17. Seventeen

Seventeen

“ M iss Elizabeth, do take care!” Darcy’s voice carried across the icy expanse, his tone just stern enough to earn an arched brow from Elizabeth.

She pushed off with a confident glide, the frost-bright air biting at her cheeks. “I assure you, Mr. Darcy, I am perfectly capable of maintaining my footing.”

Bingley, laughing as he skated past, called back, “Careful, Darcy! Miss Elizabeth might leave you in the dust.”

“Quite,” Elizabeth quipped, executing a graceful turn. “Though, if Mr. Darcy prefers the safety of solid ground, I would not blame him.”

Darcy, clearly unwilling to let her challenge go unanswered, stepped onto the ice. His movements were deliberate but assured, his skates cutting clean arcs across the frozen pond. Elizabeth smirked, admiring his form but unwilling to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

Nearby, Jane clung to Bingley’s arm, her laugh soft and delighted as he guided her in slow, careful loops. Elizabeth’s heart warmed at the sight of her sister’s happiness.

“Lizzy!” Jane called, her voice carrying over the laughter and chatter around them. “Is this not the most splendid morning?”

“It is rather fine,” Elizabeth admitted, catching up with her sister with a few brisk strides. “Though I suspect you find it even finer in Mr. Bingley’s company.”

Jane blushed prettily, and Bingley beamed, looking altogether too pleased with himself. “Miss Elizabeth, you wound me. Surely, the morning’s charm extends to all of us.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth for a witty retort, but a ripple of laughter from the growing crowd at the edge of the pond drew her attention. Familiar faces from Meryton gathered in clusters, their curiosity outweighing their initial reservations. Mothers stood bundled against the cold, daughters stealing glances at Darcy and Bingley, while the younger children clamored to join the fun.

Darcy glided past Elizabeth, his movements deliberate as he navigated toward Jane and Bingley. His gaze flicked briefly toward the onlookers, his expression composed, though Elizabeth caught a slight tightening at the corner of his mouth.

“Do you think the good people of Meryton will embrace such festivities?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the clusters of townsfolk.

Elizabeth considered the question, watching as Lydia and Kitty skated past, chattering animatedly. A few of the younger Meryton ladies exchanged hesitant smiles with them, their initial stiffness melting under the pull of shared amusement.

“It seems to me they already are,” Elizabeth replied, tipping her chin toward the shifting dynamic. “Though I suspect it is less about the skating and more about their curiosity.”

“Curiosity can be a powerful motivator,” Darcy said, his attention lingering on a group of merchants gesturing toward Bingley.

“And once satisfied?” Elizabeth asked.

Darcy’s gaze returned to her, and for a moment, his intensity seemed almost warm. “It depends entirely on what they discover.”

Elizabeth held his gaze, her pulse quickening despite herself. “Then I hope, Mr. Darcy, that you are prepared to exceed expectations.”

“And again, Miss Elizabeth, that will be a matter of opinion. What is yours?”

She frowned, tilting her head playfully. “Favorable. But my opinion matters little. The rest… it will take time,” she said honestly. “But even the coldest ice thaws eventually, Mr. Darcy.”

Let us hope you are right, Miss Elizabeth.”

Her stomach gave an odd flutter, but she brushed it aside. “Shall we test that theory, sir? Or are you content to let Mr. Bingley steal all the attention?”

Darcy grinned, though he said nothing. He offered Elizabeth his hand and propelled himself toward the far side of the pond. Elizabeth followed, the cool air sharpening her focus as they wove between slower-moving skaters.

Bingley’s laughter rang out again, this time drawing Elizabeth’s attention to a group of children, squealing with delight as Bingley spun them each in turn in fast circles on the ice. Jane stood nearby, her hands clasped as she watched.

Elizabeth paused, her gaze sweeping over the pond, where activity hummed with a growing vibrancy. Mr. Bingley had moved from playing with children to coaxing a cluster of young men and boys from the town to join him. “Come along, gentlemen! The ice is solid, I promise. Besides, we cannot let the ladies have all the fun!” His goads and dares were apparently infectious enough that one or two reluctantly laced their skates and ventured forth, muttering excuses about boots and cold toes.

Elizabeth’s eyes shifted to Mr. Darcy, who had positioned himself near a group of older gentlemen huddled in conversation by the benches. He inclined his head politely. “The conditions could not be better,” he said. “Though I confess, I am no expert skater myself. Still, the exercise is bracing, and I find it quite improves one’s mood.”

One of the men, Mr. Long, rubbed his hands together, eyeing the pond. “I cannot recall the last time I ventured onto skates. My wife claims I am a danger to myself in such conditions.”

“Better to be cautious than reckless,” Darcy agreed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But perhaps your wife might enjoy watching you take to the ice again, if only to prove that she has nothing to fear.”

The other men chuckled at this, and Mr. Long gave a mock sigh. “You put me to shame, sir. Very well, I shall give it a go—but if I land on my back, I shall blame you.”

Elizabeth found herself suppressing a laugh as Mr. Long shuffled off to fetch his skates. She turned her attention to the ice, where Lydia and Kitty twirled past with a gaggle of Meryton girls, their shrieks of laughter cutting through the frosty air.

A few minutes later, Darcy was guiding a hesitant Violet King onto the ice, his hand extended in silent encouragement. She looked up at him, her nervous smile softening as she let him lead her a few steps forward.

“You see?” Darcy said, his voice calm and steady. “One step at a time. The ice will hold.”

Violet wobbled slightly, her grip tightening on his arm, but she nodded as she gazed up at him, her eyes round with awe and some degree of flirtatious longing. “I… I think I might manage it.”

“That is the spirit. You need not rush. We are in no competition here.”

No competition, indeed. Did Darcy have any idea of how many more of Meryton’s single female population were, even now, rushing home to grab their skates? And all for his benefit, of course. Bingley was charming, but it was Darcy who seemed to draw the eye of every lady within five miles, whether he liked it or not.

Elizabeth tilted her head, observing him more carefully. There was no showmanship in his actions, no effort to draw attention to himself. Yet he managed, with his quiet confidence, to set others at ease. It was a skill she might not have credited him with until now.

Beside her, Jane leaned closer. “Mr. Darcy has surprised me,” she said softly. “I had not expected him to seem so… forward and inviting.”

“Come, Jane, you know as well as I do that it is all an act to benefit Sir Thomas’s cause. He has said plainly enough before that he dislikes attention.”

“But to pull it off so convincingly—why, he almost has me convinced that he is in his natural element. Indeed, I could almost be persuaded that he is naturally a nice man.”

“He is not exactly a brute,” Elizabeth admitted, her lips curving slightly. “But you are right, about one thing. It seems there is more to him than I imagined.”

Bingley skated over just then, beaming as he clapped his gloves together. “Well, this is turning into quite the success, is it not? Miss Bennet, you have been standing here far too long. Come, you must warm up by moving about. I should be honored to escort you, if you would allow me.”

Jane’s cheeks pinked prettily, and she nodded. “I would be delighted, Mr. Bingley.”

Elizabeth watched as the two made their way to the center of the ice. As she turned back toward the crowd, she caught sight of Darcy once more, his gaze sweeping the pond until it briefly met hers. Something flickered in his expression—something that felt so right and familiar that she could hardly credit the fact that they had known each other less than a week. Elizabeth felt a strange, bubbly warmth rise in her chest before she looked away.

The barriers between the townsfolk and the residents of Netherfield were softening, if not dissolving entirely. Elizabeth could hear snippets of conversation now—Meryton mothers complimenting the gentlemen from Netherfield on their skating, children calling out to one another as they formed impromptu races. It was, she realized, precisely what Darcy and Bingley had hoped for: a moment of unity, small but significant.

Elizabeth’s heart stirred at the sight. For all his aloofness and reserve, Darcy’s actions spoke volumes. Perhaps he was not so inscrutable after all.

“Lizzy,” Jane said quietly, skating up beside her. “Do you see what they are doing?”

Elizabeth followed her sister’s gaze to where Darcy stood, now gesturing toward a small evergreen that someone had decorated with ribbons. And giving his hand to Mr. Jackson as he escorted his wife onto the ice.

She smiled faintly. “Creating a scene no one in Meryton will want to miss, I imagine.”

“Do you suppose it will work?”

Elizabeth hesitated, her gaze returning to Darcy. “It already has.”

A s they returned to Netherfield, the group was met with a lively scene in the entrance hall. Mrs. Bennet, her bonnet adorned with a jaunty sprig of holly, stood in the middle of the ballroom, directing activity with the fervor of a battlefield commander. The beds which had been formerly set along the walls for an infirmary had been temporarily moved to the western wing halls. A handful of footmen carried bundles of greenery and boxes filled with decorations, while Roberts stood stoically nearby, a small notebook in his hand.

“Lizzy! Jane!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, waving them over with a gloved hand. “Come here this instant! I was just telling Mr. Roberts that we simply must have more ribbons—green and gold, I think, though perhaps a touch of crimson would do nicely for the garlands. What say you?”

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who bit back a smile and replied with an appeasing tone. “I am sure whatever you choose will be lovely, Mama.”

“Of course it will,” Mrs. Bennet said, bustling forward to inspect a bolt of fabric in Roberts’s hands. She turned suddenly, her eyes alighting on Mr. Darcy, who had just handed his coat off at the door. “Oh, Mr. Darcy! What a magnificent idea this party is! You are a credit to your sex, truly.”

Elizabeth resisted the urge to groan as Mr. Darcy inclined his head with his usual composure. “You are too kind, Mrs. Bennet.”

“Not at all, sir, not at all!” Mrs. Bennet continued, clasping her hands together. “Why, I daresay everyone in the neighborhood will be talking of nothing else all winter. Such generosity, such ingenuity—it is almost too much!”

Elizabeth leaned slightly toward Jane, her voice low. “Too much by half, you mean.”

Jane’s lips curved, but she said nothing. Darcy, however, turned his head just slightly, his expression flat but his eyes flicking toward her. Elizabeth’s cheeks burned. Had he heard her? If so, he gave no sign, his attention returning to Roberts, who was now consulting his notebook.

From across the room, her father’s voice cut through the chatter. “Really, my dear, if Mr. Darcy is so adept at party planning, perhaps we should recruit him to manage all our family affairs. What do you think, Sir Thomas?”

Sir Thomas, seated in a chair near the hearth, chuckled softly. “I believe Mr. Darcy has quite enough on his plate without taking on the Bennet household, though I am certain he would manage admirably.”

Bingley strode in then, his face flushed with cold and good cheer. “Ah, Darcy, good, our little venture into Meryton was a resounding success, was it not?”

Darcy gave a small nod. “Indeed. We have confirmed our orders with all the merchants, the payment arrangements are all settled, and I believe we made an impression on more than a few of the shopkeepers.”

“More than a few?” Bingley grinned. “Why, they were practically falling over themselves to see that we had the finest wares. One would think we had single-handedly saved their businesses.”

Elizabeth folded her arms, tilting her head with interest. “And here I thought Mr. Bingley was speaking of today’s ‘venture’. I rather thought that bore the earmarks of success as well. What of you, Mr. Darcy?”

“A well-planned strategy,” he confessed. “And an excellent suggestion, Miss Elizabeth. I think I met more people today than I even knew lived in Meryton.”

“And what of the invitations?” Jane asked. “Did anyone give their reply?”

“Ah, well,” Bingley began, casting a sidelong glance at Darcy. “There were, shall we say, some initial hesitations. But once we explained the full scope of the evening—”

“And promised the finest musicians and refreshments,” Darcy interjected.

“—they were quite eager to attend,” Bingley finished. “I daresay even the most austere matron we ever saw was tempted to send her acceptance after some cajoling.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Let me guess. Mrs. Purvis? That must have been a sight worth seeing.”

“It was indeed,” Darcy said, his tone wry. “Though I believe the promise of hothouse flowers from London might have sealed her approval.”

“Ah, yes,” Sir Thomas chimed in, his gaze thoughtful. “Flowers can do wonders for softening even the hardest of hearts.”

At that, Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands together. “Oh, flowers! Yes, we must have them everywhere—on the tables, on the mantels, perhaps even in the chandeliers! Oh, Mr. Darcy, do you think there will be enough for all that?”

“I am certain there will be plenty, Mrs. Bennet,” Darcy replied with a slight bow.

Elizabeth stifled a laugh, shaking her head as her mother launched into a detailed list of additional suggestions. Across the room, she caught Darcy’s gaze again. This time, he met her eyes fully, his expression calm but unwavering, and Elizabeth felt an odd flutter in her chest. It was a sensation she could not entirely name—but one she found increasingly difficult to ignore.

T he muffled sound of voices drifted into the hall as Darcy descended the grand staircase, pulling on his gloves. He had intended to meet Sir Thomas in his study to speak of the temporary relocation of the children’s nursery so that the party might not keep the little ones awake and restless all hours of the night. Fortunately, there were, at the moment, only three children under the age of two requiring the care of a nurse, and Darcy meant to propose the large sitting room between his room and Bingley’s. It would accommodate them handsomely and afford them privacy, quiet, and a large hearth for warmth.

Yet, as he approached the study door, he caught the sharp, cutting tone of an unfamiliar voice.

“…and I protest again, Sir Thomas, that your efforts are nothing more than a vain attempt to cloak your depravity in the guise of charity.”

Darcy stiffened, his steps halting.

“This party, this… spectacle , is an insult to the moral order of this community. You cannot buy your way into acceptance, and you cannot cleanse your reputation with ribbons and garlands. Heaven and earth, you have couples living here, right now, as man and wife who are not lawfully wed!”

Darcy’s brow furrowed. A glance across the hall revealed young Mrs. Jackson standing stiffly, her hands clasped tightly before her, her face pale as her eyes glittered oddly. The study door was slightly ajar, allowing the words to spill out into the corridor.

“You are so concerned about ‘morality’,” Sir Thomas’s voice replied wearily. “But it was you, Reverend, who refused to marry Mr. and Mrs. Jackson in your church. Was I wrong to purchase a common license and find an officiant willing to unite them?”

“Do not twist the matter, Sir Thomas,” the vicar snapped. “A union outside the sanctity of our parish is no union at all. It is your arrogance that leads these people further into sin.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. He had heard enough. His hand twisted the latch and stepped into the room. “Sir Thomas,” he said smoothly, “you wished to see me?” He glanced at the vicar, his expression one of polite curiosity. “Ah, I did not realize you had company. Should I return later?”

The vicar, a stout man with ruddy cheeks and an ill-concealed sneer, pointed a trembling finger at Darcy. “It is you who has emboldened him—this ridiculous party, this show of extravagance. You, with your wealth and influence, have brought this charade upon us!”

Darcy’s gaze hardened, though his voice remained calm. “You accuse me, Reverend, of supporting a cause that seeks to uplift those in need. And what, may I ask, is so offensive about that?”

“Offensive?” the vicar sputtered. “Before you arrived, Netherfield was a stain upon this community, yes, but it was contained. The people there knew their place. Now, they dare to walk the streets of Meryton, parading as equals! Have you no decency, no thought for propriety?”

“On the contrary.” Darcy crossed his arms. “I hold ‘decency’ in highest regard. And it is not ‘decent’ for good men to turn their backs when they have the power to help the less fortunate.”

“It is not fortune but depravity which has sunk them so. What place do they have among the good people of Meryton?”

Darcy took a measured step forward. “True religion,” he said, his voice lowering to a growl, “is to look after orphans and widows in their distress. Is that not what your own scripture teaches in the book of James?”

“That, sir, is a laughable twisting of the verse.”

“Is it?” Darcy tilted his head, his eyes flipping back and forth as if he were reading that same verse in context at that moment. “How else does one interpret the phrase ‘orphans and widows’?”

“They are not widows!” the vicar spat. “They are fallen women, and the men they consort with under this very roof are no better than beggars!”

Darcy’s jaw clenched, but he did not raise his voice. Instead, he turned and gestured to the door. “I think, Reverend, that you have said quite enough. Sir Thomas is a man of unimpeachable honor, and your accusations do nothing but tarnish your own. Kindly see yourself out.”

The vicar stood frozen for a moment, his face reddening with fury, but he seemed to recognize that he was outmatched. He gathered his hat and coat, glaring at Darcy before storming from the room.

Darcy closed the door behind him, the sharp click of the latch echoing in the silence. When he turned back, Sir Thomas sat slumped in his chair, his hands resting heavily on his desk. The firelight cast deep shadows across his face, emphasizing the weariness etched into his features.

“I apologize for the interruption,” Darcy said. “I had not intended to intrude.”

Sir Thomas lifted his gaze, his eyes filled with quiet resignation. “You need not apologize, Darcy. The vicar’s opinions are hardly a secret, though hearing them aloud—in my own home—does little to lessen their sting.”

Darcy hesitated, searching for the right words, but none seemed sufficient. Finally, he gave a small nod. “If there is anything more I can do…”

Sir Thomas waved a hand dismissively. “You have done more than most. Let us leave it at that.”

Darcy inclined his head and exited the room, his thoughts a maelstrom. As he passed Mrs. Jackson in the hall, her gaze met his, and he offered a small, reassuring nod. Her lips trembled, but she returned the gesture before turning away.

It was then, as Darcy ascended the stairs to his own chambers, that the full weight of the vicar’s words struck him. This party was not enough. Goodwill and festivity alone could not undo the damage of years of prejudice and mistrust. Sir Thomas’s people needed more than a single night of acceptance—they needed a future.

Darcy’s steps quickened as a plan began to take shape in his mind.

D arcy folded the thick paper carefully, the ink barely dry, before placing the letter into the envelope and sealing it with his signet. The faint scent of the wax lingered in the room as he pressed his thumb over the seal, ensuring it was set firmly. The task gave him a moment of pause—a brief chance to consider whether he had chosen his words with the necessary balance of formality and urgency.

It had been a few weeks, at least, since he last wrote to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and while the circumstances of the letter were unusual, he knew his cousin would rise to the occasion. Fitzwilliam always had a knack for knowing when Darcy truly meant more than he admitted in writing.

He rang the bell for Roberts, who appeared a moment later at the door.

“This letter is to be sent at once,” Darcy instructed, holding out the sealed missive, along with several coins. “Have it sent express to London. I should like it to reach Colonel Fitzwilliam without delay.”

“Very good, sir,” Roberts replied, taking the letter with his remaining hand and tucking it carefully into his pocket.

Darcy watched him retreat, a flicker of admiration stirring as the man’s determined gait carried him out of the room. Roberts was proof of the resilience Darcy admired in those who resided at Netherfield—proof, too, that Sir Thomas’s efforts were far from misplaced.

Indeed, it was not enough, this party. It would create a momentary reprieve, perhaps even kindle some goodwill within the community—but what then? Would the people here look more kindly upon Sir Thomas and his dependents? Or would the party only serve as further fodder for Meryton’s relentless gossip?

The townspeople had softened, that much was clear. Whispers of the upcoming Christmas revelry had stirred curiosity where once there had been only disdain. The butcher’s hearty assurances, the draper’s enthusiasm, and the baker’s delighted ambition all hinted that the tide might turn. And that was not even to begin speaking of the local gentry who had tendered their acceptance. Yet, the larger question still loomed.

He paused by the window, looking out over the snow-dappled grounds. The air was still, the house unusually quiet, save for the faint echo of children playing with down the hall. Healthy children—children who were safe, with a roof over their heads and full bellies. Children who were not consigned to the workhouse at age five.

He should have been satisfied. They were doing a good thing here. The preparations were progressing, and the hint of the community’s approval seemed just within reach. But approval alone would not sustain what Sir Thomas had built here.

Darcy paced back toward the desk, his eyes dropping to survey the papers scattered before him. Sir Thomas had saved so many—men who had gone on to carve out extraordinary lives, even before this venture at Netherfield. He thought of Watts, the promising solicitor; Pence, now a thriving merchant; and Drummond, who had risen to prominence in the Admiralty. They were but a few of the men who owed their lives to Sir Thomas’s daring.

It was time to call in those debts.

Darcy pulled out fresh paper, his pen moving swiftly across the page. Letters of inquiry, requests for support, names and ideas forming in quick succession. And the more he wrote, the brighter his inspiration burned.

Apprenticeships for soldiers. Partnerships with merchants and tradesmen. Opportunities for the women who sought a new start. Each thought took shape with a clarity that had been eluding him since the idea of the party began.

A knock at the door pulled him from his focus. Bingley appeared, his grin as bright as the afternoon sun. “Darcy, are you hiding in here? Sir Thomas has just inspired Roberts to show Mrs. Bennet the plans for the ballroom, and I fear it may be the end of us all.”

Darcy set down his pen, looking up with the faintest glimmer of amusement. “Is she staging a coup?”

Bingley laughed. “I would not call it that, but she is certainly campaigning for her own vision of Christmas splendor. It involves far more ribbons than I think Sir Thomas anticipated.”

Darcy shook his head, rising. “I shall come at once, if only to prevent utter anarchy.”

As they made their way toward the ballroom, Bingley leaned closer, his voice low. “It is working, Darcy. The town is curious, the plans are coming together—and dare I say, even Sir Thomas is starting to look a bit less gloomy.”

Darcy nodded, a flicker of satisfaction sparking within him. “It is a start.”