Everywhere.
Hanging from branches. Tucked into garlands. Suspended from the decorative arch. Dotted along the path at intervals so regular they might have been measured with a ruler.
Elizabeth stopped walking and simply stared.
The walking party assembled in the garden: Mr. Bingley and Jane at the front, already absorbed in each other; Mrs. Bennet close behind, offering loud commentary on everything from the weather to the excellence of Mr. Bingley's coat; Lydia and Kitty bouncing with restless energy, scanning the horizon as though officers might materialize from the shrubbery; Mrs. Hurst trailing with an expression of martyred endurance; and Miss Bingley hovering near Mr. Darcy with the determination of a hawk circling its prey.
Mr. Darcy himself lingered at the rear of the group, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. He looked, Elizabeth thought, like a man bracing for battle.
She knew the feeling.
The walk began pleasantly enough. The path wound through a small wood, the bare branches overhead forming a lacework of shadow and light. Frost glittered on every surface. The air was sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and cold earth.
Elizabeth fell into step beside Jane and Mr. Bingley, content to listen to their gentle conversation and admire the winter landscape. But she found her attention wandering, backward, to where Mr. Darcy walked in solitary silence, and sideways, to where Miss Bingley orchestrated the group's movements with increasingly transparent intent.
“Oh, look!” Miss Bingley exclaimed as they approached a particularly laden branch. “How charming. Mr. Darcy, do come and see.”
Mr. Darcy did not come and see. He took a deliberate step to the left, placing himself well outside the mistletoe's range.
Miss Bingley's eye twitched.
Elizabeth hid her smile behind her gloved hand.
The pattern repeated itself as they continued along the path. Miss Bingley would identify a strategically placed sprig; Mr. Darcy would find some reason to be elsewhere; Miss Bingley's expression would tighten with frustration. It was, Elizabeth reflected, rather like watching a very determined cat repeatedly fail to catch a very cautious bird.
They had reached a scenic corner of the grove—a small clearing where the path widened and a fallen log provided seating for weary walkers—when voices carried through the trees. Male voices, unfamiliar, accompanied by the crunch of boots on frozen ground.
Elizabeth turned as three figures emerged from a side path: two officers she did not recognize, and one she knew all too well.
Mr. Wickham.
He was smiling, of course—that easy, charming smile that had seemed so appealing when they first met. He wore his uniform with casual elegance, his bearing relaxed, his manner warm as he greeted the party.
“What a delightful surprise!” he exclaimed. “We were merely taking our constitutional when we heard voices. I had no idea Netherfield was hosting an excursion.”
“Mr. Wickham!” Mrs. Bennet's voice rose with enthusiasm. “How wonderful! Girls, look—it is Mr. Wickham and his friends. Come, come, you must join us!”
Lydia squealed and rushed forward. Kitty followed close behind, both of them fluttering around the officers like moths around a flame.
Miss Bingley's expression soured, though she masked it quickly with a smile that did not reach her eyes. Mrs. Hurst looked as though she had swallowed something unpleasant.
Elizabeth offered Mr. Wickham a polite greeting, but something felt different.
His smile seemed a bit too smooth, his warmth a touch too practiced. Where once she had found his easy manners refreshing, now they struck her as... calculated.
And then she became aware of Mr. Darcy.
His posture had gone rigid, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides. The carefully neutral expression he had worn all morning had vanished, replaced by something cold and hard and dangerous.
Mr. Wickham's gaze found Mr. Darcy, and his smile took on an edge Elizabeth had not noticed before. “Darcy! What a pleasure. I did not expect to find you enjoying such rustic entertainments. I had assumed them beneath your dignity.”
The words were light, teasing, delivered with a laugh that invited everyone to share the joke.
Elizabeth did not laugh.
A week ago, she would have found the jab amusing—a well-deserved poke at Mr. Darcy's pride.
Now, watching Mr. Darcy's face go carefully blank, watching him master whatever emotion had flickered across his features, she felt only discomfort.
