Chapter 6
THE UNWELCOME SIGHT IN MERYTON
Darcy woke exhausted.
He had spent half the night staring at the canopy above his bed, replaying the afternoon's events with torturous precision. Miss Elizabeth stepping beneath the mistletoe. Her startled expression when she realized. The flush spreading across her cheeks as she declared tradition could go hang.
She had been magnificent.
And he had been a coward, standing there like a statue, stammering about what tradition demanded, when every instinct had urged him to close the distance between them and—
No.
He pressed his palms against his eyes. He would not think about it.
He would not imagine what might have happened if she had not stepped away.
He would not recall the disappointment that had flickered through him when she removed herself from danger—disappointment he had no right to feel, no business entertaining.
Breakfast was an exercise in endurance.
Caroline was triumphant, her satisfaction radiating across the table like heat from a fire. She had spent the morning recounting yesterday's “successes” to anyone who would listen—the elegant arrangements, the fashionable mistletoe, the near-misses that had set the entire room buzzing.
“And poor Miss Elizabeth,” Caroline said, stirring her chocolate with exaggerated sympathy. “Caught beneath the mistletoe with no warning at all. How mortifying for her.”
Darcy's grip tightened on his teacup.
“She handled it with admirable composure,” he said, more sharply than intended. “There was nothing mortifying about it.”
Caroline's eyes glittered. “How gallant of you to defend her. One might almost think—”
“One might think nothing at all,” Darcy interrupted. “The incident was trivial. I see no reason to discuss it further.”
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken implications.
Bingley, oblivious as ever, launched into a new enthusiasm. “I have been thinking—we ought to have a winter excursion. A walk through the countryside, perhaps to Oakham Mount. The views are spectacular this time of year. And afterward, we could return for hot punch by the fire.”
“That sounds delightful,” Mrs. Hurst offered, in the tone of a woman who had no intention of walking anywhere in December.
“Does it not? And we could invite the Bennets, of course. Miss Bennet would enjoy—”
“Charles.” Caroline's voice held a warning note. “Surely you do not mean to drag our guests through frozen fields.”
“It is not dragging if they wish to come. And the exercise would be invigorating.”
“For those who enjoy such rustic pursuits, perhaps.”
“Everyone enjoys a winter walk! Do they not, Darcy?”
Darcy, who had been contemplating the merits of fleeing to London immediately, looked up with a start. “I suppose some do.”
“There, you see? Even Darcy agrees.”
“I did not say I agreed. I said some people enjoy it.”
“Same thing.” Bingley was already warming to his theme. “We could bring provisions—bread, cheese, perhaps a flask of something warming. And if we encounter any scenic spots, we could hang some of Caroline's famous greenery from the branches.”
Caroline's eyes lit up. “What a splendid idea, Charles. Mistletoe in the trees—imagine couples taking walks, encountering romantic surprises along the path.” She smiled, and something in it made Darcy's instincts prickle.
“I shall have the servants prepare several sprigs. We must ensure the route is properly... festive.”
“Capital!” Bingley beamed. “You see, Darcy? Caroline is entering into the spirit of things.”
She was entering into something, certainly. Darcy watched her calculating expression and felt the first stirrings of doubt about her apparent change of heart. Miss Elizabeth's words echoed in his mind: Miss Bingley rarely does anything without purpose.
He had dismissed that as cynicism.
Now he was not so certain.
“Perhaps,” he said carefully, “a few sprigs would suffice. We need not transform the entire wood into a... romantic obstacle course.”
“Nonsense,” Caroline said smoothly. “If one is to embrace a tradition, one must commit fully. Half-measures are so dreary.” She turned to Mrs. Hurst. “Louisa, you must help me select the best locations. We want them to appear natural, as though they simply... grew there.”
“Mistletoe is parasitic,” Darcy muttered. “It does grow on trees.”
“Then we shall be helping nature along.” Caroline's smile sharpened. “How can you object to that?”
He could not, precisely. But as he watched her begin planning the placement of sprigs along their walking route, Darcy felt a growing certainty that he had been na?ve to believe her schemes had ended.
Miss Elizabeth had tried to warn him.
He ought to have listened.
The breakfast concluded with Bingley still planning his winter excursion and Caroline still plotting her improvements. Darcy escaped as soon as courtesy allowed, desperate for air and solitude.
He walked into Meryton without conscious intention, his feet carrying him along the familiar road while his thoughts churned. The morning was bright but biting cold, frost glittering on every surface, his breath fogging in the December air.
He had nearly reached the village when he heard them.
Voices, light and feminine, carrying across the cold air with unmistakable clarity. Laughter—high and careless—followed by a deeper sound, a man's voice, smooth and practiced.
Darcy rounded a corner and stopped dead.
Miss Elizabeth stood in a cluster with her sisters and mother—Jane serene, Lydia giggling, Kitty bouncing on her heels, Mrs. Bennet gesturing expansively. They had clearly been making calls in the village, their cheeks pink from the cold, their spirits high.
And they were speaking with Wickham.
George Wickham, resplendent in his officer's uniform, his smile as charming and false as ever. He was leaning toward the group with easy familiarity, directing the majority of his attention toward Miss Elizabeth with a focus that made Darcy's stomach turn.
She was smiling at him.
Miss Elizabeth—sharp-witted, perceptive Miss Elizabeth—was smiling at Wickham as though he were worthy of her regard. As though his charm were genuine. As though she could not see the poison beneath the polish.
Darcy experienced a cascade of emotions so violent he could not separate them: jealousy, hot and shameful; fear, cold and creeping; anger at Wickham's continued presence in his life; regret for every silence that had allowed this situation to develop.
And beneath it all, the sickening memory of Wickham's past treacheries—Georgiana's near-ruin, the lies, the manipulation, the easy destruction of lives that meant nothing to him.
Wickham saw Darcy before anyone else.
His expression shifted—almost imperceptibly, but Darcy knew that face too well to miss it. The surprise, quickly suppressed. The calculation, instantly engaged. And then the mask settling back into place: the look of saintly innocence that had fooled better people than the Bennets.
“Why, Mr. Darcy!” Wickham's voice carried across the street, warm and welcoming. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
Every head turned.
Miss Elizabeth followed Wickham's gaze and met Darcy's eyes across the frozen street. Her expression flickered—surprise, curiosity, something else he could not name.
She gave him a nod, warm and polite, accompanied by a small smile.
Darcy's heart stopped.
She did not know. She could not know what Wickham was—what he had done, what he was capable of. She saw only the charming officer with the easy manners and the sympathetic tales. She believed him. Trusted him.
And Darcy could say nothing to warn her without exposing Georgiana to scandal.
The helplessness was suffocating.
Mrs. Bennet was saying something, her voice bright with the particular enthusiasm she reserved for handsome young officers. Lydia was giggling again. Kitty had attached herself to Lydia's arm, the two of them whispering behind their hands.
Miss Elizabeth was still looking at Darcy, her brow faintly furrowed, as though trying to read his expression.
He could not let her see.
He could not let any of them see the turmoil raging beneath his careful composure—the jealousy and the fear and the desperate urge to cross the street, take her arm, and lead her away from Wickham's poisonous influence.
He bowed stiffly, his movements mechanical.
And then he turned and walked away before he could do something unforgivable.
The walk back to Netherfield was agony.
Every step took him further from Miss Elizabeth and closer to the dark spiral of his own thoughts.
He saw her smile playing before his eyes—the smile she had given Wickham, warm and unsuspecting.
He imagined Wickham spinning his tales, painting Darcy as the villain, earning her sympathy and her trust.
He imagined worse things. Wickham charming her completely. Wickham drawing her in as he had drawn in Georgiana. Wickham destroying everything Darcy—
No.
He could not think about that. He would not.
Miss Elizabeth was too clever to be fooled. She would see through Wickham, eventually. She had to. Her wit, her perception, her sharp intelligence—surely they would protect her where Darcy's silence could not.
But the memory of her smile haunted him.
She had been so warm. So open. So entirely unlike the guarded woman who sparred with him at every opportunity.
She liked Wickham.
The realization was a knife between his ribs.
By the time Darcy reached Netherfield, his mood had deteriorated from miserable to thunderous. He stalked through the entrance hall without greeting the servants, made his way to the library, and stood before the window, staring out at the frost-covered grounds without seeing them.
He should have spoken.
He should have crossed the street, made some excuse, pulled Miss Elizabeth aside and warned her about Wickham's true character. He should have—