Chapter 9 #2
They worked in careful silence, their hands moving around each other with awkward precision.
Elizabeth twisted the ribbon around the wire frame.
Mr. Darcy positioned the holly with surprising delicacy.
Their fingers brushed—once, twice—and each time through her gloves Elizabeth felt the contact like a spark.
Mr. Darcy's jaw tightened. His movements became more controlled, more careful, as though he were trying very hard not to feel too much.
Elizabeth understood entirely.
“You have steady hands,” she said, for something to say.
“Years of practice with estate ledgers.” He did not look at her. “You have an eye for arrangement.”
“The benefit of a limited household budget.”
She had not meant to say that, had not meant to expose even that small vulnerability. But Mr. Darcy merely nodded, as though her admission were perfectly natural.
“Resourcefulness is an admirable quality,” he said. “More valuable than a generous allowance, in my experience.”
Elizabeth looked at him then—really looked—and found no condescension in his expression. Only sincerity.
“That is not what I would have expected you to say.”
“No.” His gaze met hers, dark and warm. “I imagine not.”
The moment stretched. Elizabeth's heart beat too fast. The noise of the room faded to a distant hum.
Miss Bingley's voice shattered the spell.
“Time! Everyone must present their creations!”
Elizabeth blinked, suddenly aware that they had finished their decoration without her noticing. It sat on the table between them—elegant, understated, the holly and ribbon wound together in a simple spiral that was somehow more beautiful than the elaborate confections at other tables.
They had created it together. As though their hands knew what their minds could not admit.
Miss Bingley circled the room, examining each creation with the air of a judge at a livestock fair. When she reached Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy's table, her smile went rigid.
“How... charming,” she said. “If simple.”
“I think it is lovely,” Jane offered from nearby.
“Quite the most elegant thing here,” Mr. Bingley agreed, beaming at everyone indiscriminately.
Miss Bingley looked for a moment like she had chewed on a lemon, peel and all.
During the refreshment interval, Elizabeth drifted toward the punch bowl, hoping to collect her scattered thoughts.
She did not get one.
Mr. Wickham came to her side, his smile warm and familiar. “Miss Elizabeth. I have been hoping for a private word.”
Elizabeth accepted a cup of punch she did not want. “Of course.”
“I could not help noticing your pairing with Mr. Darcy.” His voice dropped, becoming confidential. “I hope he was not too disagreeable. He can be... difficult in such intimate settings.”
“He was perfectly civil.”
“Civil.” Mr. Wickham's laugh held an edge. “Yes, Darcy can manage civility when it suits him. But you must not be fooled, Miss Elizabeth. Beneath that polished exterior lies a man capable of great cruelty.”
Elizabeth said nothing.
Mr. Wickham continued, warming to his theme. “Did I tell you about the living he denied me? His father, the late Mr. Darcy, a truly excellent man, promised me a valuable church living. But when the elder Mr. Darcy died, his son refused to honor the promise. Cast me out without a penny.”
“You mentioned something of the sort before.”
“I cannot help dwelling on it. The injustice haunts me still.”
Elizabeth listened with growing unease.
The story was the same and yet not quite. Details shifted. Emphasis changed. The living had been “valuable” before; now it was “modest but sufficient.” The elder Mr. Darcy had “promised” the living; now he had “all but guaranteed” it.
These were the sort of embellishments a practiced liar might offer when telling the same tale too many times. Or when he thought the original was not having the desired impact.
Elizabeth glanced across the room. Mr. Darcy stood near the fireplace, speaking with Jane and Mr. Bingley. His expression was calm—too calm, she now recognized—but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful control he maintained.
Mr. Wickham followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed. “Darcy does put on a fine show, does he not?” Mr. Wickham's voice had gone cold. “The noble gentleman, above reproach. But I know what he truly is.”
“And what is that?” Elizabeth asked.
Mr. Wickham’s expression grew suddenly grave. “I would not trouble you with the specifics. Not here. Not now.”
Not ever, she suspected. If Mr. Wickham had been so horribly wronged, why not simply state the problem instead of making insinuations?
But if there was nothing to it, why did Mr. Darcy endure Mr. Wickham's barbs in silence? The gentlemen clearly despised each other.
And Elizabeth did not like being stuck in the center of it.
“You must excuse me,” Elizabeth said abruptly. “I see my mother requires assistance.”
She left Mr. Wickham mid-sentence and did not look back.
Elizabeth found a quiet alcove near the back of the room—a small space half-hidden by a decorative screen. She pressed her back against the wall and closed her eyes, willing her racing heart to slow.
Footsteps approached. She opened her eyes to find Mr. Darcy stepping around the screen, his expression startled.
“Miss Elizabeth! I did not—forgive me, I did not realize—”
“You are not the only one seeking refuge, it seems.”
He paused, uncertainty flickering across his features. “I can leave, if you wish.”
“No.” The word came out too quickly. “That is—you need not leave on my account.”
They stood in awkward silence, the noise of the party muffled by the screen. Elizabeth was acutely aware of how close he stood, how the candlelight caught the sharp lines of his jaw, how his presence seemed to fill the small space entirely.
“I wished to thank you,” she said finally. “For your kindness at Longbourn. With the mistletoe.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing. You have been... remarkably protective. Of me, and of my family. I confess I do not entirely understand why.”
Something shifted in his expression. The careful neutrality softened into something more vulnerable.
“Do you not?”
Elizabeth's breath caught. “I... am beginning to form a suspicion.”
“And does that suspicion alarm you?”
The question hung between them, weighted with meaning she was not ready to examine.
“No,” she whispered. “I do not think it does.”
Mr. Darcy's eyes darkened. He took a half-step closer—then stopped, visibly restraining himself.
“Miss Elizabeth, there is much I wish to say. Much I cannot say. About—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “About certain persons. Certain situations. I regret that I cannot speak openly, but I hope you will believe me when I tell you that Mr. Wickham is not a man to be trusted.”
“You have said that before.”
“Because it is true. I cannot prove it—not without exposing matters that must remain private—but I beg you to be cautious. He is not what he appears.”
Elizabeth studied his face, searching for deception and finding none. Only earnestness. Only concern. Only a desperate hope that she might believe him.
“I have suspected as much,” she said quietly.
Relief flooded his features. “You have?”
“His stories... shift. His charm feels calculated. And you have given me no reason to doubt your forthrightness, while he has given me several to doubt his.”
“Miss Elizabeth—” His voice broke on her name. He looked at her as though she had given him something precious, something he had not dared to hope for.
The moment stretched between them, warm and fragile and full of possibility.
“Mr. Darcy!” Miss Bingley's voice rang out, sharp with irritation. “There you are! I require your assistance with arranging partners for the next game. Come at once!”
Mr. Darcy closed his eyes briefly—a man summoning patience—before stepping back.
“Duty calls,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Unfortunately.” He held her gaze for one more moment. “We will speak again. Soon.”
“I should like that.”
He bowed and was gone, leaving Elizabeth alone in the alcove with her heart pounding and her thoughts in beautiful disarray.
The evening continued with Blind Man's Buff.
Miss Bingley had resisted the suggestion—”a children's game,” she had called it, her lip curling—but Mr. Bingley had insisted, and Lydia had shrieked with enthusiasm until resistance became futile.
The furniture was pushed back to clear a space in the center of the drawing room, and a silk scarf was produced for blindfolding.
Lydia, naturally, volunteered to be blindfolded first.
“You must spin her three times,” Mr. Bingley instructed cheerfully, “and then she must catch one of us. Whoever she catches takes the blindfold next.”
Miss Bingley positioned herself as far from the game as possible while still technically participating.
Mrs. Hurst stood near the doorway, ready to flee.
Mr. Darcy had retreated to the periphery, his expression suggesting he would rather face a firing squad than be caught by a blindfolded Lydia Bennet.
Elizabeth watched with growing apprehension as Lydia was spun, released, and sent stumbling across the room with arms outstretched.
“I shall catch Mr. Wickham!” Lydia declared, lurching toward where she had last heard his voice. “He cannot escape me!”
Mr. Wickham, laughing, had already moved. Lydia's hands closed on empty air.
She changed direction, giggling wildly, her steps increasingly erratic. Guests scattered before her advance. Kitty shrieked encouragement. Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands with delight.
And then Lydia veered sharply left—directly toward the decorative table bearing Miss Bingley's prized candelabra.
“Lydia, mind the—” Elizabeth started.
Too late.
Lydia collided with the table at full tilt. Candles toppled. Crystal rattled. The candelabra wobbled, teetered, and sent one lit taper rolling toward the draperies, its flame guttering but not extinguished.
A collective gasp rose from the assembled guests.
A servant lunged and caught the candle before disaster could strike, but the damage was done. Lydia stood frozen, the blindfold pushed up on her forehead, her face pale with shock, while every eye in the room fixed upon her.
Mr. Wickham laughed.
The sound was too loud, too pointed—clearly meant to emphasize Lydia's humiliation rather than ease it. Several guests tittered nervously. Mrs. Bennet looked ready to faint.
And then Miss Bingley struck.
“What a display!” Her voice dripped with venom disguised as concern. “Miss Lydia, you might have set the entire house ablaze. Have you no sense of propriety? No awareness of your surroundings? I have never witnessed such—”
“Miss Lydia is unhurt.”
Mr. Darcy's voice cut through the room like a blade.
Everyone fell silent.
He had not raised his voice, precisely, but something in his tone commanded attention. He stood near the fireplace, his expression hard, his gaze fixed on Miss Bingley with unmistakable warning.
“That is all that matters,” he continued. “The candle was caught. No harm was done. Perhaps we might resume the evening's entertainment without further commentary.”
Miss Bingley's mouth opened. Closed. Her face flushed an ugly red.
Mr. Wickham's smile had vanished entirely.
And Elizabeth—Elizabeth stared at Mr. Darcy with something that felt dangerously close to awe.
He had defended Lydia. Her wild, thoughtless, embarrassing youngest sister. He had spoken sharply to his hostess—his friend's sister—to spare a Bennet girl from humiliation.
Why?
She knew why.
The realization settled over her like a warm cloak, terrifying and wonderful in equal measure.
He cared for her. He cared enough to protect even the family members he must find insufferable. He had risked Miss Bingley's displeasure, society's gossip, his own comfort, for her.
And heaven help her, she cared too. For him.
Mrs. Bennet, oblivious to the undercurrents, seized upon Mr. Darcy's intervention with characteristic enthusiasm.
“What a fine gentleman Mr. Darcy is! So noble! So protective! Lizzy, did you see? He defended our Lydia! Ten thousand a year and a kind heart—truly the finest man in England!”
“Mama!” Elizabeth murmured, mortified.
“Such gallantry demands recognition!”
Mr. Darcy's expression suggested he wished to be swallowed by the floor.
Elizabeth caught his eye across the room and offered a small, sympathetic smile.
He returned it with the slightest lift of his lips. And understanding passed between them. Some amusement. The beginning of a shared language that needed no words.
The entertainment wound toward its conclusion.
Elizabeth moved through the remaining hours in a daze, her thoughts consumed by everything she had witnessed. Mr. Wickham's falsehoods cracking under scrutiny. Mr. Darcy's quiet protection. The moment in the alcove when he had looked at her as though she were the only person in the world.
Mr. Darcy was not the man she had thought him. He was better. Kinder. More vulnerable than his proud exterior suggested. He had been wronged by Mr. Wickham—she was certain of it now—and had borne the slander in silence rather than expose whatever secret kept him bound.
And he looked at her with a warmth that made her chest ache.
The carriage ride home was a blur of Mrs. Bennet's raptures and Lydia's complaints and Jane's quiet happiness. Elizabeth sat in silence, watching the darkness stream past, replaying every moment of the evening.
Mr. Darcy's hands beside hers, creating something beautiful.
Mr. Darcy's voice, quiet and earnest: I hope you will believe me.
Mr. Darcy's eyes, dark and warm, holding hers across a crowded room as though she were the only bright thing in it.
There was no denying it now. The proud, disagreeable man she had dismissed had become something else entirely—someone she respected, someone she trusted, someone who made her heart race in ways she had not expected.
She was falling for Mr. Darcy.
The realization should have alarmed her. Should have sent her retreating behind walls of wit and skepticism.
Instead, she found herself smiling.