“Lizzy!” Lydia cried from some distance away. She and Kitty hurried over to them, their arms full of branches with white berries. “We found mistletoe!”
Elizabeth was taken aback at the sheer size of Lydia’s burden. “Have you left any for the rest of Hertfordshire?”
Mr. Darcy coughed.
“Lydia gave some to Mr. Wickham and hoped that he would kiss her, but he did not!” Kitty announced gleefully.
“He would have if that Penelope Stout had not appeared,” Lydia said waspishly. “He was bending down when she called out his name.”
“HisChristianname.” Kitty giggled.
“Girls, you were not to go to town,” Jane reminded them.
Kitty gazed at her feet, but Lydia was undaunted. “And so we did not. We met them before we could reach Meryton.”
Elizabeth ignored the blatant flouting of her father’s instructions, for it would do no good to scold. It was better to flatter than to direct. “It seems you have had a fortunate escape with Mr. Wickham, Lydia. Anyone who would prefer Penelope Stout to you is not worth your attentions.” She glanced quickly at Mr. Darcy. His expression was as stoic as ever.
“Yes, for the other officers are not nearly as old,” her youngest sister said with some satisfaction. “Carter is younger and higher-ranking!”
“But not as handsome,” Kitty teased as she ran off, Lydia in pursuit.
“Maria Lucas told me something you do not know!” she cried. “I shall keep it a secret!”
“Kitty, Lydia, do not run!” Jane called. She glanced over her shoulder as she followed her younger sisters. “Mr. Darcy, would you be so kind as to escort Elizabeth back to the house?”
Mr. Darcy inclined his head in a sort of abbreviated bow. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Bennet.” He took the branches Elizabeth had gathered and tucked them under one arm before offering her the other. “Shall we?”
Chapter Seven
Whentheyallreturnedto the house, Mr. Darcy excused himself to go upstairs to his friend. Lydia and Kitty discussed plans to torment Mary by hanging mistletoe in the music room, and Elizabeth moved into the drawing room to find Jane.
Her eldest sister was sitting on the settee with an odd expression on her face.
“Jane,” Elizabeth inquired, “are you well?”
“I cannot say,” Jane replied. “I have only just now received a note from Netherfield. Caroline Bingley sent it. Lizzy, she is trying to convince me that Mr. Bingley means to marry Miss Darcy.”
“What?” Elizabeth exclaimed. Jane held out an elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, and Elizabeth took it. She read quickly through Miss Bingley’s hopes that “your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season usually brings . . .” Her eye skipped ahead. Miss Bingley mentioned Mr. Bingley’s admiration of Georgiana Darcy. Nice trick, that, using Miss Darcy’s Christian name to indicate her intimacy with Mr. Darcy’s sister.
Miss Bingley had yet more to say. Evidently Miss Darcy’s family “all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s heart.”
Pleasant words, each one of them a knife hurled at Jane’s tender heart. How much worse would it have wounded Jane had Mr. Bingley made it safely to London, leaving Jane to wonder?
“She is correct, of course, about Mr. Bingley being so charming,” Jane said softly. “Many women must have hopes that he had no idea of exciting.”
“Jane,” Elizabeth said, cursing Miss Bingley with her whole heart, “you cannot think that Mr. Bingley is playing with your feelings.”“Of course not,” Jane replied. “It is simply that my feelings for him may be stronger than his for me.”
Elizabeth knew better than to try to talk Jane out of such a thing. Jane was firm when she believed herself to be right, and there would be no way to resolve this until and unless Mr. Bingley spoke. She had an idea, though. As Mr. Darcy was in such a talkative mood, she would simply relay to him that Miss Bingley had written and that if Mr. Bingley wished to know Jane’s feelings, he should have to ask her outright.
Would he believe her, though?
It was a shame, in one sense, that people could not simply say what they felt, but she supposed it might be taken too far. Elizabeth would never wish Lydia to speak with even less constraint than she did now.
She sighed.
“I would beg you, Jane, not to act any differently around Mr. Bingley. Nothing has changed. He has not spoken, it is true, but if you suddenly fall silent around him, he will think you do not care for him at all, and he never will.”
“Lizzy,” Jane said quietly, “could I be happy with a man whose family and friends so clearly wish him to marry elsewhere?”