Chapter 5 #2
“Self-preservation tends to sharpen one's awareness.”
“You speak as though the mistletoe poses a genuine danger.”
“Does it not?” Elizabeth glanced toward Miss Bingley, who was supervising the placement of yet another spray with the intensity of a military strategist. “I have no doubt that by the time of the entertainment, one will not be able to cross this room without risk.”
“A sobering thought.”
“I intend to memorize the location of every sprig. I shall navigate by memory, like a ship avoiding rocks.”
“A sensible precaution. I may adopt the same strategy.”
“We could compare maps. Pool our intelligence.”
The words came out before Elizabeth could consider them, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. Mr. Darcy's expression flickered—surprise, and something warmer beneath it.
“That would be... agreeable,” he said quietly.
The drawing room doors burst open and Mr. Bingley strode in, his face alight with enthusiasm.
“Jane! Miss Elizabeth! How delighted I am to find you here. Caroline mentioned you were coming to consult on the preparations. Is it not magnificent?”
He spread his arms wide, encompassing the greenery-draped room with boyish pride.
“It is certainly... abundant,” Jane said, her cheeks pink.
“Abundant! Yes, exactly. We shall have the finest entertainment Hertfordshire has ever seen.” He beamed at Jane with undisguised adoration. “And you must promise to save me the first dance. And the second. And possibly the third, if propriety allows.”
“Charles.” Miss Bingley's voice held a warning note. “You are monopolizing Miss Bennet.”
“Nonsense! A man cannot monopolize a lady he intends to—” He stopped abruptly, his ears reddening. “That is to say—I merely wish to ensure—”
Jane's blush deepened. Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
“Perhaps we should continue the tour,” Miss Bingley interrupted, her smile strained. “I wished to show our guests the arrangements in the music room.”
She swept toward the door—and then stopped, her expression transforming into something Elizabeth could only describe as predatory delight.
“Oh dear,” Miss Bingley said, in a tone that suggested she was not sorry at all. “Charles, Jane—you appear to be standing beneath the mistletoe.”
Elizabeth looked up. Sure enough, a spray of the fateful plant hung directly above where Mr. Bingley and Jane stood frozen.
Jane's face had gone from pink to crimson.
Mr. Bingley looked as though Christmas had arrived early.
“Well!” he said, his voice slightly higher than usual. “It appears tradition demands—that is—if Miss Bennet would not object—”
“Charles.” Miss Bingley's eye was twitching again. “Perhaps a handshake would suffice for a first acquaintance with the custom.”
“Handshake! Yes, of course. Very proper.”
He seized Jane's hand and shook it with vigorous enthusiasm. Jane looked simultaneously relieved and disappointed.
Elizabeth caught Mr. Darcy's eye. He appeared to be struggling with some internal battle—his lips pressed firmly together, his shoulders suspiciously rigid.
“A narrow escape,” Elizabeth murmured.
“For whom, I wonder?”
She did not trust herself to answer.
The party moved on, and Elizabeth allowed herself to relax. Until she stepped backward to admire a particularly elaborate garland and felt something brush the top of her head.
She looked up.
Mistletoe.
Directly above her.
And Mr. Darcy was standing not three feet away, having followed her to examine the same garland.
The room went very quiet.
Or perhaps that was merely Elizabeth's imagination, the blood rushing in her ears drowning out all other sound. Miss Bingley was watching from across the room, her expression sharp with interest. Mrs. Hurst had actually sat up on her settee. Jane looked torn between concern and curiosity.
Mr. Darcy had gone very still beside her, his gaze fixed upward. When Elizabeth followed it, her stomach dropped.
Mistletoe. Directly above them both.
“It would appear,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice strained, “that we have made a tactical error.”
“So it would.” Elizabeth's cheeks burned. “A miscalculation on both our parts.”
“Should I—that is—tradition would seem to—”
“Tradition can go hang.”
The words came out more forcefully than intended. Mr. Darcy blinked.
Elizabeth took a deliberate step sideways, removing herself from beneath the offending vegetation. Mr. Darcy remained frozen for a half-second longer before following her lead, the two of them now standing a safe distance apart.
“I believe the custom applies only to those who remain stationary,” Elizabeth said, willing her voice steady. “Having relocated, we are no longer bound by its demands.”
“A creative interpretation.”
“I am a great believer in creative interpretation when the alternative is public humiliation.”
Something shifted in his expression—a softening, almost imperceptible. “I meant no disrespect by—that is—I would not have presumed—”
“I know.” Elizabeth managed a smile, though her heart was still racing. “And I thank you for the warning. Your talent for noticing has proved useful once again.”
“It seemed only fair. You were admiring the garland with such concentration.”
“I was attempting to determine whether the berries are poisonous. For future reference, in case Miss Bingley decides to weaponise those as well.”
Mr. Darcy's lips twitched. “A prudent inquiry.”
Miss Bingley appeared at Mr. Darcy's elbow, her smile bright with triumph.
“How fortunate that crisis was averted,” she said, laying a proprietary hand on his arm.
“These country customs can be so awkward for those unaccustomed to society's refinements.” She tilted her chin toward him.
“I confess, Mr. Darcy, I am relieved you escaped unscathed. The tradition is meant for those who share a certain... understanding.”
Mr. Darcy's expression flickered—discomfort, or something else Elizabeth could not name. He stepped back, dislodging Miss Bingley's hand with a movement that might have been accidental.
“I believe Miss Elizabeth and I share an understanding perfectly well,” he said. “We both understand the value of a timely retreat.”
Miss Bingley's smile faltered.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together to contain her laugh.
“Indeed,” Miss Bingley said, recovering. “Well. Shall we continue the tour, Mr. Darcy? I wished to show you the arrangements in the music room. I have placed the candles exactly as you prefer.”
“I was not aware I had a preference regarding candles.”
“You mentioned once that you found excessive candlelight fatiguing. I have been most attentive.”
Mr. Darcy looked as though he wished to be anywhere else in England.
Elizabeth took pity on him. Or perhaps on herself. “I ought to return to Jane. I believe Mr. Bingley is describing the refreshment menu in exhaustive detail, and she may require rescue.”
She slipped away before Miss Bingley could respond, but not before catching Mr. Darcy's eye. The look he gave her was equal parts gratitude and resignation—a man watching his ally abandon him to the enemy.
Elizabeth smiled and did not look back.
The remainder of the visit passed without further incident, though Elizabeth navigated every doorway with the caution of a soldier crossing enemy territory.
Mr. Darcy, she noticed, had adopted a similar strategy—the two of them engaged in an unspoken dance of avoidance, mapping the room's dangers with shared glances and subtle warnings.
It should have been awkward.
Instead, it felt almost like collaboration.
When the time came to depart, Elizabeth gathered her things with mingled relief and something else—something she refused to examine too closely.
Jane was glowing, Mr. Bingley was rapturous, and Miss Bingley was already issuing commands about additional sprays of mistletoe for the entertainment itself.
“We shall have them in every doorway,” she declared. “No guest shall pass unscathed.”
“What a charming objective,” Elizabeth murmured.
Mr. Darcy appeared beside her, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “I believe 'unscathed' is precisely the wrong word for Miss Bingley's purposes.”
“You think her motives are not purely festive?”
“I think her motives rarely are.”
Elizabeth glanced at him—at his dark eyes, his careful expression, the hint of humor lurking beneath his reserve. Something fluttered in her chest, inconvenient and undeniable.
“Then we shall both need to sharpen our navigational skills before the entertainment,” she said.
“Indeed.” His gaze held hers. “Perhaps we might... compare notes beforehand.”
“Mr. Darcy.” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you proposing an alliance?”
“I am proposing mutual self-interest. The enemy of one's enemy, and so forth.”
“Miss Bingley is hardly my enemy.”
“No. But I suspect her mistletoe might be.”
Elizabeth laughed—she could not help it—and Miss Bingley's head snapped toward them with predatory interest.
“Until the entertainment, then,” Mr. Darcy said, stepping back with a bow. “I wish you safe travels.”
“And you safe navigation. Mind the doorways.”
“Always.”
On the carriage ride home, Jane spoke softly of Mr. Bingley's kindness and Miss Bingley's decorating prowess.
Elizabeth murmured appropriate responses, but her mind was elsewhere—replaying the moment beneath the mistletoe, the panic and the warmth and the way Mr. Darcy had looked at her when she declared tradition could go hang.
He had not been offended but instead relieved.
Or perhaps not entirely relieved. There had been something else in his expression—something that looked almost like disappointment, quickly suppressed.
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her cheeks. They were still warm.
“The entertainment,” she said aloud, “is going to be a catastrophe.”
Jane turned, surprised. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that Miss Bingley has declared war on propriety with nothing but greenery, and I suspect we shall all be casualties before the night is through.”
“Surely it will not be so dire,” she said in a small voice.
“Jane, the woman intends to hang mistletoe in every doorway. Every doorway. One will not be able to fetch a cup of punch without risking one's reputation.”
Jane considered this. “Mr. Bingley did seem rather pleased by the custom.”
“Mr. Bingley would be pleased by anything that brought him closer to you. The man would embrace a tradition of standing on one's head if it meant spending more time in your company.”
Jane blushed. Elizabeth smiled.
But that night, as she readied for bed, she could not stop recalling Mr. Darcy's expression when he saw her beneath the mistletoe. The alarm. The uncertainty. And beneath it all, something that looked almost like—
No.
She would not think about it.
She would not wonder what might have happened if she had not stepped away. She would not imagine his lips on hers, his hands at her waist, the scandalized gasps of Miss Bingley and the knowing smiles of everyone else.
She would not consider any of it further.
Elizabeth fell asleep knowing one thing for certain:
The holiday entertainment was going to be a catastrophe.
And she was not entirely opposed to it.