Chapter 5
CAROLINE'S ASTONISHING LONDON CUSTOM
At breakfast, Mrs. Bennet was in raptures about the upcoming festivities.
“A holiday entertainment at Netherfield! And we are to be the principal guests—well, Jane is, certainly, but where Jane goes, you all follow.” She waved her toast for emphasis. “Mr. Bingley could not be more devoted. I told you, Mr. Bennet. I told you we should have a match before Twelfth Night.”
“You told me many things, Mrs. Bennet. I have learned to wait for evidence before updating my expectations.”
“Evidence! The man looks at Jane as though she hung the moon and stars. What more evidence could you require?”
“A proposal, perhaps. Delivered in person. Preferably with witnesses.”
Mrs. Bennet huffed and returned to her plans for new ribbons.
Lydia and Kitty were speculating loudly about which officers might attend the entertainment. Mary sat in the corner with Fordyce open on her lap, practicing what Elizabeth could only assume was a sermon on the dangers of excessive merriment.
Elizabeth sipped her tea and tried not to think about Mr. Darcy's dark eyes or his almost-smile or the way he had looked at her across Miss Bingley's drawing room.
She failed.
The post arrived mid-morning, and with it a note sealed in pale blue wax—Miss Bingley's signature color. Jane broke the seal with careful fingers, her expression shifting from curiosity to pleasure as she read.
“We are invited to Netherfield tomorrow afternoon,” Jane announced. “Miss Bingley wishes to consult us on matters of taste related to the holiday entertainment.”
“Consult you on taste?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “I was not aware Miss Bingley believed anyone possessed taste but herself.”
“Lizzy.” Jane's tone was gently reproachful.
“I speak only the truth. The woman arranges flowers as though preparing for battle.”
“She is making an effort to be friendly. We should appreciate the gesture.”
Elizabeth doubted very much that friendliness was Miss Bingley's motivation, but she held her tongue. Jane saw the good in everyone, even those who offered precious little evidence of it.
Mrs. Bennet was, predictably, ecstatic.
“Another invitation! And so soon! Jane, you must wear your cream muslin—no, the blue, the blue brings out your eyes. Lizzy, do try to be agreeable. Miss Bingley is to be your sister, after all, and it would not do to antagonize her before the wedding.”
“There is no wedding, Mama.”
“Not yet. But there will be. Mark my words.”
The carriage ride to Netherfield was mercifully brief. Elizabeth spent it watching the frost-covered hedgerows slide past and wondering whether Mr. Darcy would be present this time, or whether he would once again vanish into the depths of the house like a particularly antisocial ghost.
She told herself she did not care either way.
Her quickening pulse disagreed.
Netherfield, when they arrived, was in a state of organized chaos.
Footmen hurried through the entrance hall carrying armfuls of holly. Maids balanced on ladders, draping garlands across doorways. The housekeeper stood in the center of it all, consulting a list so long it nearly touched the floor.
Miss Bingley swept forward to greet them, her smile wide and her eyes sharp.
“Miss Bennet! Miss Elizabeth! How delighted we are to have you. Do forgive the disorder, we are in the midst of preparations, as you can see.”
“It looks wonderfully festive,” Jane offered.
“It looks like a forest exploded,” Elizabeth murmured, too quietly for anyone but Jane to hear.
Jane's lips twitched.
Miss Bingley led them into the drawing room, which had been transformed since their last visit. Greenery adorned every surface: holly wreaths on the walls, ivy trailing across the mantelpiece, sprays of winter berries arranged in crystal vases. The effect was impressive, if overwhelming.
“We have been working since dawn,” Miss Bingley said, with the air of a general surveying conquered territory. “The servants have been most diligent. And of course, Mrs. Hurst and I have supervised every detail.”
Mrs. Hurst, who was reclining on a settee with a cup of chocolate, offered a languid wave.
“It is beautiful,” Jane said warmly.
“It is not yet complete.” Miss Bingley's smile turned mysterious. “I have saved the most important element for last. A new tradition and the very latest fashion from Town. I received the materials only yesterday.”
Elizabeth felt a flicker of foreboding.
Miss Bingley crossed to a small table where an ornate box rested, tied with crimson ribbon. She lifted the lid in a theatrical display and withdrew a cluster of pale green leaves dotted with white berries.
Elizabeth squinted. “Is that—”
“Yes!” Miss Bingley's eyes gleamed with triumph. “The newest, most fashionable holiday novelty from Town. A sensation. A revelation.”
A beat of silence.
“Mistletoe.”
Jane blinked. “How lovely.”
Mistletoe was a perfectly ordinary holiday decoration. Elizabeth stared at the unassuming plant, waiting for the revelation to reveal itself. “I confess I am confused. Are we meant to do something with it?”
Miss Bingley's smile widened. “In London, when it is hung in doorways, and if two people find themselves beneath it...” She lowered her voice. “They must exchange a kiss.”
Jane's gasp was soft but audible.
Elizabeth started.
Somewhere behind them, a masculine voice made a sound that might have been choking.
Elizabeth turned to find Mr. Darcy standing in the doorway, his expression frozen somewhere between horror and disbelief. He had clearly arrived in time to hear Miss Bingley's explanation, and he looked as though he rather wished he had not.
“Mr. Darcy!” Miss Bingley beamed. “You have arrived just in time. I was explaining the newest mistletoe custom to our guests.”
“So I heard.” His voice was carefully neutral. “A... novel tradition.”
“It is all the rage in Town. Lady Ashworth hosted a party last season where three couples were caught beneath the mistletoe, and two of them were engaged within the month!”
“How efficient,” Elizabeth said faintly.
Mr. Darcy's gaze met hers across the room. Something flickered in his dark eyes—alarm, perhaps, or commiseration. Elizabeth felt an absurd urge to laugh.
Miss Bingley was already issuing commands to the servants.
“We shall hang it here—no, here, above this archway. And another spray there, by the pianoforte. And one more near the refreshment table. The placement must be strategic.”
Elizabeth watched the footmen scramble to obey and felt her foreboding crystallize into certainty.
Miss Bingley was about to weaponise foliage.
“Is it not charming?” Miss Bingley asked, watching a servant balance precariously on a ladder. “So festive. So modern.”
“So very... thorough,” Elizabeth murmured, noting that one spray had been positioned directly above the archway Mr. Bingley tended to use when escorting Jane.
Mr. Darcy appeared at her elbow, his voice low. “There do seem to be a great many of them.”
Elizabeth startled. She had not heard him approach. The man moved like a cat, silent and unnerving.
“I had not realized mistletoe required such... strategic distribution,” she said, matching his quiet tone. “One might almost think the placements were deliberate.”
Mr. Darcy frowned, studying the arrangement with what looked like genuine puzzlement. “I am sure Miss Bingley means well. She spoke yesterday of wanting everyone to feel welcomed.”
“How generous of her.” Elizabeth could not quite keep the dryness from her voice. “And the spray positioned directly above the entrance to the music room? Where you so often retreat to avoid company?”
He followed her gaze, and something flickered across his expression—doubt, perhaps, or the first stirrings of unease. “That does seem... coincidental.”
“Remarkably so.”
“Though I suppose—” He stopped, shaking his head slightly. “No. I am being uncharitable. She has been making efforts to be more agreeable.”
“Has she?” Elizabeth considered this. She had seen little evidence of Miss Bingley's warmth toward anyone bearing the Bennet name, but perhaps she was being unfair. People could change. “I hope you are right. Jane would be glad of a kind sister-in-law.”
“You do not sound entirely convinced.”
“I am... cautiously optimistic.” She offered a small smile. “It is only that Miss Bingley strikes me as someone who rarely does anything without purpose. But I could be wrong. Perhaps she has simply developed a passionate interest in festive shrubbery.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, quickly suppressed. “Festive shrubbery?”
“Parasitic, technically. But that sounds less charitable, and I am trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.”
His tone was dry. “You are too kind.”
She laughed before she could stop herself—a bright, surprised sound that drew Miss Bingley's sharp attention from across the room.
“Miss Elizabeth! You seem amused. Do share the jest.”
“Mr. Darcy was merely observing how... thoroughly you have embraced the new tradition,” Elizabeth said smoothly. “The greenery is quite comprehensive.”
Miss Bingley preened. “One must commit fully to fashion, or not at all.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, keeping her tone light. “Half-measures would be unthinkable.”
The morning progressed in a flurry of consultations and commands.
Miss Bingley solicited Jane's opinion on ribbon colors with flattering deference, though she overruled every suggestion with cheerful condescension.
Mrs. Hurst contributed occasional remarks from her settee.
The servants continued their precarious work with ladders and greenery.
And Elizabeth found herself navigating the drawing room with unprecedented caution, eyeing every doorway for lurking sprigs of botanical peril.
Mr. Darcy, she noticed, was doing the same.
Their eyes met as they both paused at the threshold of an archway, each checking for mistletoe before proceeding. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“It appears we have developed similar instincts,” he said.