Mr. Darcy frowned, studying the arrangement with what looked like genuine puzzlement. “I am sure Miss Bingley means well. She spoke yesterday of wanting everyone to feel welcomed.”
“How generous of her.” Elizabeth could not quite keep the dryness from her voice. “And the spray positioned directly above the entrance to the music room? Where you so often retreat to avoid company?”
He followed her gaze, and something flickered across his expression—doubt, perhaps, or the first stirrings of unease. “That does seem... coincidental.”
“Remarkably so.”
“Though I suppose—” He stopped, shaking his head slightly. “No. I am being uncharitable. She has been making efforts to be more agreeable.”
“Has she?” Elizabeth considered this. She had seen little evidence of Miss Bingley's warmth toward anyone bearing the Bennet name, but perhaps she was being unfair. People could change. “I hope you are right. Jane would be glad of a kind sister-in-law.”
“You do not sound entirely convinced.”
“I am... cautiously optimistic.” She offered a small smile. “It is only that Miss Bingley strikes me as someone who rarely does anything without purpose. But I could be wrong. Perhaps she has simply developed a passionate interest in festive shrubbery.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, quickly suppressed. “Festive shrubbery?”
“Parasitic, technically. But that sounds less charitable, and I am trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.”
His tone was dry. “You are too kind.”
She laughed before she could stop herself—a bright, surprised sound that drew Miss Bingley's sharp attention from across the room.
“Miss Elizabeth! You seem amused. Do share the jest.”
“Mr. Darcy was merely observing how... thoroughly you have embraced the new tradition,” Elizabeth said smoothly. “The greenery is quite comprehensive.”
Miss Bingley preened. “One must commit fully to fashion, or not at all.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, keeping her tone light. “Half-measures would be unthinkable.”
The morning progressed in a flurry of consultations and commands. Miss Bingley solicited Jane's opinion on ribbon colors with flattering deference, though she overruled every suggestion with cheerful condescension. Mrs. Hurst contributed occasional remarks from her settee. The servants continued their precarious work with ladders and greenery.
And Elizabeth found herself navigating the drawing room with unprecedented caution, eyeing every doorway for lurking sprigs of botanical peril.
Mr. Darcy, she noticed, was doing the same.
Their eyes met as they both paused at the threshold of an archway, each checking for mistletoe before proceeding. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“It appears we have developed similar instincts,” he said.
“Self-preservation tends to sharpen one's awareness.”
“You speak as though the mistletoe poses a genuine danger.”
“Does it not?” Elizabeth glanced toward Miss Bingley, who was supervising the placement of yet another spray with the intensity of a military strategist. “I have no doubt that by the time of the entertainment, one will not be able to cross this room without risk.”
“A sobering thought.”
“I intend to memorize the location of every sprig. I shall navigate by memory, like a ship avoiding rocks.”
“A sensible precaution. I may adopt the same strategy.”
“We could compare maps. Pool our intelligence.”
The words came out before Elizabeth could consider them, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. Mr. Darcy's expression flickered—surprise, and something warmer beneath it.
“That would be... agreeable,” he said quietly.
