Chapter 7 #2
Mr. Wickham's gaze found Mr. Darcy, and his smile took on an edge Elizabeth had not noticed before. “Darcy! What a pleasure. I did not expect to find you enjoying such rustic entertainments. I had assumed them beneath your dignity.”
The words were light, teasing, delivered with a laugh that invited everyone to share the joke.
Elizabeth did not laugh.
A week ago, she would have found the jab amusing—a well-deserved poke at Mr. Darcy's pride.
Now, watching Mr. Darcy's face go carefully blank, watching him master whatever emotion had flickered across his features, she felt only discomfort.
Something was wrong between these two men. Something deeper than mere dislike.
And she suspected Mr. Wickham's version of events might not be the complete truth.
“Perspectives change.” Mr. Darcy said quietly. His gaze flickered to Elizabeth before returning to Mr. Wickham with cold composure.
Mr. Wickham's smile faltered, just for an instant. Then he laughed again and turned his attention to Lydia, who was demanding to know whether the officers would attend the holiday entertainment.
The party moved on, now swelled by three additional members. Elizabeth walked in thoughtful silence, turning the exchange over in her mind.
Miss Bingley, meanwhile, had seized upon the distraction to resume her campaign.
“The arch is just ahead,” she announced, steering the group toward a structure Elizabeth had noticed earlier—a wooden frame draped with greenery and crowned, inevitably, with mistletoe. “Is it not romantic? Charles had it built especially for the occasion.”
“I did no such thing,” Mr. Bingley protested. “That arch has been there for years.”
“Nevertheless, it serves our purposes beautifully.” Miss Bingley positioned herself near the entrance, clearly calculating angles and trajectories. “We must all pass through. It is the only path forward.”
Elizabeth eyed the arch with deep suspicion.
Mr. Bingley and Jane approached first, arm in arm, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Mrs. Bennet held her breath so loudly it was audible from ten paces away.
They passed beneath the mistletoe.
Mrs. Bennet squealed in anticipation.
Jane blushed crimson. Mr. Bingley looked simultaneously terrified and hopeful.
And then a gust of wind swept through the clearing, shaking the branches overhead and sending a cascade of snow tumbling from the arch directly onto Jane's bonnet.
She stumbled with a startled cry. Mr. Bingley caught her instantly, his arms wrapping around her to steady her, his face a picture of concern.
“Miss Bennet! Are you hurt? That wretched snow—I should have—are you quite well?”
“I am fine,” Jane managed, brushing snow from her shoulders. “Merely startled.”
“You are certain? Your bonnet is quite—here, allow me—”
He reached up to brush snow from her ribbons, his expression so tender that Elizabeth felt almost guilty for watching.
“There,” Mr. Bingley said softly. “Perfect again.”
Jane's blush deepened. They stood frozen beneath the arch, gazing at each other, apparently having forgotten that anyone else existed.
Mrs. Bennet clutched Elizabeth's arm with bruising force. “Did you see that? He caught her! He held her in his arms! This is a sign—a clear sign—they shall be engaged by Christmas, mark my words!”
“Mama,” Elizabeth murmured. “Perhaps a bit quieter.”
“Quieter? When my daughter is moments from securing her future? I think not!”
Miss Bingley, meanwhile, looked as though she had bitten into something sour. Her carefully orchestrated moment had been ruined by weather, and now her brother was making a spectacle of himself over Jane Bennet while the entire party watched.
“How... touching,” she managed. “Charles, perhaps we should continue. The path awaits.”
Mr. Bingley and Jane moved on reluctantly, their hands somehow finding each other as they walked.
Elizabeth hung back, letting the others pass through the arch ahead of her. She had no intention of providing Miss Bingley with another opportunity.
But Miss Bingley was not so easily thwarted.
“Mr. Darcy!” Miss Bingley called, her voice carrying across the clearing. She positioned herself at the entrance to the arch, adjusting her bonnet with studied elegance. “Do come and escort me through. The path looks treacherous, and I should feel ever so much safer on your arm.”
Elizabeth saw her opportunity. While Miss Bingley's attention was fixed on claiming Mr. Darcy, she could slip through the arch unnoticed and avoid any botanical entanglements.
She moved quickly toward the opposite side of the structure, intending to pass through before anyone noticed.
She was not quick enough.
Mr. Darcy, apparently having the same instinct to escape while Miss Bingley was occupied, had approached from the other direction. They met directly beneath the arch, both freezing as they realized their miscalculation.
Mistletoe swayed gently overhead.
Miss Bingley's shriek of outrage echoed across the grove.
“What—how—” She stared at them with naked horror, her carefully laid plans crumbling before her eyes. “Mr. Darcy, I asked you to escort me!”
“I was merely—” Mr. Darcy began.
“We were both attempting to avoid—” Elizabeth started at the same moment.
They stopped, looked at each other, and Elizabeth felt an absurd urge to laugh.
Miss Bingley's face had gone the color of a thundercloud.
The rest of the party had noticed now. Mrs. Bennet was clutching Jane's arm with barely contained glee. Lydia was bouncing on her heels. Mr. Wickham watched with an expression Elizabeth could not interpret. Even Mrs. Hurst had roused from her habitual lethargy to observe.
“Well,” Mr. Bingley said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to his sister's distress. “Tradition is tradition! Cannot have bad luck following us into the new year.”
Elizabeth's cheeks burned. She glanced at Mr. Darcy and found him looking back at her, his expression caught somewhere between mortification and something else—something warmer that made her pulse flutter.
“We could simply step apart,” she offered, though her voice came out softer than intended. “Claim transitory occupation, as before.”
“We could.” He did not move.
Neither did she.
The moment stretched, fragile and charged. Elizabeth was acutely aware of every detail—the cold air, the gentle sway of the mistletoe, the way Mr. Darcy's dark eyes had fixed upon her face as though memorizing it.
“Perhaps,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “a compromise might satisfy tradition without causing undue... spectacle.”
Before Elizabeth could ask what he meant, he reached for her hand.
His fingers were warm even through her glove. He lifted her hand slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving hers. Elizabeth forgot to breathe.
He bowed his head and pressed his lips to her knuckles.
The kiss was brief. Feather-light. Perfectly proper.
And yet Elizabeth felt it through every nerve in her body.
When he straightened, his composure had slipped just enough for her to see the flush creeping up his neck, the slight unsteadiness in his breath. He was not unaffected. He was not merely performing for the crowd.
He had wanted to do that.
And heaven help her, she had wanted him to.
“There,” Mr. Darcy said, releasing her hand with visible reluctance. “Tradition satisfied.”
“Most... adequately,” Elizabeth managed.
They stood frozen for another heartbeat, the air between them thick with everything unsaid.
Miss Bingley looked ready to combust.
The walk continued.
Elizabeth found herself lingering at the back of the group, her thoughts churning. She could still feel the ghost of Mr. Darcy's lips against her knuckles. He had wanted to kiss her. She had seen it in his eyes, felt it in the tremor of his hand. And she—
She had wanted him to.
It meant nothing.
The warmth still tingling across her knuckles disagreed.
She was adjusting her shawl, having fallen several paces behind the others, when a quiet voice spoke beside her.
“Are you chilled, Miss Elizabeth?”
She looked up to find Mr. Darcy standing nearby, his expression uncertain, as though he was not entirely sure he should have spoken.
“Only a little,” she admitted. “The wind has a bite to it.”
He nodded slowly, seeming to struggle with something. “The path curves ahead, and there is a spot where the trees block the wind. If you wished to pause for a moment—that is, if you—” He stopped, looking frustrated with himself. “Forgive me. I am not skilled at—”
“At what?”
“Conversation. The easy sort that others manage without effort.” He met her eyes, and something in his expression made her breath catch. “I find myself wishing to speak with you, but the words do not come as they should.”
Elizabeth stared at him. It was, perhaps, the most honest thing he had ever said to her.
“You seem to be managing well enough at present,” she said softly.
“Do I?” A flicker of something that might have been hope crossed his face. “I confess I cannot tell. I am... not accustomed to uncertainty.”
“No, I imagine you are not.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the winter woods hushed around them. The rest of the party had moved ahead, their voices fading into the distance, leaving Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy alone among the frost-covered trees.
“Your mother seems well,” Mr. Darcy offered, clearly grasping for safe topics. “And your sisters.”
“They are, thank you. Mama is convinced Jane will be engaged by Christmas. She has been measuring the Netherfield windows for curtains.”
Mr. Darcy's lips twitched. “Has she indeed?”
“I exaggerate. But only slightly.”
“Your sister and Bingley do seem... well suited.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, surprised by the admission. “You think so? I feared you might have had reservations about the match.”
Something shifted in his expression. Was it discomfort, perhaps? Or regret? “Your sister's regard for Bingley appears genuine. And his happiness is evident to anyone with eyes.”
“That is... generous of you.”