Chapter 9
THE HOLIDAY ENTERTAINMENT
Elizabeth woke on the morning of the holiday entertainment with a riot of emotions she could not untangle.
Anticipation. Reluctance. Curiosity. And something warmer, something that fluttered beneath her ribs whenever she thought of dark eyes and quiet protection and a voice saying you deserve better than to be made a spectacle.
She thought of Mr. Darcy far more than she thought of Mr. Wickham now.
This unsettled her deeply.
A fortnight ago, she had been certain of her judgments. Mr. Darcy was proud, disagreeable, convinced of his own superiority. Mr. Wickham was charming, wronged, deserving of sympathy. The lines had been clear, the conclusions obvious.
Now everything was muddled.
Mr. Darcy kept stepping between her and danger—mistletoe, embarrassment, spectacle. He looked at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. He struggled to find words and then found exactly the right ones.
And Mr. Wickham... Mr. Wickham smiled too easily. Spoke too smoothly. Adjusted his stories in ways she had only recently begun to notice.
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her face and tried to compose herself.
Tonight would clarify everything. It had to.
Mrs. Bennet's voice echoed through Longbourn like a trumpet.
“Jane! Your ribbons are crooked. Lizzy, stand up straight—you are slouching like a scullery maid. Lydia, if you mention officers one more time before we arrive, I shall leave you at home. Kitty, stop giggling. Mary, must you bring that book?”
Mary clutched her volume of Fordyce like a shield. “One never knows when moral guidance may be required.”
“Moral guidance will not catch you a husband.”
“I do not wish to catch a husband. I wish to improve my mind.”
“Your mind will not keep you warm when your father dies and we are all thrown into the hedgerows!”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, half sympathy, half resignation. Some things never changed.
The carriage ride to Netherfield was a blur of Mrs. Bennet's instructions, Lydia's complaints about the cold, and Kitty's endless speculation about which officers might attend. Elizabeth sat in silence, watching the frost-covered hedgerows slide past, her thoughts already at the great house.
Already with him.
She told herself she was eager to see Jane happy. To watch Mr. Bingley's devotion bloom into something permanent. To enjoy the music and the dancing and the festive atmosphere.
It was partly true.
But when the carriage swept up the Netherfield drive, and the house came into view—glowing with candlelight, garlands draped across every window—Elizabeth's pulse quickened for reasons that had nothing to do with her sister's courtship.
The transformation was breathtaking.
Evergreen garlands arched across the entryway, thick with holly and ivy and clusters of red berries.
Candles blazed from every surface, their light warm and golden against the December darkness.
Ribbons wound through banisters, around doorframes, across mantels.
The air smelled of pine and cinnamon and wood smoke.
And there, hung with strategic precision throughout the entrance hall, were the inevitable sprigs of mistletoe.
Elizabeth counted five before she had taken three steps.
Miss Bingley swept forward to greet them, resplendent in silk the color of winter roses, her smile bright and brittle as spun glass.
“The Bennets! How delighted we are to have you.” She took Elizabeth's hand and gave it an overly sweet squeeze. “So pleased you still wished to attend, Miss Elizabeth. After all the... confusion of the season.”
“I would not have missed it for the world,” Elizabeth replied pleasantly. “You have outdone yourself, Miss Bingley. The decorations are magnificent.”
Miss Bingley preened. “One does try to maintain standards.”
Mrs. Bennet was already exclaiming over the garlands, the candles, the obvious expense of every arrangement.
Lydia had spotted a cluster of officers near the refreshment table and was tugging Kitty in that direction.
Mary stood stiffly, clutching Fordyce, looking as though she expected the festivities to corrupt her morals at any moment.
And Mr. Darcy—
Elizabeth's breath caught.
He stood near the foot of the stairs, tall and immaculate in dark evening clothes, his expression carefully neutral. But when his gaze found hers across the crowded hall, something flickered in its depths—recognition, warmth, and an intensity that made her pulse stutter.
He bowed, the movement precise and formal.
Elizabeth curtsied, her cheeks warming.
Neither looked away quite as quickly as they should have.
Mr. Bingley appeared at Jane's side as though magnetized, his face alight with joy. “Miss Bennet! You have come. I was—that is—I had hoped—” He stopped, ears reddening, and simply beamed at her. “You look lovely.”
Jane's blush was answer enough.
Mrs. Hurst drifted past with a languid greeting. Various neighbors Elizabeth recognized from church and assemblies filled the drawing room, their voices rising and falling in festive chatter. The quartet Mr. Bingley had engaged from London played softly in one corner.
It was, by any measure, a triumph of holiday hospitality.
And Miss Bingley was about to ruin it with parlor games.
“Attention, everyone!” Miss Bingley clapped her hands, her voice cutting through the conversation like a blade. “We shall begin the evening's entertainments with some structured amusements. Nothing too strenuous—merely some festive diversions to warm our spirits before dancing.”
Elizabeth felt a prickle of foreboding.
Miss Bingley began arranging the guests with the determination of a general positioning troops.
She placed Mr. Wickham directly beside Elizabeth.
She positioned Mr. Darcy opposite, with two young ladies Elizabeth did not recognize flanking him like sentries.
She attempted to separate Jane and Mr. Bingley to opposite sides of the room, a maneuver that failed when Mr. Bingley simply moved his chair to follow Jane.
Miss Bingley's eye twitched.
“We shall begin with a memory game,” she announced. “Each guest will recite a holiday verse or rhyme in turn. Those who forget their lines must pay a forfeit.”
The game commenced with awkward enthusiasm.
Various guests offered nursery rhymes, snatches of carols, fragments of poetry both sacred and secular.
Mrs. Bennet recited something about Christmas pudding that made Mary wince.
Lydia forgot her verse entirely and was made to surrender a ribbon as forfeit, which she did with theatrical dismay.
Elizabeth was acutely aware of Mr. Wickham beside her.
He leaned close, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “What a charming gathering. Though I confess I find these country amusements rather simpler than those I enjoyed in Derbyshire. Mr. Darcy's family hosted the most elegant entertainments—before I was cast out of their circle, of course.”
A fortnight ago, she would have offered sympathy. Would have encouraged him to continue. Would have drunk in every word of his grievances against Mr. Darcy.
Now she merely nodded politely and watched Mr. Darcy across the circle.
He was looking at Mr. Wickham.
His expression was carefully controlled—that neutral mask Elizabeth had once mistaken for arrogance. But beneath it, she saw something else. Something that looked like restraint held by the thinnest of threads. Something that looked almost like hatred.
What happened between these men?
The question burned in her mind.
Mr. Wickham performed his verse flawlessly—something witty and charming that made Lydia giggle and several other ladies smile.
When her turn came, she rose and began her recitation—a simple verse about winter roses her father had taught her as a child. Halfway through, she made the mistake of glancing at Mr. Darcy.
He was watching her with an intensity that stole the words from her throat.
She stumbled. Recovered. Finished the verse with cheeks flaming.
Mr. Wickham leaned close again. “Nerves, Miss Elizabeth? How unlike you.”
“The room is warm,” she said. “Nothing more.”
But she did not meet his eyes.
Miss Bingley, clearly dissatisfied with the game's failure to produce drama, announced a second entertainment.
“We shall now have a pairing challenge! Guests will draw ribbons from this bowl, and those who draw matching colors will work together to create a holiday decoration.” She held up the bowl with triumphant satisfaction. “The materials are provided. The best creation wins a prize.”
Elizabeth watched guests approach the bowl, drawing ribbons of various hues—red, green, gold, silver. Jane drew green; Mr. Bingley, with suspicious speed, drew the matching shade. Mrs. Bennet drew red and was paired with Sir William Lucas, who looked alarmed but resigned.
Elizabeth reached into the bowl and withdrew her ribbon.
Deep blue.
She looked up and found Mr. Darcy holding an identical color.
Miss Bingley went pale. Mr. Wickham's expression flickered with something dark.
“Well,” Miss Bingley said, her voice strained. “How... unexpected. Miss Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy, your materials are at the table by the window.”
Elizabeth crossed the room on unsteady legs. Mr. Darcy fell into step beside her, his presence a warmth she felt without touching.
“It appears fate has conspired against Miss Bingley's arrangements,” he said quietly.
“Fate, or a very poorly shuffled bowl.”
“You suspect foul play?”
“I suspect nothing. I merely observe that Miss Bingley's expression suggests she did not intend this outcome.”
“No.” Something that might have been amusement flickered in his eyes. “I do not believe she did.”
They reached their table. The materials were modest—a sprig of holly, lengths of ribbon, a strip of parchment inked with a festive phrase, a small wire frame. Elizabeth studied them, grateful for something to focus on besides the man standing far too close.
“Shall we?” Mr. Darcy asked.