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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.
