A Pemberley Christmas Gathering (Pride and Prejudice Christmas Romantic Variation)

CHAPTER ONE

THE CARRIAGE ROLLED steadily along the winding road from Lambton toward Pemberley.

On either side, the fields lay white and still beneath a delicate veil of snow, and the low winter sun cast a pale gleam over bare hedgerows and dark, leafless trees.

Within, the five Bennet sisters sat close together, wrapped in shawls and pelisses, the steady motion lulling all but Lydia into quiet reflection.

Elizabeth wore a faint smile but did not speak. Her gaze wandered to the window, where soft flakes drifted lazily against the glass. The countryside lay hushed beneath its delicate veil of white, and the sound of the horses’ hooves came muffled through the snow.

They had quitted Lambton scarce a quarter of an hour earlier, after Mrs. Gardiner had shown them the neat stone cottage where she had spent her girlhood, her eyes misty with tender recollection.

The scene had brought vividly to Elizabeth’s mind her aunt’s account from the summer past, when she had first visited Pemberley and spoken of the same happy days.

Now they were bound for that great estate, so often praised in the neighbourhood, before returning south to London for Christmas with the Gardiners.

It had been Mrs. Gardiner’s wish to gather the entire Bennet family for the holiday, hoping the harmony of the season might soothe the troubles left from the summer past. Lydia had come to Longbourn early in December, laughing and boastful, blind to the shame she had caused.

For her sisters’ sake, and for the Gardiners’, Elizabeth had schooled her heart to calm.

“I do not see what is so wonderful about Pemberley,” Lydia Wickham declared at last, tossing back her curls.

“Wickham has told me everything about it. He lived there for the first eighteen years of his life and says the place is full of rules and dull formality. He insists Mr. Darcy was as proud then as when he came to Hertfordshire.”

Mary lifted her eyes from the small volume in her hand. “If Mr. Wickham had been less eager to escape those rules, he might have spared others considerable trouble.”

Kitty laughed behind her glove. “Mary, you are dreadful.”

“I am truthful,” Mary replied serenely, and would have continued had Jane not spoken with her gentle composure.

“Come, my dears, it is nearly Christmas. Let us be happy that we are together again.”

Lydia shrugged. “I am perfectly happy, only I think it silly to drive so far in the cold merely to look at a house.”

Kitty leaned forward, her nose near the glass. “Do you think we shall truly see it? Aunt said there was a great lake and gardens that stretch for miles.”

Jane smiled. “We shall see it, if the snow holds off.”

Elizabeth’s heart gave a small, uneven beat. “Aunt speaks no falsehood. When I saw it in summer, it was the most beautiful place I had ever beheld. The woods, the stream, the house reflected in the water... it seemed a world apart.”

Jane glanced at her with a look both gentle and knowing. Elizabeth coloured and turned again to the window, though she saw little beyond the softly falling snow.

Her thoughts wandered back to those uneasy weeks after Lydia’s return to Longbourn as a married woman.

How often her youngest sister had boasted—carelessly, foolishly—of the romantic adventure that had led to her wedding with Mr. Wickham.

Lydia had spoken with such pride, such blithe ignorance of the danger she had been in.

And Elizabeth remembered, with a pang, the moment Lydia had first let slip that Mr. Darcy had been present at the wedding, during Lydia’s first visit home—nearly two months after her marriage, and a month after Elizabeth’s return from Pemberley.

Lydia had mentioned it without thought, tossing his name into the tale as if it were nothing.

But to Elizabeth, it had been a lightning strike—shocking, impossible, and utterly unexplainable.

Now, only she knew the truth behind that careless revelation. Remembering Lydia’s thoughtless triumph, and Darcy’s quiet sacrifice, pricked Elizabeth’s heart more keenly than ever.

Kitty's hesitant voice broke through her reverie. "Now that we are going to Pemberley, I must say Mr Darcy is rather a puzzle. He was so very proud and disagreeable when we knew him in Hertfordshire, yet Lizzy returned from her summer travels insisting he was quite altered and far better behaved."

"Oh, pooh," Lydia replied carelessly, "Wickham says he can be civil enough when it suits him."

Elizabeth's lips parted as though to speak, then pressed closed again.

She waited until Lydia had turned back to chatter with Kitty, and Mary had returned to her book.

Leaning closer to Jane, she lowered her voice to barely more than a whisper.

"Lydia repeats a great deal of poison that Mr Wickham told her about Mr Darcy, though she understands nothing of the truth.

It was Mr Darcy who found them in London, Jane.

He who secured the marriage and made it possible. Aunt Gardiner told me everything."

Jane's eyes widened in astonishment, though she recovered quickly enough not to draw attention. "Lizzy," she breathed, "you never spoke a word of this to me."

“He made them promise secrecy,” Elizabeth murmured. “Aunt Gardiner told me only because I pressed her for the truth, and she bade me tell no one... save perhaps you at most.”

“Do Papa and mama know?”

“No. I doubt Lydia knows the details either.”

Jane’s expression softened. “Then he is a far better man than we believed.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Far better.”

For a moment they were silent. The steady rhythm of the carriage wheels and the soft thud of hooves upon the snow filled the air between them.

At length Jane spoke again, her voice gentle. “Are you anxious to see him, since you have not done so since you were here in the summer?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No.” The word came too quickly. “He mentioned then that he meant to spend Christmas in Kent with his sister.”

A thoughtful silence followed.

“Perhaps,” Jane said at last, her tone wistful, “if he had returned to Hertfordshire...”

Elizabeth’s heart tightened. She had thought the same more times than she could count.

She had hoped, even prayed, that he might return, that she might have the chance to thank him—for everything and more.

Foolish hope. Men rarely renewed affections once rejected.

Yet still she had dreamed of it, dreamed of hearing his voice again.

But days had become weeks, and then months, and neither he nor his friend Mr. Bingley had come back to Hertfordshire.

“Perhaps if either of them had returned,” she said softly, “the story might have been different.”

Jane smiled faintly. “Perhaps.”

Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hand affectionately, understanding her loss of words well enough.

When she had last seen Mr. Bingley at Pemberley in the summer, she had believed it likely that Mr. Darcy had spoken to him of his former opinion concerning Jane’s attachment, for his inquiries after her had been marked by a warmth that lingered.

She had nearly ventured to ask why he had not sought Jane out in London, but his manner held a certain reserve, and the moment offered no proper opening for such a question.

“I know you miss him,” Elizabeth said at length, her voice low and kind.

Jane’s eyes softened, though her smile was tinged with sadness. “I have not seen him since he quitted Hertfordshire. I do miss him, I confess it. Yet since he neither returned nor wrote, I must believe he wished it so. I daresay, Lizzy, you must miss Mr. Darcy in much the same way.”

Elizabeth coloured and gave a little laugh. “You will make me quite sentimental. I do not know what I feel—gratitude, certainly, and perhaps something... I cannot name.”

Jane’s only answer was a tender smile.

Kitty, who had wearied of Lydia’s chatter, turned to the window. “The snow is falling faster now. Do you think we shall be delayed?”

Mary looked up briefly. “Nonsense. The road from Lambton is less than an hour’s drive. With the snow, perhaps a little more. We shall look about and be back before supper.”

Jane smiled. “There, Kitty, you see—nothing to dread.”

Elizabeth’s lips curved faintly, though her heart would not be still.

Outside, the flakes drifted in gentle spirals, bright against the dimming sky.

What had begun as a light dusting now fell more steadily, each flake larger, slower, as though the air itself were thickening with silence.

It was still soft and harmless, yet she felt that curious weight of anticipation that sometimes comes before a change one cannot quite name.

Beyond the next rise lay Pemberley, hidden for the moment by the whitening hills. The very name made her pulse quicken, though she could not have said why.

***

The Second Carriage followed at a steadier pace, its passengers in lively conversation.

Mr. Gardiner sat opposite his wife, good humour in his expression, while beside him Mr. Bennet appeared content to let the world roll by, only rousing himself when the conversation grew too absurd to ignore.

Mrs. Gardiner was warmly wrapped and placid; Mrs. Bennet, in contrast, had declared herself half-frozen before they had quitted Lambton.

“Oh, my nerves! They shall be the death of me before this journey is over,” she cried, pressing her hand to her breast. “It was very obliging of you, my dear brother, to bring us north, but I cannot conceive why we must drive all this way merely to stare at a house. I dare say it will be shut up and gloomy, like all great houses in winter.”

“My dear sister,” said Mr. Gardiner cheerfully, “I give you my word no one shall perish of cold in my carriage. And if the house be closed, we shall still admire it from without and count ourselves the wiser for having seen it.”

“That will never do,” Mrs. Bennet protested.

“Lizzy told me so much of Pemberley when she was here in the summer that I could not rest until I saw it for myself. She said the grounds were very fine, with hills and streams and a lake that shines like silver. I declare, I have thought of little else since. It quite puts one in mind of the grand estates in novels.”

“Then you must compose a novel of your own, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet. “You already possess an imagination equal to the task.”

Mrs. Bennet frowned. “You are pleased to be witty, but I mean to compare Pemberley with Netherfield. I do not believe it can surpass Mr. Bingley’s house for comfort, though I am sure it will be grander. I only wish Mr. Bingley would return to it. It is such a pity to see a fine estate stand empty.”

Mr. Bennet looked amused. “Perhaps news of our youngest daughter’s adventures discouraged him. Few men, I suspect, are eager to ally themselves with a family celebrated for its elopements.”

“Mr. Bennet!” cried his wife, horrified. “How can you speak so of your own child?”

“With perfect ease,” he replied, “for it spares others the trouble.”

Mr. Gardiner bit back a smile, while Mrs. Gardiner shook her head with good-natured reproach. “You are very unjust, sir. Lydia’s marriage has been most regular—at last.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Bennet gravely. “I believe it to be the most regular of her actions.”

Mrs. Bennet gasped. “You make a jest of everything. It is very unfeeling of you, when I am sure I suffered more from that affair than anyone. My nerves were in a shocking state for weeks. But all is well now, and I am determined to be cheerful. I will not have this journey spoilt by unpleasant recollections.”

“Then I beg you, my dear, not to recall them,” said Mr. Bennet, “for my nerves are far less robust than yours.”

Mr. Gardiner laughed outright, and even Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “You must forgive him, Mrs. Bennet,” she said kindly. “He only speaks so when he is content.”

“I know it very well,” Mrs. Bennet huffed, though a small smile betrayed her satisfaction. “But he will be sorry for his teasing when Mr. Bingley comes back and marries Jane after all.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Bennet, leaning back with mock gravity, “that happy event must surely follow the thaw.”

Mrs. Gardiner caught her husband’s eye, her smile fond. “You see, Mr. Bennet will not be satisfied until every topic ends in a jest.”

“It is my only defence,” he replied. “When surrounded by such high spirits, a man must either laugh or go mad.”

They all laughed, and for a few moments the little carriage seemed very cheerful indeed.

Presently Mrs. Gardiner, glancing toward the window, said with a smile, “The snow falls prettily, does it not? I wonder whether the children are at play in it. They were wild to see snowflakes when we left London.”

“I daresay they are throwing it at one another already,” said Mr. Gardiner with a fond laugh. “Poor Mrs. Willis will have a time keeping order.”

“Oh, I hope she lets them have their fun,” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “They will sleep the sounder for it.”

“I do not know how you can bear to be parted from them, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet with a sigh. “When our girls were that age, I could never rest easy upon a journey until I had seen them again with my own eyes. My heart fluttered the whole time.”

Mr. Bennet smiled. “Indeed it did, my dear. And yet somehow it fluttered loudest when we stopped at inns, particularly those with the finest dining rooms.”

Mrs. Gardiner laughed aloud, Mr. Gardiner hid his amusement behind a cough, and even Mrs. Bennet, though she gave her husband a reproving look, could not entirely suppress a smile.

The carriage rolled on, the laughter fading into the soft hush of the afternoon.

Outside, the snow that had drifted so prettily before now fell in thicker flakes, gathering upon the horses’ backs and blurring the lines of hedge and hill.

The light, too, seemed to dim a little, though whether from the hour or the weather none could tell.

Still, the company within remained easy and untroubled, speaking of Christmas and family and home, while the road wound steadily upward toward the hills where the other carriage had already passed from view.