Page 73

Miss Bingley did not speak, but she did nod.

“Then it is all right.” He held up the wooden horse. “Can you tie the saddle?”

Miss Bingley stared at the boy for a moment, her eyes suspiciously bright, and then held out her hand.

Mrs. Gardiner’s instructions had been exact. Not any red wine. Not merely a good red wine. Not even a French red wine of a particular vintage. It must come from a particular merchant near Cheapside, and Mr. Gardiner would know at once if they returned with anything else.

In the hall Darcy put Elizabeth’s cloak about her shoulders. As he settled the wool, his fingers passed over the back of her neck where the hair had been pinned up and heard her take in a sharp breath. Then she said something about the weather that Darcy barely heard.

At the corner Miss Elizabeth took his arm without asking or apparently thinking anything of it. Darcy spent the next thirty yards thinking of very little else.

Darcy read the slip of paper Miss Elizabeth had handed him.

“You are sceptical,” she said, examining him closely.

“I have said no such thing.” He tucked the paper into his pocket. “I merely question whether this wine can possess all the virtues your uncle attributes to it.”

She drew her muff closer as they walked. “You have not tasted it.”

“I have not.”

“Then your judgement is premature.”

He gazed down at her. “I have consumed a considerable amount of wine over the course of my life. I have an extensive wine cellar.” Darcy could see that Elizabeth was not impressed.

“I do not doubt it” was all she said, but there was something in her tone and an innocent smile played upon her lips.

It was Christmas in London, and though Darcy had not spent much time in this part of the city, it was not so different from where he lived. Carts stood where they ought not. Shop doors opened and shut almost without pause. Servants hurried past with parcels stacked in their arms, and everyone stopped before windows crowded with cakes, nuts, and geese, blocking the pavement and forcing some pedestrians into the street.

Miss Elizabeth, who was at home in a ballroom, was also at ease here.

Darcy was less certain that any street containing this many people at once could be described as pleasant, but he had ceased suggesting the carriage after she had informed him that walking three streets away in the middle of the day was not an undertaking requiring four horses. She had been right, of course. He had merely failed to account for how often she would stop to peer into a shop window, or how little he would mind waiting beside her.

“Uncle Gardiner makes it every year,” she said.

“The wine?”

“The mulled wine.”

“Your uncle makes it himself?”

“With assistance.”

“From Cook?”

“From anyone he can trust to stand near the saucepan, including the girls. He takes the matter very seriously.”

“How seriously?”

“Last year—” She hesitated, then began again. “Last year at Longbourn, he made Jane grate the nutmeg because he said Aunt was too generous with it.”

He glanced at her, but she was watching the people ahead of them. Darcy nearly smiled. “A dreadful offence.”

“Indeed. He maintains that most people ruin mulled wine by putting too much into it.”

“And you agree?”

“I have no opinion upon the quantity of nutmeg.”