Mrs. Bennet huffed but was too distracted by her own preparations to pursue the matter. She had insisted on accompanying them despite the cold, unwilling to miss any development in Jane's courtship—or, Elizabeth suspected,any opportunity to remind Mr. Bingley of his matrimonial obligations.
Mary alone remained at Longbourn, having declared that winter walks invited respiratory complaints and moral hazard in equal measure.
“She would only lecture us about the dangers of frozen ground,” Lydia said cheerfully as they climbed into the carriage. “I am glad she stayed behind.”
“Lydia,” Jane murmured.
“What? It is true. She would have quoted Fordyce at every turning. 'Beware the icy path, for it leads to perdition.' Or something equally dreary.”
Elizabeth bit her lip to contain her smile. The carriage lurched into motion, and she turned her gaze to the frost-covered hedgerows, trying not to think about what—or whom—awaited them at Netherfield.
She failed.
The great house came into view far too quickly, and Elizabeth's traitorous pulse began to quicken. She told herself it was anticipation of the walk. The fresh air. The exercise.
It was not Mr. Darcy.
It was absolutely, definitely, and most assuredly not Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Bingley met them at the door, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. He was dressed for walking, his cheeks already ruddy with excitement, his smile so wide it threatened to split his face.
“You have come! Excellent, excellent. The weather is perfect! Cold but clear, not a cloud in sight. And the path through the grove is quite passable. I walked it myself this morning to be certain.”
“You walked it yourself?” Jane asked, her eyes soft.
“I wanted to ensure your comfort. That is—everyone's comfort. The comfort of all our guests.” He cleared his throat, ears reddening. “Shall we?”
He offered Jane his arm with the solemnity of a knight escorting his lady to a tournament. Jane accepted with quiet grace, and the two of them moved toward the garden doors, already lost in murmured conversation.
Elizabeth watched them go with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the entrance hall.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She turned. Mr. Darcy stood a few paces away, immaculately dressed for walking, his expression carefully neutral. But something flickered in his dark eyes when they met hers.
“Mr. Darcy.” She dropped a curtsy. “I trust you have recovered from yesterday's botanical peril.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I have developed a heightened awareness of overhead vegetation. It is a burden I shall carry always.”
“A tragic affliction. You have my sympathies.”
“They are appreciated.”
They regarded each other for a moment, a beat too long for mere acquaintances, a beat too short for Elizabeth to understand what it meant.
Caroline's voice shattered the silence.
“Mr. Darcy! There you are. I have been searching everywhere.” She swept toward them in a dramatic winter ensemble: fur-trimmed pelisse, matching muff, bonnet adorned with enough ribbon to rig a small ship. “We must discuss the route. Charles and I have made the improvements to Charles's plan.” Caroline’s smile held secrets Elizabeth suspected she would not enjoy discovering. “Shall we?”
She claimed Mr. Darcy's arm before he could object, steering him toward the garden doors with proprietary determination. He glanced back at Elizabeth before disappearing outside.
Elizabeth followed at a safe distance, her suspicions mounting.
She understood Caroline's “improvements” the moment she stepped onto the garden path.
Garlands hung from every available surface—holly and ivy twisted with red ribbon, draped across bare branches, wound around fence posts, festooned from a decorative arch that had almost certainly not existed yesterday. The effect was festive, elaborate, and slightly unhinged.
And there, swaying gently in the winter breeze, were sprigs of mistletoe.
