Elizabeth wanted to pick up the nearest vase and throw it at Miss Bingley’s head. Horrible woman. Mr. Darcy could not properly turn down such an agreeably framed request, and though his expression hardened, he dutifully turned away and stepped to the pianoforte as Charles came to sit next to Jane.
Now that Jane’s attention was all for her husband, Elizabeth was free to observe the pair at the pianoforte. Miss Bingley nodded at the bench, but Mr. Darcy pulled a chair up to the instrument and sat in that instead, using the length of his arms to turn the pages at the exact moment it was required for Miss Bingley to continue seamlessly through the music. Elizabeth thought he must have performed the office regularly for his sister.
When the Clementi ended, Miss Bingley immediately began a piece by Pleyel, giving Mr. Darcy no chance to take his leave. Elizabeth gritted her teeth. Several sonatas followed until Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She stood and announced she was retiring.
Mr. Darcy’s glower was, she trusted, meant for Miss Bingley rather than her. The pleasure that suffused Miss Bingley’s countenance was worse than her manipulations had been, but Elizabeth was certain that she would be able find Mr. Darcy alone somehow. If Miss Bingley was anywhere near eitherof them, they would never be able to have a moment’s conversation.
She bid the others a good night and tried to offer Mr. Darcy a hopeful smile. He blinked but remained stoic, and Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. With a little sigh, she left them all for her chambers, where she was sure she would not sleep.
Darcy had slept heavily but awoken early. He stared up at the canopy over his bed for a time trying to return to sleep, but it was no use lying in bed when his mind was not at peace. He heaved himself up, dressed, only calling for Scripps when he could not tie his cravat properly, and then went in search of some coffee. Fortunately, Scripps was as efficient as ever, for Darcy’s request preceded him; the cook had already sent coffee to the breakfast room for him though the meal itself was not yet prepared. Darcy gulped down two piping hot cups in blissful silence.
Thus fortified, he donned his outwear and headed out into the snow to check on his horses. Although he now had no intention of leaving Netherfield until he had been able to speak with Elizabeth, Darcy wished to make certain his horses were all healthy, shoed, and otherwise prepared to make the journey north—it was always wise to be prepared for all contingencies. He had certainly learned that much over the past year.
Anders was cleaning the coach when he arrived.
“Good morning, sir,” he said, doffing his hat.
“Good morning, Anders. How are the horses?”
“Well, sir. Horatio is shoed, and Calliope is healed.” His brows pinched together. “Were you thinking of leaving soon?”
“We cannot,” Darcy said. “Have you not heard about the illness in the house?”
Anders scratched his head. “I’ve been staying out here in the room above the stables so as to be close to the horses. Not heard much about the goings-on up at the house.”
Darcy nodded. The world around Anders ceased to exist when his horses were hurt or sick. “No matter. We cannot leave for a time. I only wish to be certain the horses are able to travel when we are.”
Anders nodded, a picture of relief. Something was definitely amiss, but Darcy knew if there was something that required his attention, Anders would tell him. He had enough of his own troubles to sort through without asking for more. So Darcy simply wished his coachman a good day and headed back towards the house, his boots making a crunching sound in the snow as he walked.
He changed course when he reached the gardener’s shed at the top of the path to the pond, for he was not yet ready to return indoors. The air was cold, but it was clear and sweet, a refreshing change from Miss Bingley’s company. The way she had run Miss Elizabeth off last night made him angry, and he needed to be in control of himself before he met her today.
He had only taken a few steps where the path entered a copse of trees when something struck his hat and dashed it from his head. Darcy narrowed his eyes when he spied the remainder of a snowball splattered against the felt. He snatched the hat up and whirled around only to receive another snowball directly in the chest.
Darcy ducked into the trees across from the direction of the latest hit and began scooping up snow and forming it with his hands. He was methodical and strategic, warily eyeing the treeline on the other side of the path until a bonneted head poked out to look for him.
He smiled widely. Darcy knew that bonnet. He reached back to grasp a snowball from the top of his hastily stacked pile and let itfly. It exploded against the tree Elizabeth was using as a shield, and she shrieked and ducked back behind it, laughing.
A silence descended for a time. After a few minutes, Darcy warily glanced around the tree. Another snowball landed nearby, missing him entirely, but offering important intelligence, as it had been launched from a different location.
Elizabeth was on the move.
Darcy grabbed up two snowballs, one in each hand, and crushed the others. No reason to leave ready-made ammunition behind with an enemy as sneaky as this one. He judged the angle of that last throw and moved stealthily through the trees until he was closer to the pond than she was—provided she had not moved again, that is.
Luck was on his side—he spied her cloak through the trees. She was turned away from the pond, expecting him to launch his assault from his previous position. It was almost too easy. He threw one snowball, then the other, hitting her twice in the back.
Elizabeth screeched again, laughing even louder as she leapt out into the open and gathered more snow. She rolled one, making it much larger than the others had been.
“Oh no,” he warned her, a smile playing on his lips. “You are justly served. Do not even think about it.”
“Very well,” she said agreeably.
Too agreeably. For she very quickly made and threw another snowball at him, this one hitting his stomach. He looked down at his coat. “You really are quite short.”
She fired again. “I am not!” she shouted, quite against the prevailing evidence, he thought, for this one only struck him in the leg.
Elizabeth must have seen it too, for she bent over at the waist and laughed merrily. “I am not so very short,” she informed him between wheezes. “It is only that you are so very tall.”
“Guilty,” he confessed, charmed by her reddened cheeks and bright eyes. He took a step towards her. “Miss Elizabeth . . .”
