He was still brooding when Bingley found him an hour later, bursting with enthusiasm about the winter excursion.
“We shall set out tomorrow, I think—if the weather holds. Miss Bennet mentioned she enjoys walking, and I thought perhaps the path along the river would be pleasant. Not too strenuous, but scenic. What do you think?”
“I think you are determined to freeze the entire neighborhood for your own romantic purposes.”
Bingley laughed. “You are in a dark mood today. What has happened?”
“Nothing.” Everything. Wickham happened. Miss Elizabeth's smile happened. His own pathetic helplessness happened.
“You look as though you have lost your best friend.”
“I am standing here speaking to my best friend. Clearly I have not lost him.”
“Darcy.” Bingley's expression softened. “What is wrong? And do not say nothing—I have known you too long to be fooled.”
Darcy considered, briefly, telling the truth. Bingley knew about Wickham—not the details of Georgiana's near-disgrace, but enough to understand the man was not to be trusted. Indeed, Wickham would find no welcome at Netherfield.
But beyond these walls, what could be done? If Darcy began warning families against him, Wickham would retaliate. The man had a talent for twisting truth into lies and lies into sympathy. He would paint himself the victim—the poor steward's son, denied his inheritance by a proud and jealous master. And if pressed, if cornered...
Darcy's blood ran cold.
Wickham might find some way to reveal Georgiana’s mistake. Not the whole of it, but enough to insinuate. Enough to destroy a fifteen-year-old girl's reputation with a few well-placed whispers and a sorrowful shake of his head.
Darcy could not risk it. Could not riskher.
And so he must watch Wickham charm his way through Meryton, watch him smile at Miss Elizabeth, watch him spread whatever poison he chose—and say nothing.
“I encountered an old acquaintance in the village,” Darcy said finally. “Someone I had not expected to see. It was... unsettling.”
Bingley's brow furrowed. “Someone disagreeable?”
“Profoundly.”
“Ah.” Bingley nodded sagely, though Darcy doubted he understood at all. “Well, a winter walk will clear your head. Fresh air and exercise—nothing better for a troubled mind.”
“I am not certain?—”
“Nonsense! You must come. And the Bennets will be there—Miss Elizabeth particularly enjoys walking, I am told. That should improve your spirits.”
Darcy closed his eyes. The prospect of seeing Miss Elizabeth—after this morning, after watching her smile at Wickham—was simultaneously the best and worst suggestion Bingley could have made.
“We shall see,” he said, which was as close to agreement as he could manage.
The afternoon brought a reprieve Darcy had not expected.
He had escaped the house again, walking the paths of Netherfield's grounds in search of solitude and fresh air. The frost had softened under the weak December sun, and the woods were quiet, peaceful, mercifully empty of Wickham and mistletoe and the complications that seemed to follow Darcy everywhere.
He was rounding a bend in the path, lost in thought, when he saw her.
Miss Elizabeth walked toward him along the lane, a small basket over one arm, her cheeks pink from the cold. She wore the same blue pelisse he had admired before—the one Caroline had deemed “sturdy”—and her breath fogged gently in the winter air.
She startled when she saw him, then recovered with a smile that made his chest ache.
“Mr. Darcy. I did not expect to meet anyone out here.”
“Nor did I.” He stopped, suddenly aware that he had no idea what to say. All the clever conversation that came so easily in drawing rooms had deserted him entirely.
She glanced down at her basket. “I was gathering holly for my mother. She has decided our mantels are insufficiently festive.”
