on his side.
“Let the world wait,” he murmured under his breath.
Richard shot him a look. “What’s that?”
“Only that Montford’s ale will taste better than Towcester’s road.”
Richard laughed, and together they urged the horses into a brisk trot, the hall growing larger before them—a bright island against the encroaching dark.
“Hold still, Lizzy, or you’ll prick me as well as yourself,” Mrs. Gardiner said, laughing softly as she secured the final hook of Elizabeth’s gown.
Elizabeth smiled at their reflection in the dressing-glass. “It would serve us both right for attempting such elegance without a maid.”
“We have done well enough,” her aunt replied, smoothing the silk over Elizabeth’s shoulder with practiced care. “At least our pins are where we put them. I cannot say as much for Lady Montford’s army of girls. I heard one sent to tears over a missing comb.”
Elizabeth’s laugh came easily. “A fate we have narrowly escaped. I wonder that anything is in order, with so many in the house.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s own gown—a deep garnet silk borrowed from Lady Montford’s wardrobe—set a healthy glow in her cheeks.
There had been too many weeks, earlier that autumn, when her face was colourless and her step unsteady; now she looked once more like herself, graceful and kind-eyed, her manner alive with quiet humour.
The sight made Elizabeth’s heart lighter than she had expected.
Her aunt turned from the glass. “Now, what have you secreted in that reticule? You have been guarding it all afternoon as though it contained state papers.”
Elizabeth tried for composure. “Only a trifle for the gift exchange.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s brow lifted. “A trifle? I am not sure I have ever seen a lady look so solemn over a trifle.”
“I drew a name that demands solemnity.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Gardiner’s tone shifted, light curiosity sharpened by something more knowing. “Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth turned from the mirror, startled. “How in the world—?”
Her aunt smiled—kindly, but with the quiet triumph of a woman who has observed more than she was meant to.
“My dear, you look as if you had swallowed a secret whole. There are very few gentlemen who could put that expression on your face, and only one who would make you blush at the thought of a Christmas present.”
Elizabeth tried to laugh it off and failed. “You are far too perceptive. It is most inconvenient.”
Mrs. Gardiner only waited, one brow raised.
Elizabeth sank onto the stool before the fire. “Very well. I drew Mr. Darcy, and I would wager my best bonnet that the colonel had some nefarious hand in it.”
“You may count on it,” her aunt agreed.
She grunted ruefully. “I spent half the morning wishing I had drawn anyone else, and half the afternoon wondering what could possibly please him.” She hesitated, fingers twisting together. “And the rest of the time wondering why it mattered so much that it should please him.”
Her aunt came to stand behind her, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “Because, Lizzy, you care for him.”
The words landed like a blow she had long expected.
Elizabeth’s eyes met her own reflection, wide and unguarded.
“I think I do,” she said softly. “At least—I care enough that the thought of seeing him misjudged again makes me wretched. Enough that I have begun to wish—” She stopped, shaking her head.
“No matter. He once loved me, I think, but that time has passed. He has been nothing but courteous since we met again.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Men who no longer love rarely look as though they are walking through fire to remain polite. Do not deceive yourself on that point.”
Elizabeth drew a shaky breath and managed a smile. “You will make me quite vain, Aunt.”
“I shall make you honest,” Mrs. Gardiner corrected. “And if you mean to give him something, let it be what you truly feel, not what will appear suitable to others.”
Elizabeth looked down at the small reticule lying open on the dressing table. Inside, the ivory-wrapped gift gleamed faintly in the candlelight. “Then I have chosen well,” she said at last. “It is small, but it says everything I dare.”
Mrs. Gardiner bent to kiss the top of her head. “Then that will be quite enough.”
Elizabeth smiled, though her pulse quickened as she glanced at the little reticule lying open upon the dressing table.
“I daresay I shall have no appetite for dinner,” she murmured, drawing the reticule’s cords tight. “I feel as though I am carrying contraband.”
“Then you have, indeed, chosen well,” said Mrs. Gardiner, fastening the last ribbon at her sleeve. “A gift that makes one tremble is a gift worth giving.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Aunt, you sound positively romantic.”
“Do not tell your uncle,” Mrs. Gardiner said with mock severity. “He believes me very sensible.”
“You are,” Elizabeth said, taking her aunt’s hands for a brief squeeze. “Sensible enough for both of us.”
They descended the stairs together, the hum of conversation rising from the hall below. The scent of evergreen and wax polish mingled with something savoury from the kitchens. Candlelight pooled along the banisters; laughter drifted through the open door of the drawing room.
The company had gathered in all their finery—silk, lace, and bright jewels against the dark green boughs. Sir Edward was proclaiming the success of the day’s labours, and Miss Kendrick, resplendent in coral satin, had already arranged herself beneath the largest branch of mistletoe.
As Elizabeth and her aunt entered, several heads turned.
They had scarcely crossed the threshold before the stir of conversation shifted. Heads turned—just enough to be noticed—and the warm hum of voices grew livelier.
“Miss Bennet!” cried Mr. Hadley, bounding toward her with all the eagerness of a spaniel who had discovered a misplaced glove. “Permit me to escort you in to dinner. I was most grievously disappointed not to see you at tea.”