Page 34 of Mr. Darcy's Christmas Letters
“Good morning, Anders. How are the horses?”
“Well, sir. Horatio is shoed, and Calliope is healed.” His brows pinched together. “Were you thinking of leaving soon?”
“We cannot,” Darcy said. “Have you not heard about the illness in the house?”
Anders scratched his head. “I’ve been staying out here in the room above the stables so as to be close to the horses. Not heard much about the goings-on up at the house.”
Darcy nodded. The world around Anders ceased to exist when his horses were hurt or sick. “No matter. We cannot leave for a time. I only wish to be certain the horses are able to travel when we are.”
Anders nodded, a picture of relief. Something was definitely amiss, but Darcy knew if there was something that required his attention, Anders would tell him. He had enough of his own troubles to sort through without asking for more. So Darcy simply wished his coachman a good day and headed back towards the house, his boots making a crunching sound in the snow as he walked.
He changed course when he reached the gardener’s shed at the top of the path to the pond, for he was not yet ready to return indoors. The air was cold, but it was clear and sweet, a refreshing change from Miss Bingley’s company. The way she had run Miss Elizabeth off last night made him angry, and he needed to be in control of himself before he met her today.
He had only taken a few steps where the path entered a copse of trees when something struck his hat and dashed it from his head. Darcy narrowed his eyes when he spied the remainder of a snowball splattered against the felt. He snatched the hat up and whirled around only to receive another snowball directly in the chest.
Darcy ducked into the trees across from the direction of the latest hit and began scooping up snow and forming it with his hands. He was methodical and strategic, warily eyeing the treeline on the other side of the path until a bonneted head poked out to look for him.
He smiled widely. Darcy knew that bonnet. He reached back to grasp a snowball from the top of his hastily stacked pile and let it fly. It exploded against the tree Elizabeth was using as a shield, and she shrieked and ducked back behind it, laughing.
A silence descended for a time. After a few minutes, Darcy warily glanced around the tree. Another snowball landed nearby, missing him entirely, but offering important intelligence, as it had been launched from a different location.
Elizabeth was on the move.
Darcy grabbed up two snowballs, one in each hand, and crushed the others. No reason to leave ready-made ammunition behind with an enemy as sneaky as this one. He judged the angle of that last throw and moved stealthily through the trees until he was closer to the pond than she was—provided she had not moved again, that is.
Luck was on his side—he spied her cloak through the trees. She was turned away from the pond, expecting him to launch his assault from his previous position. It was almost too easy. He threw one snowball, then the other, hitting her twice in the back.
Elizabeth screeched again, laughing even louder as she leapt out into the open and gathered more snow. She rolled one, making it much larger than the others had been.
“Oh no,” he warned her, a smile playing on his lips. “You are justly served. Do not even think about it.”
“Very well,” she said agreeably.
Too agreeably. For she very quickly made and threw another snowball at him, this one hitting his stomach. He looked down at his coat. “You really are quite short.”
She fired again. “I am not!” she shouted, quite against the prevailing evidence, he thought, for this one only struck him in the leg.
Elizabeth must have seen it too, for she bent over at the waist and laughed merrily. “I am not so very short,” she informed him between wheezes. “It is only that you are so very tall.”
“Guilty,” he confessed, charmed by her reddened cheeks and bright eyes. He took a step towards her. “Miss Elizabeth . . .”
Elizabeth stilled and her eyes found his. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”
He took another few steps. “We should speak.”
“Yes,” she said. “I think we—“
A terrible yell shattered the air and Miss Bingley broke through the trees to dump a bucket packed full of snow over Elizabeth’s head.
“I am on your side, Mr. Darcy!” she informed him. “We win!”
Elizabeth slowly straightened, shaking herself like one of Darcy’s retrievers when they exited the water. He waited as she dusted the snow from her bonnet and fixed it back atop her head. She was not hurt, for which he was grateful, but he was stunned by Miss Bingley’s appearance. When he had stayed at Netherfield last autumn he had rarely seen her downstairs before noon, and here it was only half-past nine. And never, ever had he known her to leave a well-marked path to hide amongst the trees.
Where had she even found a bucket, let alone thought it was a good idea to pack it with snow instead of just making a snowball like a normal person? Elizabeth was hopping about because some of it had undoubtedly slid down her back. It would chill her, and she was only just recovered from her first dunking in the pond.
That thought finally broke through his shock and propelled him into action. He strode over and took the pail from Miss Bingley. He turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet,” he said, “are you well?”
She beamed at him. “Never better, Mr. Darcy.” She gestured to the pail and held out her hand. “May I have that bucket?”
