Page 36 of Mr. Darcy's Christmas Letters
Elizabeth’s cheer faltered for a moment, but she regained her composure. “I knew Lydia would not cry or be angry with me,” she said, glancing over at Miss Bingley, who pretended not to notice.
“No,” Mrs. Bingley said with a smile. “She just fought back.”
“I had to be careful, though,” Elizabeth said, glancing at Miss Bingley. “Because even more than winning, Lydia loves revenge.”
Miss Bingley covered her uneasiness by lifting her chin a little higher. “Revenge is beneath a true lady.”
“Ah, there are no ladies when it comes to snow battles,” Elizabeth replied smoothly. “You should know, since you must have pilfered that pail from somewhere.”
“Thank you, Charles,” Mrs. Bingley said as Bingley set her plate down before her.
Bingley just smiled at his wife and sat down.
“I found that bucket, I will have you know,” Miss Bingley said to Elizabeth, just as disdainful as ever. “It was left next to the shed on the path.”
“Oh, the raspberry jam, Jane, thank you!” Elizabeth exclaimed, completely ignoring Miss Bingley.
Clearly, Elizabeth was no worse for wear despite having an entire bucket of snow dumped over her head. Of course not. She was no dainty flower of the ton. And her mention of revenge had not been lost on Miss Bingley, either.
Darcy tucked into his meal with vigour.
“Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley said when she had finished her tea and toast, “I intend to play again today. Would you mind performing the office of turning my pages? You read music whereas alas, my brother does not.”
Before he could think of a way to decline, Elizabeth piped up. “I read music,” she said innocently. “I would be happy to turn your pages for you, Miss Bingley.”
“I would not wish to inconvenience you,” Miss Bingley replied, a little too sharply. “I am certain Mr. Darcy does not mind. We are old friends, you see.”
Both women looked at him, Miss Bingley with expectation and Elizabeth with humour.
“I have letters to write, Miss Bingley,” he said at last. “They will likely take until dinner to complete. You will forgive me.”
“Of course,” Miss Bingley said tightly. “Perhaps after dinner, then.”
“Perhaps,” he said, touching his napkin to his mouth and placing it on the table as he stood. He met Elizabeth’s eye with regret. “Good morning.”
As he mounted the steps, he cursed himself for coming up with an excuse that would remove him from everyone’s company, including Elizabeth’s, until dinner. If he showed himself before then, Miss Bingley would force him to remain by her side—he had no doubt she would loiter near the staircase in order to have early intelligence of all movements in the guest wing.
It was time to change for dinner when he finally thought of a way around the clinging Miss Bingley. He walked to the wardrobe and tossed open the doors. All his clothing had finally been returned—it was a lucky thing that the last missing pieces of his clothing had reappeared in the wardrobe the night before—but he was looking for one piece in particular. His greatcoat.
If Miss Bingley would not allow him to speak to Elizabeth, he would allow his letter to speak for him. He reached into the inner pocket, but it was empty.
Drat. He must have dropped it in the snow. And there was no time to rewrite it now. He took comfort in the fact that he had not put Elizabeth’s name anywhere in the letter this time. Even if it was located and the ink had not run, only his initials were written on the missive, and very few people knew his Christian name.
Small consolation when he faced another evening with Miss Bingley. Darcy determined to search for the letter in the morning, and if he could not find it, he would simply write another. He always expressed himself better in writing.
Elizabeth found herself wishing that Mr. Darcy had just agreed to turn Miss Bingley’s pages after breakfast. For now she found herself in a nightmarish repeat of last night’s performance. While Jane and Charles sat together on the settee near the fire, Miss Bingley had trapped Mr. Darcy into attending her at the pianoforte.
Once he had committed himself to writing letters, he could not very well venture into Elizabeth’s company until dinner, and during the meal Miss Bingley had absolutely refused to allow him to speak more than a few sentences to anyone but her. There was a growing shrillness in her behaviour that spoke of desperation, but Elizabeth could not feel any compassion for the woman.
“Jane,” Elizabeth said sweetly. Perhaps too sweetly.
“Yes, Lizzy?” Jane inquired, suspicion writ across her features.
“Do you recall how Lydia took revenge upon me last winter?”
“She waited until you were sleeping and then stuck your hand in a bowl of icy water.”
“She did. And do you recall how I revenged myself upon her?”
