Christmas at Darcy House

by Victoria Kincaid

  At that moment Elizabeth spied Mr. Wickham. He was on the other side of the vast room, speaking with a petite blonde woman; but when he happened to glance in her direction, Elizabeth caught his eye. He answered with a broad smile—he really was quite handsome—and proceeded to plough through the crowd in her direction.

  Her attention was drawn from him when her aunt tugged her arm. Following her aunt’s gaze, Elizabeth saw, to her horror, that Mr. Darcy was also wading through the crush of people in her direction. His eyes were intent on her the way a wolf’s might be when stalking a doe.

  Whoever arrived first could claim the next dance with her. “What shall I do?” she asked her aunt. “I have no desire to dance with him!”

  Her aunt nodded. Mr. Darcy’s cold manner the day before had not impressed her either. “I know, my dear. But you cannot refuse him unless you are prepared to refuse all the young men at the ball.”

  Elizabeth knew this, of course; it would be disgracefully rude to refuse one man and accept another. She glanced at Mr. Wickham; he was closer than before, but not as close as Mr. Darcy. Mr. Wickham glared at the other man and tried to move more quickly, but the crowds would not give way. I beg you to hurry! she importuned him silently and then cast an eye about the room for a means of escape. But the crush of revelers was so thick that she could not easily evade Mr. Darcy’s approach. Why does he even wish to dance with me? He does not enjoy my company!

  The bizarre footrace continued for a minute until—unfortunately—Mr. Darcy arrived, scowling and dark-eyed. He climbed the steps to the landing, a little out of breath. “Miss Bennet, would you do me the honor of the next dance?” he puffed.

  Mr. Wickham emerged from the crowd, red-faced and sweaty. His mouth twisted in a grimace as he climbed the steps.

  Elizabeth gritted her teeth. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Darcy.”

  She immediately turned her attention to Mr. Wickham, who smiled and bowed ingratiatingly. “I see I have arrived too late for this set,” he said lightly. “But perhaps you would agree to partner me for the following set?”

  Elizabeth smiled at him. “Yes. I thank you, Mr. Wickham.”

  Mr. Wickham immediately disappeared into the crowd; Elizabeth did not blame him for eschewing the other man’s vicinity. But Mr. Darcy stayed by her side, a looming and taciturn presence, awaiting the beginning of the next set. Why in the world does he wish to dance with me when he evinces no interest in my company? Elizabeth chatted with her aunt, who shot many curious glances in Mr. Darcy’s direction.

  Finally, the previous set’s dancers drifted away. Mr. Darcy took Elizabeth’s hand to lead her down the stairs and into position for the next set. There were a great many couples dancing, and Elizabeth had much leisure time to converse with her partner. Unfortunately, her partner did not appear interested in conversation, even once the dancing commenced.

  After a minute or two of silence, Elizabeth had grown quite annoyed. “Mr. Darcy,” she said finally, “since you and I have not been in company for above five minutes, I am at a loss to understand how I have already incurred your displeasure.”

  His eyes grew wide. “Miss Bennet, I assure you that you have done nothing to displease me.”

  Was a scowl his natural expression, then? “Something must have displeased you,” she replied. “For I do not believe I have ever seen anyone scowl so frequently while dancing.” She softened her words with a pert smile.

  His head jerked backward. Was there truly nobody in his life who would speak to the man with any degree of sportiveness? It seemed altogether foreign to him.

  The steps of the dance drew them apart, but when they were reunited, he said, “I assure you that any displeasure I might experience does not fall to you.” Ah, it must be that Mr. Wickham’s presence disturbed him. I could ask him about it, but we have already had one contentious conversation on that subject.

  Mr. Darcy continued, “I was quite pleased to discover you would be in attendance tonight.”

  Quite pleased? Elizabeth rather doubted that, but she made allowances for the way a man usually complimented a woman. How had he known in advance she would be at the ball?

  “I will endeavor not to scowl for your sake,” Mr. Darcy said and managed a smile. It was a forced and ghastly thing.

  Elizabeth laughed. “I believe, sir, that I prefer the scowl. It fits more naturally on your countenance.”

  She had expected him to laugh or shrug off her teasing, but instead his face lost animation and he cast his eyes downward. Or was that her imagination? After a moment he said, “I see I must practice my smiling for your sake.”

  “Do not inconvenience yourself on my account,” she retorted.

  His eyes caught and held hers. “Your pleasure is never my inconvenience.”

  Elizabeth swallowed, unable to look away. There was a moment of electricity between them, as if the air that separated them could burst into flames. A similar jolt of energy had occurred as they danced at the Netherfield Ball. How odd.

  They were obliged to separate again and partner with the dancers adjacent to them. When they were returned to each other, Elizabeth made an inquiry after the Bingley family’s health, and the remainder of their conversation was quite civil and dull.

  At the conclusion of the set, Mr. Darcy led Elizabeth toward the refreshment table and gently inquired if she would care for a glass of punch. A bit astonished that Mr. Darcy had not fled her vicinity at the first opportunity, Elizabeth replied in the affirmative. While he was fetching the punch, she took advantage of his absence to seek out Mr. Wickham. However, she could not distinguish him at all, which perplexed her greatly. The next set was beginning to form, and she expected he would come to claim her as a partner as promised.

  Mr. Darcy returned with the punch, and she thanked him, drinking thirstily. Then he inquired whether she would like to cool herself with a visit to the terrace. Elizabeth blinked rapidly. Why did he wish to spend more time with her when he gained so little pleasure from it? “I promised this set to Mr. Wickham,” she said, casting her eye about the room once more.

  Mr. Darcy grimaced. “Apparently he has…forgotten.” He gestured toward the dancers where Mr. Wickham was partnering the young blonde woman he had been speaking with before.

  Nonplussed, Elizabeth stared for a long moment. After competing so eagerly for the chance to dance with her, why would Mr. Wickham then abandon her? Mr. Darcy regarded her with something like pity in his eyes. “Wickham’s attentions are ever fickle. Would you accompany me for a turn about the terrace? There is a matter of some urgency I must discuss with you.”

  His darkly intent stare was most disconcerting, sending shivers racing along her spine. But she had no reason to refuse the request, and she was feeling more charitably inclined to him; at least he had not abandoned her to dance with someone else. Indeed, it was flattering that Mr. Darcy appeared not to have an interest in any of the other women at the ball.

  Mr. Darcy offered his arm, and they climbed the steps to the French doors that opened onto the terrace. At the first blast of cold air, Elizabeth was reminded that it was indeed December. But she had grown overheated from the dancing, and the fresh air was rather appealing after the ballroom’s stuffiness. Then she perused the garden, and the temperature was forgotten. “It is snowing!” she exclaimed.

  Mr. Darcy squinted into the darkness. “So it is.”

  Elizabeth hurried to the edge of the terrace, leaning against the balustrade to better view the Marlowes’ extensive garden. Naturally, nothing was in bloom at that time of year, but the bare tree branches and ornamental bushes were decorated with a delicate covering of new snow. Torches had been placed at intervals along the garden paths, providing a gentle golden illumination.

  “How enchanting!” Elizabeth sighed. “A fresh layer of snow can make anything lovelier. Do you not think so?”

  Mr. Darcy regarded her with a most peculiar expression on his face; his lips were slightly parted and his eyes wide. He appeared, for al
l the world, as if he gazed upon a most wondrous and unusual sight. But he was staring at Elizabeth, not the snow.

  “Is the snow not beautiful?” she prompted again.

  “Oh yes, yes!” His eyes shifted toward the snow-covered garden below them. “Yes, it is quite pretty.”

  “Pretty” was a completely inadequate word to describe such a sight, but Elizabeth was not of a mind to quarrel with him. She turned her gaze back to the garden and the snowflakes illuminated in the torches’ glow. Fortunately, the terrace was protected from the elements by a roof of sorts, and she was only struck by an occasional wayward snowflake. “I wish I could have a painting of such a scene!” she exclaimed. “It is altogether charming.”

  “Indeed,” he breathed. The wonder on his face would have been more appropriate if he had never before seen such a sight. “Do you know, Miss Bennet, I do not believe I fully appreciated the beauty of snow before this moment.”

  At least he was finally gazing at the snow. Why was the man so vexing? Most of the time he seemed so distant, but occasionally he would demonstrate how he was not only attending to what Elizabeth said but also taking it to heart. And it was most frustrating. It complicated her propensity to dislike the man and caused her to rethink her opinion of him. As she grew better acquainted with him, the more he puzzled her.

  Only when Elizabeth felt a chill did she recall why they were outside: Mr. Darcy had professed a desire to say something to her. What could it be? Customarily there was only one reason a single man would ask to speak privately with a single woman. Her momentary panic was quickly quelled. Mr. Darcy would no more think of marrying Elizabeth than he would consider marrying his cook.

  Now she was quite curious about the topic of his desired conversation. And quite cold. “Mr. Darcy, you wished to speak with me about something?” she prompted, wrapping her arms around herself.

  He started as if in a reverie and slowly focused his eyes on her. “Yes. Yes, I did. I…” His voice trailed off as his eyes fixed on her…lips? What an odd man.

  Still, Elizabeth could not help noticing that he cut a fine figure in his well-tailored coat. And a wayward dark curl over his forehead gave him a completely undeserved rakish appearance. I could brush it away from his forehead. How would it feel beneath my fingers? Merciful heavens! How could she entertain such thoughts about Mr. Darcy of all people? Her eyes sought the safer sight of the garden.

  “You—” Mr. Darcy cleared his throat and started again. “Your family enjoys some intimacy with Mr. Wickham, I believe.”

  Elizabeth would not have phrased it so. “I suppose.”

  “And you…?” Was he asking about the nature of her relationship with Mr. Wickham? The thought made Elizabeth bristle; she did not respond.

  His hand, gripping the balustrade, shook noticeably. Why? The other hand ran through his hair, disordering his careful coiffure into a mass of curls. With eyes still fixed on the snow-coated garden, he shook his head sharply as if arguing with himself. “It will not do. I must tell you all,” he muttered.

  His entire body turned to face her full on. “George Wickham is not a good man,” he stated baldly. “His character is deceitful and dissolute. You cannot rely upon anything he tells you.”

  Elizabeth stiffened and then grew very hot as if her skin itself was boiling. How could Mr. Darcy blacken the man’s name further after treating him so horribly? He was the reason Mr. Wickham could not join the clergy and was forced into the militia.

  It was certainly possible that Mr. Wickham had misrepresented some aspects of the other man’s character; after all, every story had two sides. But it could not mitigate the fact that Mr. Darcy had treated the other man abominably with no possible justification.

  “He has suffered so much by your hands, and now you undertake to also denigrate his character?” she cried.

  “Oh yes, his suffering has been great.” Mr. Darcy rolled his eyes and clenched his fists in frustration.

  “And at your hands.”

  Holding himself rigidly, he took a deep breath before speaking slowly and precisely. “I do not know under what circumstances Wickham imposed himself upon you, but I can assure you that his tales were falsehoods.”

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to roll her eyes. Mr. Darcy did not know what Mr. Wickham had said. How could he be certain the words were lies?

  “I have no desire to engage in idle gossip and speculation. It is unbecoming for a gentleman to be involved in such accusations,” he continued. “And there are tales which must remain confidential. But Mr. Wickham is unsuitable company for a lady—or anyone of character. Your family must beware.” There was an almost pleading quality to his voice which engendered a pang of guilt in Elizabeth’s heart. “You must believe me when I say that Wickham is not to be trusted, and he has brought any misfortune upon himself.”

  Elizabeth’s nascent sympathy for the man evaporated. Why must I believe him? He has done nothing to earn my trust—only belittle me and treat me with disdain. Should I be grateful that he has deigned to dance with me?

  If only she could tell the man what she truly thought of him! But a ball was not an ideal location for a prolonged conflict, and Mr. Darcy was Mr. Bingley’s friend. If there were any hope of reuniting Jane with Mr. Bingley, she should not poison his friend’s opinion of the Bennet family.

  She pressed her lips together, trying to push away her anger. “I thank you for this information and for your concern about my family.”

  “You will share my words with the rest of your family?” he asked. The hope in his eyes was so evident that she was tempted to believe him—or at least that he believed what he said.

  She nodded slowly. “I will tell them what you have said.” Although they were no more likely to believe it than Elizabeth was.

  Mr. Darcy’s entire body relaxed; no doubt he was relieved to be finished with an awkward conversation. “That is all I can ask, thank you.” They stared at the garden for a few uncomfortable seconds, then his countenance lightened. “Perhaps you would honor me with another—”

  Elizabeth shivered violently. She could not dance with the man again. Although he was an excellent dancer, his company strained her nerves. What excuse could she use to decline his offer?

  “Elizabeth!”

  They both started at the sound of her Aunt Gardiner’s sharp voice. She regarded them with narrowed eyes and arms folded over her chest. “You should come inside. I would not want you to catch a cold.” She raked Mr. Darcy with a scathing look, demonstrating that she did not consider him to be an appropriate companion for her niece.

  Mr. Darcy stepped away from Elizabeth sheepishly. “Indeed, you should go inside where it is warmer.”

  “And where there are more people,” Aunt Gardiner snapped. Did she suspect Mr. Darcy of inappropriate motives? That was one thing Elizabeth did not have to fear from him. He would do anything to avoid being found in a compromising position with her.

  “I beg you to excuse me.” With a nod to Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy stalked toward the ballroom.

  Aunt Gardiner gave Elizabeth a searching look, but she shrugged, having no desire to repeat Mr. Darcy’s words—which amounted to nothing more than an assertion of Mr. Wickham’s bad character without any form of proof.

  When I return to Longbourn, I will share Mr. Darcy’s words with Jane, and we will puzzle out what to share with the family. Mr. Wickham would hardly be a danger to them while he remained in London.

  The whole dispute was so strange. Obviously the two men had had some sort of disagreement, but why was Mr. Darcy so intent on blackening Mr. Wickham’s name? Was it possible he was jealous? No, that was silly; Mr. Darcy had wealth, power, and the regard of good society. What could possibly spur jealousy?

  ***

  The moment Darcy crossed the threshold into the ballroom, Wickham accosted him and linked arms with him. As if they were two friends idly discussing the latest races or political developments, Wickham walked Darcy about the room. “What are you about?�
�� Wickham murmured in low tones. “Are you whispering poisoned words in Elizabeth’s ear?”

  “I have nothing to say to you.” Darcy tried to discreetly pull his arm from the other man’s grip, but Wickham would not release his hold.

  Wickham tossed his head. “No matter. She shall not listen to your slanders of my good name. She knows how you malign me.”

  The confidence in the other man’s voice spurred Darcy’s doubts. He still did not know what Wickham had told Elizabeth, and she had heard the account from him first. What if she believed him over Darcy?

  “I only speak the truth,” Darcy said through gritted teeth.

  Wickham gave him a rakish smile. “That must be quite galling. To speak the truth and not to be believed.”

  Darcy fought a desire to strike the other man. Wickham could always provoke him, and he could always read him like a book. Darcy directed his anger toward himself for allowing the other man to notice his attraction to Elizabeth.

  Wickham leaned toward Darcy, muttering into his ear. “She will always believe me instead of you, and do you know why?” Darcy said nothing. He did wish to know, but he would not give Wickham the satisfaction. “It is because she is attracted to me. She kissed me, you know…”

  Darcy tore himself from Wickham’s grasp. “You lie!”

  Wickham smirked. “Believe that if you wish. It was in her aunt and uncle’s garden…under the oak tree with the split trunk. Her aunt went inside for a moment to speak with the housekeeper…and it would have been more than one kiss if the old woman had not rejoined us so soon.”

  Darcy’s hands twitched with the desire to strike that self-satisfied smile off Wickham’s face. He wanted to believe that Wickham lied, that Elizabeth would never permit such liberties. But he could not forget the way she had smiled at him in the Gardiners’ drawing room…. And Darcy knew that oak tree; it was visible from the drawing room window. The whole scenario was so sickeningly plausible that Darcy tasted bile.

  She never kissed me.

  Wickham’s smile turned wolfish. “Perhaps I can steal another kiss tonight…with all this mistletoe about…”