"But what if it snows, like it did last week?" Bingley asked.
Elizabeth, secretly happening it would, replied patiently, "I am perfectly well, even Dr Thompson said so. Nothing will happen even if the unspeakable should happen and a few wayward flakes fall on my nose."
Bingley smiled; but Jane said, anxiously, "But Lizzy, you are so delicate --"
"I was delicate, but I am well now, Jane," Elizabeth said in exasperation, then feeling the weight of ingratitude, softened her voice. "Please, I have not taken a walk for so long -- and your park is so lovely. I promise, I will take care."
Grudgingly, Jane conceded, and Elizabeth fled out of doors. Baildon was half-again Longbourn's size, but between the Elliot children and Mrs Bennet -- who had grown far more vociferous since the death of her husband -- it seemed so small and confining that she thought she should go mad were she kept inside for another minute. The predicted snowflakes began to fall, and Elizabeth hurried down the path that led into the woods, before Jane could hurry out and usher her back in.
---
Elizabeth was enchanted by the small wood, snow whirling about, catching on her eyelashes and in her hair. Nobody was around to see — so she laughed out loud, twirling around and around. It would not do for a respectable maiden aunt of seven-and-twenty to be seen in such childlike abandon; but she was safe here. The otherworldly sense of — yes, enchantment, that was just the right word — persisted. She was perhaps not in her own world, it did not belong to her — rather the reverse, and who knew who else might belong here?
When she caught sight of a small slender figure, warmly and finely dressed in fur-lined blue, it seemed only part and parcel of the entire bewitchment. The snow crunched underneath Elizabeth's boots, and the child turned to gaze at her soberly. She was, in a distant, ethereal, even cold, fashion, quite, quite lovely — a winter fairy or spirit created out of the enchantment of the day, someone she felt almost that she knew. There was certainly something very familiar about her. Elizabeth laughed at her own fancy and gaily greeted the child, "Good morning."
The little girl blinked, and replied gravely, "Is it? I have not yet decided. My papa says that you will always be dissatisfied if you are not prepared to be pleased, though, and that you cannot be happy unless you try very hard at it, so I think you are right and it is a good day. I do love the snow. Last year I was ill all through the winter and never saw any of it. It was dreadful. But papa says I should be grateful I can see the snow this winter and never mind the last one, because I very nearly died and then I would never have seen any snow again."
"Your father is very wise," Elizabeth replied cheerfully. "Do by any chance know where we are?"
"Oh, yes. Mr Bingley is my god-father but there is so much noise and, and — it is too much. You understand?"
Elizabeth thought of the constant derisive witticisms of Lady Elliot, formerly Miss Bingley; of her mother's incessant complaints; of how she missed her father even after all these months, of how, without the alliance of like minds that had characterised that relationship, even Jane's sweetness and Bingley's amiability wore on her, impatience eating at her. Even despite her growing discontent and disillusionment at home, she had been able to be happy, it was in her nature to be so, regardless of disappointment. But now —
"Yes," she said softly, by instinct reaching out to caress the girl's rosy cheek, "yes, I understand."
The child smiled radiantly, and the sense of familiarity only increased. "That is what papa does!" she cried happily. "And then he says he loves me or kisses me. Papas are very nice, don't you think?"
"Yes, very nice," Elizabeth said, smiling. "I fear I am rather lost. Could you help me find my way back?"
"Oh, yes." Graciously, the little girl offered her small, warm hand, and pulled her along, seeming almost to dance amid the whirling snow. Elizabeth thought, dazedly, that here was the author of the enchantment, there was something about her — she had almost recognised her, she had thought she ought to, ought to know her, and yet it was not — she did not know.
After several minutes, she felt slightly uneasy, not recognising any of the paths the child led her so confidently through. "Are you certain . . ." she began.
Dark plaits flew as she tossed her head, blue eyes sparking icy indignation. Elizabeth knew that look, the proud arch of the brows, the fine striking features, even the slant of the eyes as they flashed in disdain. She remembered watching as her cousin bowed and scraped, waves of humiliation blunting her joy for a beloved sister — and then meeting those same eyes, with the same expression, from across the room, and the sharp unreasonable anguish of the moment broken by a sudden brilliant smile.
"Of course I am certain," the little girl replied haughtily, marching forward with utter confidence.
Yes, she ought to have known her, known by her own feelings of half-reluctant fascination — known at least that no-one else's child could share such manners, gracious and imperious in equal measure. The connection made, the little girl tugged at her heart even more, as her own nieces and nephews could not, even as she pulled her forward, towards the house just made visible through the trees.
Then the tight grip slackened, there was a whirl of deep blue out of the corner of her eye — whether a child's dress or man's coat, she could not tell — and warm laughter rang out from this most unlikely source.
"Papa!" the cry of delight came.
Elizabeth gathered her courage and turned, with a smile, to face the pair. She had expected, she had thought, that the enchantment would break then, that she would be pulled back to earth with a sharply unpleasant jolt; but it was not like that at all. The little girl, clinging to her father's side, long limbs dangling down haphazardly, still seemed the half-fairy creature who had dropped into this world, lightning out of a clear sky — and he was himself and yet he belonged as well, almost as well as he belonged at Pemberley.
It was like Pemberley, all over again, only that bit less awkward. She blushed and exclaimed, "Mr Darcy!" His colour was nearly as high when he returned the greeting. Otherwise he appeared very much as he ever had.
"Miss Bennet, this is an unexpected pleasure," he said earnestly, his eyes intent on her. The small Miss Darcy tightened her grip about her father's neck, contentedly pressing her cheek against his coat. Elizabeth wondered if it was very silly to envy the liberties a small girl might take with her father. "You are Miss Bennet still?" he added, his expression gaining something of trepidation.
Elizabeth smiled. "Yes, thank you, sir."
"I — " he glanced down at his daughter, and smiled involuntarily. "I see that you have met my Anne."
"I have." Elizabeth turned her gaze on the child, and addressed her once more. "Thank you, Miss Darcy, for your kindness in helping me. I was quite lost, you see," she explained to the bemused Mr Darcy, "and your daughter was good enough to help me find my way."
"You're welcome," Anne replied sleepily. "You are much nicer than Lady Elliot, Miss Bennet, she always fusses just because her brother is my god-father."
Elizabeth could not keep her brows from quirking a little. She thought she could think of a few more reasons that Lady Elliot might fuss over Miss Darcy, particularly if Sir Walter was in as poor health as Jane said. It seemed that Mr Darcy could as well by the sudden deepening of his colour. "Anne," he said halfheartedly, "you should not speak about Mr Bingley's sister in such a fashion."
"Why not, papa? She is unkind, I have heard the servants — "
"And you most certainly should not repeat servants' gossip," he interrupted, suddenly very stern. Anne pouted and pressed her cold nose into her father's neck. Elizabeth could not conceal her smile at this, and, rather awkwardly, he smiled back. "It is very cold, we should probably return to the house," he said, and added hesitantly, "May I escort you in, Miss Bennet?"
She knew the quality of her expression changed perhaps too much at this, she ought not to be so happy at mere politesse. But it was an indescribably lovely day; and Christmas was approaching quickly; and she felt happiness, glimmering and vast, so close, she could almost touch it. Her smile deepened.
"I would be honoured, Mr Darcy."
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