Chapter 6 #2
What? Exposed Georgiana's shame to protect a woman who barely tolerated him? Demanded Miss Elizabeth trust his word over the charming officer's? Behaved like a jealous fool in front of her entire family?
There was no good option. There had never been a good option.
Wickham was in Meryton, spreading his poison, and Darcy could do nothing but watch and wait and hope that Miss Elizabeth's cleverness would save her.
He was still brooding when Bingley found him an hour later, bursting with enthusiasm about the winter excursion.
“We shall set out tomorrow, I think—if the weather holds. Miss Bennet mentioned she enjoys walking, and I thought perhaps the path along the river would be pleasant. Not too strenuous, but scenic. What do you think?”
“I think you are determined to freeze the entire neighborhood for your own romantic purposes.”
Bingley laughed. “You are in a dark mood today. What has happened?”
“Nothing.” Everything. Wickham happened. Miss Elizabeth's smile happened. His own pathetic helplessness happened.
“You look as though you have lost your best friend.”
“I am standing here speaking to my best friend. Clearly I have not lost him.”
“Darcy.” Bingley's expression softened. “What is wrong? And do not say nothing—I have known you too long to be fooled.”
Darcy considered, briefly, telling the truth. Bingley knew about Wickham—not the details of Georgiana's near-disgrace, but enough to understand the man was not to be trusted. Indeed, Wickham would find no welcome at Netherfield.
But beyond these walls, what could be done?
If Darcy began warning families against him, Wickham would retaliate.
The man had a talent for twisting truth into lies and lies into sympathy.
He would paint himself the victim—the poor steward's son, denied his inheritance by a proud and jealous master. And if pressed, if cornered...
Darcy's blood ran cold.
Wickham might find some way to reveal Georgiana’s mistake. Not the whole of it, but enough to insinuate. Enough to destroy a fifteen-year-old girl's reputation with a few well-placed whispers and a sorrowful shake of his head.
Darcy could not risk it. Could not risk her.
And so he must watch Wickham charm his way through Meryton, watch him smile at Miss Elizabeth, watch him spread whatever poison he chose—and say nothing.
“I encountered an old acquaintance in the village,” Darcy said finally. “Someone I had not expected to see. It was... unsettling.”
Bingley's brow furrowed. “Someone disagreeable?”
“Profoundly.”
“Ah.” Bingley nodded sagely, though Darcy doubted he understood at all. “Well, a winter walk will clear your head. Fresh air and exercise—nothing better for a troubled mind.”
“I am not certain—”
“Nonsense! You must come. And the Bennets will be there—Miss Elizabeth particularly enjoys walking, I am told. That should improve your spirits.”
Darcy closed his eyes. The prospect of seeing Miss Elizabeth—after this morning, after watching her smile at Wickham—was simultaneously the best and worst suggestion Bingley could have made.
“We shall see,” he said, which was as close to agreement as he could manage.
The afternoon brought a reprieve Darcy had not expected.
He had escaped the house again, walking the paths of Netherfield's grounds in search of solitude and fresh air.
The frost had softened under the weak December sun, and the woods were quiet, peaceful, mercifully empty of Wickham and mistletoe and the complications that seemed to follow Darcy everywhere.
He was rounding a bend in the path, lost in thought, when he saw her.
Miss Elizabeth walked toward him along the lane, a small basket over one arm, her cheeks pink from the cold. She wore the same blue pelisse he had admired before—the one Caroline had deemed “sturdy”—and her breath fogged gently in the winter air.
She startled when she saw him, then recovered with a smile that made his chest ache.
“Mr. Darcy. I did not expect to meet anyone out here.”
“Nor did I.” He stopped, suddenly aware that he had no idea what to say. All the clever conversation that came so easily in drawing rooms had deserted him entirely.
She glanced down at her basket. “I was gathering holly for my mother. She has decided our mantels are insufficiently festive.”
“A grievous oversight.”
“Indeed. We are barely recognizable as participants in the Christmas season. Our neighbors will talk.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “We cannot have that.”
They fell into step together without conscious decision, walking along the frosted path as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The silence stretched between them—but it was comfortable, Darcy realized with surprise.
“I wished to thank you,” Miss Elizabeth said finally, her voice soft. “For yesterday. The warning about the mistletoe.”
“It seemed the least I could do, given the circumstances.”
“The circumstances being Miss Bingley's determination to compromise as many guests as possible?”
Darcy coughed. “I would not have phrased it quite so directly.”
“No, you would have found some elegant circumlocution. Fortunately, I am not burdened by such delicacy.”
“I had noticed.”
She laughed—that bright, surprised sound that had haunted his sleepless night—and Darcy felt something loosen in his chest. Here, away from drawing rooms and prying eyes and the complications of society, she was simply Miss Elizabeth: quick-witted, warm, disarmingly honest.
He could almost forget Wickham. Almost forget the impossibility of his situation. Almost believe that a woman like her might someday look at him with something other than guarded curiosity.
“I confess I am dreading the entertainment,” Miss Elizabeth admitted. “Miss Bingley has promised mistletoe in every doorway. I shall have to memorize the floor plan and navigate by memory.”
“A sound strategy. I intend to employ something similar.”
“Then we shall be allies in avoidance. Comparing maps, as you suggested.”
“I did suggest that, did I not?”
“You did. Though I believe you called it mutual self-interest.”
“The most honest foundation for any alliance.”
She glanced at him sideways, her expression thoughtful. “You are not what I expected, Mr. Darcy.”
The words caught him off guard. “What did you expect?”
“I am not entirely certain anymore.” She paused, considering. “When we first met, I thought you the proudest man in Hertfordshire. Cold, dismissive, convinced of your own superiority.”
“And now?”
“Now I think perhaps I judged too quickly.” A small smile curved her lips. “I believe those were your words, were they not? At Miss Bingley's tea?”
He remembered. He remembered every word of that conversation, every flicker of expression that had crossed her face.
“They were,” he admitted. “And they applied to me as much as anyone.”
“A mutual failing, then.”
“It would appear so.”
They walked in silence for a moment, the only sound the crunch of frost beneath their boots. The path curved through a stand of winter-bare trees, and Netherfield appeared in the distance, its windows glowing faintly in the afternoon light.
“I should return,” Miss Elizabeth said, though she made no move to leave. “My mother will be wondering what has become of her holly.”
“And I should face whatever new schemes Caroline has devised in my absence.”
“More mistletoe, I expect.”
“Almost certainly.”
She turned to face him, and something in her expression made Darcy's breath catch. She was looking at him without guardedness, without the sharp wit that usually armored her exchanges. Looking at him as though she were seeing him clearly for the first time.
“I am glad we happened upon each other, Mr. Darcy,” she said quietly. “It has been... unexpectedly pleasant.”
“The feeling is mutual, Miss Elizabeth.”
She dropped a curtsy, her smile soft and genuine. He bowed, more deeply than strictly necessary.
And then she was gone, walking back along the lane with her basket of holly, leaving Darcy standing alone in the winter woods with his heart pounding and his thoughts in disarray.
He watched her until she disappeared around a bend in the path.
He had witnessed her with Wickham and felt wounded. Then he had walked with her here and felt restored.
Darcy returned to Netherfield in a daze, barely noticing Caroline's pointed remarks about his extended absence or Bingley's cheerful chatter about tomorrow's excursion. He moved through the evening, his thoughts fixed on a frosted path and a woman with holly in her basket.
That night, he stood at his window, watching the moon rise over the frozen grounds, and allowed himself to admit what he had been fighting since the Netherfield ball.
He could see it now—how a man might fall in love with a woman like Miss Elizabeth Bennet. How her wit might sharpen from irritant to delight. How her fine eyes might become the only eyes worth seeking in a crowded room. How her laugh might lodge itself beneath one's breastbone and refuse to leave.
And he could see how mistletoe season, with all its dangers and opportunities, was going to ruin him completely.