Snowbound with Darcy

by Caitlin Marie Carrington

  Mrs. Bennet whirled on Mr. Collins, so swiftly and with so much purpose that he backed up instinctively. He moved so quickly to get away from Mrs. Bennet, that he tripped over a chair and fell to the floor with a loud thud.

  “Have you asked her yet?” she hissed, standing over the fallen man, who was rubbing his backside and making no move to stand up again.

  “I was in the process of doing so! She has rejected me once, but I am well aware that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favor.”

  Mr. Bennet groaned and looked Heavenward. “Mrs. Bennet, what have you done?”

  “What have I done? What has she done?” her mother cried. “Lizzy, you have ruined all my plans! Say yes to Mr. Collins and make me the happiest of women. Immediately!”

  Mr. Collins slowly pulled himself up, still addressing the room. “Sometimes the refusal is repeated for a second or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what Elizabeth has just said. I am sure we shall both be at the altar, ’ere long!”

  Elizabeth stared at the man in horror, then turned to her parents. “Mama, I cannot marry Mr. Collins. I am sure I would not be able to make him happy. And I know he could not make me so.”

  “Happy? What is this happiness you speak of? You foolish, selfish girl. Will you be happy if you are unmarried, destitute and without a home? Will you be happy if you forfeit your family’s estate? If you do not accept him this instant, I will never speak to you again!”

  While Elizabeth could easily jest about this being a blessing, in truth her mother’s words stung. They hurt, like small daggers all along her heart. She turned to face her father, tears in her eyes. “Papa?” she said.

  “There, there,” he sighed, “Go take a walk, Lizzy. I will speak to your mother.” He voice darkened as he stared at the young man in the room. “And your cousin.”

  “Speak to me! You will do no such thing! Lizzy, no one will ever offer for you if you turn Mr. Collins down. How dare you say no, to keeping Longbourn in the family. You selfish, horrible child!”

  “Mama, please—”

  “Your father will die and we will be without a home, all thanks to you!”

  Even Mr. Collins withdrew from the venom in Mrs. Bennet’s voice. Her father turned toward his wife, his typical, withdrawn demeanor utterly changed. “You have no idea what has been going on here, over the past few days!” Mr. Bennet shouted. “You are blind, woman. If only you had consulted me first...”

  Elizabeth could bear no more. She flew from the room, determined not to let her mother or Mr. Collins see her cry. Behind her, she heard her father berating her mother, but she could not pay attention to his words.

  Elizabeth flew down the hall, slowing only when she passed the open music room. Inside, Caroline Bingley was singing and Mary was grudgingly accompanying her on the pianoforte. They paid her no heed, and Elizabeth walked faster and faster. Next she passed the yellow parlor, and Elizabeth saw a flash of gray and blue—Mr. Darcy, near the window—but she pressed on.

  She had to get out of here, away from Netherfield and her family and—and everyone and everything. At home, she was known to leave the house early and go for early morning walks. Her father was right; a good, proper walk would clear her head.

  Lizzy found herself near the kitchens, and the hallway to the servants’ quarters upstairs. She walked unnoticed, up to the back door. She knew that finally, today, the sun was shining. The snow had stopped and now the world was simply quiet and white.

  And there were a pair of boots and a thick cloak, hanging on a hook by the door. The boots were wet, snow slowly melting off of their soles and into puddles on the floor. Whomever had used them was inside now.

  “It’s not thievery if I’m only borrowing them,” Lizzy whispered. She realized she was shaking, and that her cheeks were wet. But she could not stop. She simply had to get out of here.

  She pulled off her own walking boots, which while sturdy, did not compare to the ones on the floor. She slipped one stocking-clad foot inside, and was pleased to find they were only a little big.

  A maid came upon her, gasping and almost dropping a tray of tea. “Ma’am?” the girl said.

  “Do you mind terribly, if I borrow these?” Elizabeth said.

  “They’re Miss Houston’s, Ma’am. She’s one of the cooks. I’m sure you could take them, but it’s terribly cold outside.”

  “Thank you. Thank you ever so much.” Elizabeth drew the cloak around her and tightened the boots, ignoring the poor girl’s horrified expression. “I’m only going for a quick walk. It’s fine, really. I do it all the time.”

  Elizabeth smiled gamely and finally the girl shrugged and said, “We’ll have hot tea for you when you return, if you like.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Elizabeth said. She felt like the automaton that had been featured in one of the Gothic novels Kitty and Lydia devoured; she was moving and speaking but could not seem to connect her brain to her actions.

  And then her body was out the door, and into the bracing cold and bright sunlight.

  Elizabeth ran a few paces on the packed snow and then stopped, sobbing. She allowed herself a moment to cry, then furiously wiped her cheeks. It was a beautiful day. The world was still snow-covered, but the sky was as blue as could be, and the sun sparkled and all the snow shone like a field of miniature diamonds.

  And, it wasn’t that cold.

  Elizabeth walked as far as the packed-down path led, which was only over the verandah and down to the edge of the wilderness. Beyond that, the grounds grew more wild, though Lizzy knew whomever had designed the gardens had carefully structured walkways and vistas.

  They had all been obliterated under the snow, however. And isn’t that how it should be? she thought. Men—men were foolish. And arrogant. To think they could control the natural world.

  She liked the true wilderness better, she decided, even as she stumbled into a snowbank. But her borrowed boots were warm and went all the way up to her knees, and her borrowed cloak was thick and fell to her ankles. She put up the hood and felt better as she trudged further from the house. She could not walk as quickly as she typically did, but that was half the fun.

  The breathlessness, the work of it all. The bracing, freezing cold of the air coming into her lungs. The feeling of being alive, alive no matter what—no matter if she were engaged to Mr. Collins, or kissing Mr. Darcy, or far, far away from everyone.

  Let me just get lost, for a little while, she thought.

  And so she did.

  Darcy

  “Darcy, have you heard a thing I’ve said?”

  Darcy turned and stared at Bingley, who was pacing in front of the fireplace. They were in a small parlor with a drafty fireplace and older furniture, and Darcy had the feeling Bingley was hiding from his sisters.

  “I’m sorry, Bingley. You were speaking of…Miss Bennet?”

  “You are guessing!” Bingley accused, but he was too good-natured to be upset for more than a moment. “And you are correct. You are too clever for me, old friend.”

  “She is all you speak of,” Darcy said, smiling. “I can’t claim cleverness by guessing she is the topic of our conversation, I can only beg your apology that I was not listening.”

  Darcy glanced again at the doorway. He had just seen Miss Elizabeth walk by—run really. Had she looked upset?

  Bingley nodded at Darcy’s words and began pacing again. “So, do you think it a good idea?”

  She had been upset. Darcy could feel it. “Is what a good idea?”

  Bingley stopped suddenly, his boots clacking against the floor and his arms spreading wide with exasperation. “Me, making an offer for Miss Bennet!”

  Darcy stared down at his own boots, perfectly polished. They shone so well he could almost see his reflection in them. They were just like everything else in his life: perfectly appropriate and perfectly maintained. Someone else had purchased them,
knowing what a man of his station should wear. His valet buffed them and kept them in order.

  Everything in his life was orderly, stately, clean and supposedly perfect. But—none of it made him happy. He had no spark. He’d had no…challenges. He’d allowed his world to become a rarified bubble of expectations met and maintained.

  Where was the joy in that?

  In his mind’s eye, he saw Elizabeth’s face as she’d appeared so quickly in the doorway. Then she’d disappeared. Just like in his life: what chance, what fate, had caused him to come here, now? He’d almost told Bingley to look closer to London for an estate. How easily they could have done that.

  How easily he could have chosen another path, and never met Elizabeth Bennet.

  “Darcy? Good God, don’t keep me in suspense. I want to marry Jane. You’ve always guided me. Would you give your blessing to this match?”

  Darcy took a deep breath and shook his head slightly. What had Elizabeth been upset about, when she flew by the doorway? “Her family is problematic. When I first observed them at your ball, I found her younger sisters to be undisciplined. Her mother and father also showed a lack of restraint and manners. Though Mr. Bennet is a gentleman, I am sure I have no need to point out that his means of supporting his family are inferior to yours.”

  Bingley colored and crossed his arms, but stood silent, waiting for Darcy to finish his assessment.

  “I’ve upset you.”

  “You speak the truth.” Bingley struggled to remain calm, his cheeks turning nearly as red as his hair. He dropped his head and studied the floor. “And I asked for it.”

  Darcy paused, thinking of Elizabeth. Where had she been going to?

  Had she been in distress?

  “I present you with facts,” Darcy said slowly. “But the truth is greater than those individual statements.”

  Bingley looked up, startled. “Yes?”

  “Yes. If you had asked me last month—last week, even—I would have advised you against the match.” Darcy paused again. Elizabeth had been rushing toward the kitchens, but she had not yet returned down this hallway. He began to feel more than curious.

  He began to worry.

  “Darcy, if you can’t speak any faster, I shall be forced to throttle you. Don’t hold me in suspense! I cannot bear it.”

  Darcy stood and walked toward the open doors. He glanced out into the long hallway.

  It was empty.

  “This goes toward the kitchens, yes?” he asked, pointing in the direction Elizabeth had run.

  “What? Yes. There’s the kitchens, and the stairs to the servants’ quarters. Oh, and a door to the back of the house and the herb gardens. But—what are you talking about?”

  Darcy turned around and stared at his friend, and then surprised him with a wide, open smile. “The truth is that Jane Bennet makes you happy, and you love her. And if she loves you, you have the means to ignore all my other, smaller, petty considerations. Make her an offer, Bingley. And may she make you the happiest of men.”

  “Why—thank you! Thank you, Darcy! But I say, where are you going?”

  Darcy walked swiftly down the hallway. He could not ignore the growing sense of unease that had taken over his being.

  “Darcy? Darcy! Where you off to, man?”

  “I’ll be back shortly,” he called out, not bothering to turn around and check on Bingley. He had no time. Something in him urged him on: Go, go now. Find her.

  “But what are you doing?” Bingley cried.

  What was he doing? Darcy didn’t answer, not out loud, as he strode faster and faster down the hallway. Soon the passageway ended in a small foyer. He could hear the cook in the kitchen, through the door to his right. A plain stairway ran up to the servants’ quarters, as Bingley had said. And there was a large, oak door with a small window near the top, showing the glittering white world outside. And beyond—he could see the horizon, where darker clouds were gathering. In fact, the day had gone from bright white to an ominous gray.

  “Sir?” A young maid stopped suddenly on her way downstairs, shocked to see him standing there.

  He turned, feeling like a fool, but he had to ask. “Have you seen a young lady come this way? Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

  To his surprise, the girl immediately nodded. “Yes, Sir. I do believe it was Miss Elizabeth—Miss Jane’s pretty sister, yes?”

  “Yes.” Darcy’s voice sounded strangled when he spoke. “Yes, is she in the kitchens?”

  “No, Sir.” The maid glanced toward a set of hooks on the wall. “Why, that’s odd. She borrowed a cloak and boots, but that was at least half an hour ago. I thought she would have been back by now.”

  “Where did she go?” Darcy could hear a thundering in his ears, like his heartbeat had gone out of control. Like warning drums, in the distance.

  The maid shrugged. “I’ve no idea, Sir. Just…outside.”

  Darcy put his hand on the door, ready to race out into the frozen world. But no, he had to think. He needed clothing, and he’d have a few other men come out with him to search for her. He hoped he was wrong; he hoped this dire, gnawing feeling in his gut was nothing more than his imagination. As he thanked the maid and turned, running back down the hall and up to his room, as he called for his valet, he hoped that he would find a flushed but hale and happy Elizabeth, walking a trail nearby.

  He could imagine her gentle ire and laughter, as he and four or five poor footmen discovered her. He could imagine her witty remarks. He could see her staring at him, searching his eyes, wondering why he had come to find her.

  She would know soon enough, he thought, as his valet found his thickest greatcoat and sent word for help. She would see it in his eyes, when he found her—that he was as wild for her as Bingley was for Jane.

  More so.

  That he would make her an offer.

  That he would do anything for her, including gathering an army and heading out into the storm. He pulled his boots on and grabbed his sealskin hat, running downstairs and once again staring out that small, cold window near the kitchen door. The day was darker, and fresh snow was beginning to fall now. His valet told him that four footmen would be here presently; they were getting their coats and boots. Bingley was on his way, as well.

  “Have them follow my footsteps,” Darcy said, pushing the door open. A blast of freezing air greeted them.

  “Mr. Darcy, please—just wait five minutes!” his valet urged.

  “I can’t,” Darcy said. “Have them find me. I’ve got to find her. Now.”

  And then he was outside, the white world turning grey and dark. The snow that fell now was cold and small and hard, on the verge of hail. It stung his eyes and face, but he moved forward. There! There, he could just see footprints. They’d be covered with fresh snow soon enough, but for now, he could track her.

  He just prayed—he just prayed he could find her. For he had the most terrifying feeling that she was already lost…to him, and to the world.

  Elizabeth

  She could no longer feel her legs.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes, her nails digging into the ice. What a fool I’ve been, she thought for the thousandth time. She could not feel her toes, or her feet. She could not tell if she still wore the boots she had borrowed, or if she had somehow kicked them off her feet, once she had fallen through the ice.

  God, help me, she prayed. I will never be so headstrong again.

  She tried to shout for help, but she was so very tired.

  She had felt so wonderful when she first began walking. Despite the cold, the world was quiet and white and magical. She felt like she was the last person on Earth, or like she was entering a fairy realm.

  And it had been bliss.

  She had always thought best on her feet. She was accustomed to rising before all her sisters and walking a few miles, almost every morning. But she was not accustomed to Netherfield’s grounds.

  Or to knee-high snow. Waist-high, in some areas. Elizabeth thought she had been following a p
ath from the great house, northwest to a folly. She hadn’t actually cared where she was going, she just wanted to move.

  To be free—from her mother’s demands, Mr. Collins’ expectations—

  And Mr. Darcy.

  It had worked, almost. The further she had walked, the less she heard her mother and Mr. Collins’ voices in her head. They receded, along with Netherfield behind her. She could almost—almost—forget the horrible proposal had happened at all.

  But.

  She could not forget Mr. Darcy. The further she walked, the more his visage came to mind. Underneath silent, ice-bound tree boughs, she could not help but think of his stiff and frozen exterior. But as she turned and followed a copse of trees, his proud behavior and early, dismissive remarks to her person fell from the wayside, just as snow began to fall from the darkening sky above.

  He was not proud—well, he was a proud man. But in a different sort of way than she had first thought. She had thought him to be conscious of his wealth and social standing, a snob who looked down on the mere mortals like herself and all her neighbors.

  And she thought he had been cruel to Wickham.

  But now she knew the truth. He was kind. He was caring. He was, if anything, a bit guarded and shy—but not with her. As she had struggled to cross a small clearing, the snow thick and clinging to her cloak, she had felt a sudden warmth bloom in her heart. Mr. Darcy had spoken honestly and freely with her. He had bared his heart to her…

  Only to her.

  He had held her hand.

  Elizabeth had closed her eyes, overcome with a strange, clutching feeling in her chest. It was almost painful. It was—

  It could not be, but it was almost as if she was…falling in love with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  And then the ground gave a great creak, and a sudden cracking noise filled the clearing’s cold, still air, and then the bottom fell out of the world—

  And Elizabeth plunged straight down into the wet, icy depths of a river.

  She had screamed. She was sure she had screamed at first. Thank God—miracle of miracles—there was somehow another ledge of ice below. She had landed on it, her boots scrabbling against it, and the freezing-cold current. At first, she had thought it was a submerged rock, but when she finally had the presence of mind to look down, she could see it was another sheet of ice…