Chapter 7
THE WINTER OUTING
Elizabeth felt lighter the morning of the winter outing than she ought. She blamed the bright December sun glittering off the frost and the prospect of a pleasant walk through Netherfield's grounds with agreeable company.
It had nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Darcy.
Nothing to do with their accidental alliance beneath the mistletoe, or their shared laughter over Miss Bingley's botanical warfare, or the way he had looked at her when she declared tradition could go hang—startled and amused and something else she refused to examine.
Nothing at all.
Jane had chosen her warmest pelisse and her prettiest bonnet, a combination that suggested she anticipated both cold weather and Mr. Bingley's admiring gaze.
“You look lovely,” Elizabeth said.
“Do I?” Jane smoothed her skirts with unnecessary care. “I was not certain about the ribbon. Mama suggested blue, but I thought perhaps—”
“The ribbon is perfect. Mr. Bingley will be struck speechless.”
“Lizzy.” Jane's blush deepened. “You make it sound as though I dressed for his benefit.”
“Did you not?”
Jane opened her mouth, closed it, and finally smiled. “Perhaps a little.”
Mrs. Bennet's voice echoed up the staircase before Elizabeth could reply, issuing a steady stream of instructions that grew louder as they descended.
“—and Lydia, you must not throw snow at gentlemen, no matter how amusing you find it. Kitty, stand up straight.” Spotting her two eldest daughters, Mrs. Bennet turned her attention to the pair.
“Jane, you look radiant—Mr. Bingley will propose before the week is out, I am certain of it. Lizzy—” Mrs. Bennet paused, surveying Elizabeth's practical walking dress with evident disappointment.
“Could you not have worn something with more lace?”
“I intend to walk, Mama, not pose for a portrait.”
“One can do both. I managed it perfectly well in my youth.”
“I do not doubt it.”
Mrs. Bennet huffed but was too distracted by her own preparations to pursue the matter. She had insisted on accompanying them despite the cold, unwilling to miss any development in Jane's courtship—or, Elizabeth suspected, any opportunity to remind Mr. Bingley of his matrimonial obligations.
Mary alone remained at Longbourn, having declared that winter walks invited respiratory complaints and moral hazard in equal measure.
“She would only lecture us about the dangers of frozen ground,” Lydia said cheerfully as they climbed into the carriage. “I am glad she stayed behind.”
“Lydia,” Jane murmured.
“What? It is true. She would have quoted Fordyce at every turning. 'Beware the icy path, for it leads to perdition.' Or something equally dreary.”
Elizabeth bit her lip to contain her smile. The carriage lurched into motion, and she turned her gaze to the frost-covered hedgerows, trying not to think about what—or whom—awaited them at Netherfield.
She failed.
The great house came into view far too quickly, and Elizabeth's traitorous pulse began to quicken. She told herself it was anticipation of the walk. The fresh air. The exercise.
It was not Mr. Darcy.
It was absolutely, definitely, and most assuredly not Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Bingley met them at the door, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. He was dressed for walking, his cheeks already ruddy with excitement, his smile so wide it threatened to split his face.
“You have come! Excellent, excellent. The weather is perfect! Cold but clear, not a cloud in sight. And the path through the grove is quite passable. I walked it myself this morning to be certain.”
“You walked it yourself?” Jane asked, her eyes soft.
“I wanted to ensure your comfort. That is—everyone's comfort. The comfort of all our guests.” He cleared his throat, ears reddening. “Shall we?”
He offered Jane his arm with the solemnity of a knight escorting his lady to a tournament. Jane accepted with quiet grace, and the two of them moved toward the garden doors, already lost in murmured conversation.
Elizabeth watched them go with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the entrance hall.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She turned. Mr. Darcy stood a few paces away, immaculately dressed for walking, his expression carefully neutral. But something flickered in his dark eyes when they met hers.
“Mr. Darcy.” She dropped a curtsy. “I trust you have recovered from yesterday's botanical peril.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I have developed a heightened awareness of overhead vegetation. It is a burden I shall carry always.”
“A tragic affliction. You have my sympathies.”
“They are appreciated.”
They regarded each other for a moment, a beat too long for mere acquaintances, a beat too short for Elizabeth to understand what it meant.
Caroline's voice shattered the silence.
“Mr. Darcy! There you are. I have been searching everywhere.” She swept toward them in a dramatic winter ensemble: fur-trimmed pelisse, matching muff, bonnet adorned with enough ribbon to rig a small ship.
“We must discuss the route. Charles and I have made the improvements to Charles's plan.” Caroline’s smile held secrets Elizabeth suspected she would not enjoy discovering. “Shall we?”
She claimed Mr. Darcy's arm before he could object, steering him toward the garden doors with proprietary determination. He glanced back at Elizabeth before disappearing outside.
Elizabeth followed at a safe distance, her suspicions mounting.
She understood Caroline's “improvements” the moment she stepped onto the garden path.
Garlands hung from every available surface—holly and ivy twisted with red ribbon, draped across bare branches, wound around fence posts, festooned from a decorative arch that had almost certainly not existed yesterday. The effect was festive, elaborate, and slightly unhinged.
And there, swaying gently in the winter breeze, were sprigs of mistletoe.
Everywhere.
Hanging from branches. Tucked into garlands. Suspended from the decorative arch. Dotted along the path at intervals so regular they might have been measured with a ruler.
Elizabeth stopped walking and simply stared.
The walking party assembled in the garden: Mr. Bingley and Jane at the front, already absorbed in each other; Mrs. Bennet close behind, offering loud commentary on everything from the weather to the excellence of Mr. Bingley's coat; Lydia and Kitty bouncing with restless energy, scanning the horizon as though officers might materialize from the shrubbery; Mrs. Hurst trailing with an expression of martyred endurance; and Miss Bingley hovering near Mr. Darcy with the determination of a hawk circling its prey.
Mr. Darcy himself lingered at the rear of the group, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. He looked, Elizabeth thought, like a man bracing for battle.
She knew the feeling.
The walk began pleasantly enough. The path wound through a small wood, the bare branches overhead forming a lacework of shadow and light. Frost glittered on every surface. The air was sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and cold earth.
Elizabeth fell into step beside Jane and Mr. Bingley, content to listen to their gentle conversation and admire the winter landscape.
But she found her attention wandering, backward, to where Mr. Darcy walked in solitary silence, and sideways, to where Miss Bingley orchestrated the group's movements with increasingly transparent intent.
“Oh, look!” Miss Bingley exclaimed as they approached a particularly laden branch. “How charming. Mr. Darcy, do come and see.”
Mr. Darcy did not come and see. He took a deliberate step to the left, placing himself well outside the mistletoe's range.
Miss Bingley's eye twitched.
Elizabeth hid her smile behind her gloved hand.
The pattern repeated itself as they continued along the path.
Miss Bingley would identify a strategically placed sprig; Mr. Darcy would find some reason to be elsewhere; Miss Bingley's expression would tighten with frustration.
It was, Elizabeth reflected, rather like watching a very determined cat repeatedly fail to catch a very cautious bird.
They had reached a scenic corner of the grove—a small clearing where the path widened and a fallen log provided seating for weary walkers—when voices carried through the trees. Male voices, unfamiliar, accompanied by the crunch of boots on frozen ground.
Elizabeth turned as three figures emerged from a side path: two officers she did not recognize, and one she knew all too well.
Mr. Wickham.
He was smiling, of course—that easy, charming smile that had seemed so appealing when they first met. He wore his uniform with casual elegance, his bearing relaxed, his manner warm as he greeted the party.
“What a delightful surprise!” he exclaimed. “We were merely taking our constitutional when we heard voices. I had no idea Netherfield was hosting an excursion.”
“Mr. Wickham!” Mrs. Bennet's voice rose with enthusiasm. “How wonderful! Girls, look—it is Mr. Wickham and his friends. Come, come, you must join us!”
Lydia squealed and rushed forward. Kitty followed close behind, both of them fluttering around the officers like moths around a flame.
Miss Bingley's expression soured, though she masked it quickly with a smile that did not reach her eyes. Mrs. Hurst looked as though she had swallowed something unpleasant.
Elizabeth offered Mr. Wickham a polite greeting, but something felt different.
His smile seemed a bit too smooth, his warmth a touch too practiced. Where once she had found his easy manners refreshing, now they struck her as... calculated.
And then she became aware of Mr. Darcy.
His posture had gone rigid, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides. The carefully neutral expression he had worn all morning had vanished, replaced by something cold and hard and dangerous.