“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Bingley, Miss Bennet, but Miss Bingley was asking about Mr. Darcy’s whereabouts this morning—and yours too, Miss Bennet. She was out of doors in search of you both, I imagine. Maybe she planned to toss herself in the pond too, so Mr. Darcy would have to carryherinside.”
“You realize, of course, that you have Mr. Darcy concerned about you again?”
“He really is too serious,” Elizabeth said. “He shall go grey by the time he is thirty.” She pulled the shawl around her shoulders. It was a favourite of hers, another gift from her aunt who knew all about Elizabeth’s fondness for wintery strolls. “I suppose I shall have to make an appearance at breakfast to assuage his fears.”
“I think that would be best. Are you warm enough?”
“Yes, dear sister of mine, I am quite warm.”
The exercise in the cold air had done Elizabeth good, but she wished she had stopped to speak with Mr. Darcybeforegiving into the temptation to knock his hat from his head. But who could have predicted that Miss Bingley, of all people, would suddenly decide to take a walk in the snow?
Darcy heard Mrs. Bingley and Elizabeth chatting pleasantly as they approached the breakfast room, and he stood as they stepped inside.
“Thank you for our battle royale, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her fine eyes sparkling with unrepressed mirth. “It was the most fun I have had since—”
“Last winter,” Jane finished for her. “When you ambushed Lydia.”
Elizabeth’s cheer faltered for a moment, but she regained her composure. “I knew Lydia would not cry or be angry with me,” she said, glancing over at Miss Bingley, who pretended not to notice.
“No,” Mrs. Bingley said with a smile. “She just fought back.”
“I had to be careful, though,” Elizabeth said, glancing at Miss Bingley. “Because even more than winning, Lydia loves revenge.”
Miss Bingley covered her uneasiness by lifting her chin a little higher. “Revenge is beneath a true lady.”
“Ah, there are no ladies when it comes to snow battles,” Elizabeth replied smoothly. “You should know, since you must have pilfered that pail from somewhere.”
“Thank you, Charles,” Mrs. Bingley said as Bingley set her plate down before her.
Bingley just smiled at his wife and sat down.
“I found that bucket, I will have you know,” Miss Bingley said to Elizabeth, just as disdainful as ever. “It was left next to the shed on the path.”
“Oh, the raspberry jam, Jane, thank you!” Elizabeth exclaimed, completely ignoring Miss Bingley.
Clearly, Elizabeth was no worse for wear despite having an entire bucket of snow dumped over her head. Of course not. She was no dainty flower of the ton. And her mention of revenge had not been lost on Miss Bingley, either.
Darcy tucked into his meal with vigour.
“Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley said when she had finished her tea and toast, “I intend to play again today. Would you mind performing the office of turning my pages? You read music whereas alas, my brother does not.”
Before he could think of a way to decline, Elizabeth piped up. “I read music,” she said innocently. “I would be happy to turn your pages for you, Miss Bingley.”
“I would not wish to inconvenience you,” Miss Bingley replied, a little too sharply. “I am certain Mr. Darcy does not mind. We are old friends, you see.”
Both women looked at him, Miss Bingley with expectation and Elizabeth with humour.
“I have letters to write, Miss Bingley,” he said at last. “They will likely take until dinner to complete. You will forgive me.”
“Of course,” Miss Bingley said tightly. “Perhaps after dinner, then.”
“Perhaps,” he said, touching his napkin to his mouth and placing it on the table as he stood. He met Elizabeth’s eye with regret. “Good morning.”
As he mounted the steps, he cursed himself for coming up with an excuse that would remove him from everyone’s company, including Elizabeth’s, until dinner. If he showed himself before then, Miss Bingley would force him to remain by her side—he had no doubt she would loiter near the staircase in order to have early intelligence of all movements in the guest wing.
It was time to change for dinner when he finally thought of a way around the clinging Miss Bingley. He walked to the wardrobe and tossed open the doors. All his clothing had finally been returned—it was a lucky thing that the last missing pieces of his clothing had reappeared in the wardrobe the night before—but he was looking for one piece in particular. His greatcoat.
If Miss Bingley would not allow him to speak to Elizabeth, he would allow his letter to speak for him. He reached into the inner pocket, but it was empty.
