CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE CANDLES WERE lit early that evening, as though Pemberley itself wished to guard its light against the winter’s insistence.
The drawing room had been altered for the occasion: greenery upon the mantel, tapers placed with quiet symmetry, and the chairs drawn closer to the fire.
On a small table near the pianoforte lay a neat stack of hymnals, arranged with the same care that governed every corner of the house.
The room, transformed while they dined, seemed softer now, touched by something almost reverent. Elizabeth paused at the threshold, struck by its simple beauty.
“Georgiana and Mrs Reynolds have done a splendid job,” she whispered absently.
Mrs Bennet clasped her hands. “How charming, how very charming! One might think oneself in a little chapel.”
Lady Catherine, already seated in imperious state, gave a small sniff. “It is not a chapel, Mrs Bennet. Pemberley is not a place of worship.”
“No,” said Mr Bennet mildly, “but God is everywhere, I believe.”
Mrs Gardiner turned her head in polite alarm, though her eyes betrayed amusement.
Mr Collins, standing stiffly beside the hymnals, looked uncertain where to cast his allegiance. His patroness’s dignity forbade agreement with Mr Bennet, yet his cousin’s gravity demanded respect. He contrived a smile and cleared his throat with solemn authority.
"Your ladyship is perfectly correct," he began, "yet it is surely proper that a household of consequence should observe the sacredness of the season with suitable reflection.
After all, the reason for the season is that God came to dwell with men.
" He paused, then added with studied humility, "I would be honoured to lead the prayers, if Mr Darcy permits. "
Darcy, who had been speaking quietly with his sister, turned at once. His expression was composed, though Elizabeth, watching him, saw a faint tightening about his mouth.
“We shall sing first,” he said evenly. “Afterwards, Mr Collins, you may offer a short prayer, if you wish.”
“A short prayer,” murmured Mr Bennet. “A pleasing novelty.”
Charlotte’s eyes closed briefly as though in silent entreaty, then she took her seat with composure.
Georgiana went to the pianoforte and sat down with shy assurance.
Mary stood near with a violin, her posture very erect, her expression fervent.
Kitty and Lydia hovered close together, whispering and suppressing laughter, while Mr Bingley followed Jane to a comfortable seat.
Mrs Hurst looked resigned to the effort of singing; Captain Ashford remained standing, good-humoured and observant; and Colonel Fitzwilliam settled near his cousin.
Miss Bingley, Elizabeth noted, had secured the place nearest the pianoforte, where she might be seen and heard to the best advantage.
Perhaps for want of anticipating a carol evening at Pemberley, there were but few hymnals available.
Elizabeth glanced about and saw that most had already been claimed—Jane shared one with Mr Bingley, her parents had taken another, and the remaining guests had paired themselves accordingly.
She took what appeared to be the last volume and opened it, prepared to manage alone.
"Miss Bennet." Darcy familiar voice said as he approached her. "We seem to be short of hymnals. May I share yours?"
It would have been churlish to refuse, and indeed there was no alternative that would not leave one of them standing idle. "Certainly, sir," she said, her tone calm though she felt the attention of the room upon them.
She held the book between them, and he stepped closer to read from the same page.
They stood side by side, the hymnal a necessary bridge between propriety and proximity.
She was acutely aware of him—of his stillness, his nearness, and the quiet attention with which he regarded both the printed words and, she suspected, her.
Georgiana struck the opening chord.
The company began to sing. The first carol was well known, and soon the uneven voices found a common sound.
Jane’s clear tone gave sweetness; Mr Bingley joined her with cheerful ease; Mrs Bennet sang with more zeal than accuracy; Colonel Fitzwilliam lent a respectable baritone; and Mr Gardiner followed with quiet precision.
Mary’s voice rose above them all, solemn and forceful, as though the salvation of the household depended upon her example. Lydia turned her head, eyes wide with mischief, and whispered something into Kitty’s ear that produced an immediate fit of suppressed laughter.
Mr Bennet leaned towards Mrs Gardiner. “Mary is a great advocate for devotion, you see. She will not allow even a note to stray uncorrected.”
Mrs Gardiner’s smile trembled. “It is a comfort to know that virtue may be so easily heard.”
Elizabeth stifled a laugh, yet beside her she glimpsed Darcy’s mouth curve slightly. It was not the polite smile he reserved for company but something quieter, as though meant for her alone.
As they continued, Elizabeth became aware of another thing entirely—the warmth and depth of his voice.
She had never imagined him capable of such gentleness in sound.
His tone blended with hers so naturally that she felt, rather than heard, the accord between them.
It was nothing, she told herself, only a hymn, only a happy chance of pitch.
Yet the sense of harmony lingered, a strange comfort that defied explanation.
When the first four songs were finished, Georgiana began another without waiting for the applause that followed.
It was Joy to the World, though played more slowly than its usual cheerful measure.
The carol’s brightness was softened to something quieter, almost solemn.
Even Mary gentled her tone, though her earnestness did not waver.
Elizabeth’s gaze fell to the page, then rose of its own accord. Darcy’s eyes were lowered, yet some consciousness seemed to rest between them, an awareness that unsettled her in ways she would not name.
As soon as the hymn concluded, Miss Bingley, perceiving that the company’s attention had not been hers for the greater part of the evening, rose with theatrical grace. “I believe,” she declared, “that a solo would complete the evening—perhaps a favourite of mine.”
Georgiana looked uncertain, but she flashed a smile. “Would you care to play, Miss Bingley?”
“If you please,” Caroline replied at once, moving to the pianoforte with a rustle of silk. “It is Christmas, after all; we must allow a little refinement.”
Mrs Hurst nodded approvingly.
Miss Bingley seated herself, adjusted the candlelight, and began with studied composure a rendition of I Saw Three Ships.
Her voice, though earnest, trembled where it ought to rest and soared where it should have eased.
Several of the party bent their heads over their hymnals with sudden devotion, while Mr Hurst maintained an expression of perfect vacancy.
Mr Bennet did not laugh, which Elizabeth considered an act of rare restraint.
When the performance ended, applause followed—polite, uncertain. Miss Bingley accepted it with the dignity of one who has sung before a king.
“How beautiful,” cried Mrs Bennet. “Truly beautiful.”
“Indeed,” said Mr Bennet under his breath, “beauty has many forms.”
Darcy’s eyes met Elizabeth’s, and for a moment they shared an understanding that required no words.
When the music at last subsided, the company began to stir. Darcy turned slightly toward her, his voice low enough for her alone.
"What think you, Miss Bennet, of 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'? An extraordinary courtship, is it not, to bestow so many fowls upon one lady?"
“It was not only birds, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth laughed, wondering if she had ever truly heard him jest. “There were other gifts as well—the nine ladies dancing, the eleven pipers piping. I think it speaks either of devotion or of very poor imagination, sir, and I am not yet decided which.”
He laughed quietly. “Then I shall hope to prove the first without falling into the second.”
Before she could reply, Captain Ashford approached with his easy confidence. He bowed to Darcy, who returned the courtesy, and then addressed her.
“Miss Bennet,” said he, drawing a small volume from his coat, “I hope you will accept this. It is but a little book of poetry, nothing of consequence, yet it has kept me company in dull quarters. I beg you take it as a small remembrance of the season.”
Mrs Bennet, who had been watching with open interest, leaned forward immediately. “How very pretty. How very thoughtful.”
Jane’s eyes softened with curiosity, Kitty’s sparkled, and Lydia looked ready to say something inappropriate.
Elizabeth felt every eye upon her as she accepted the book. “You are very kind, Captain Ashford. I thank you.”
He bowed again. “If it is not too early, then allow me to wish you a happy Christmas.”
Darcy’s expression did not alter, but the hand that still held the hymnal beside hers tightened almost imperceptibly, creasing the leather.
She felt the motion, though she kept her gaze upon the captain.
When she dared glance at Darcy, his countenance was perfectly composed, his attention fixed upon the hymnal page as if the incident had been of no importance at all.
Mr Collins, unwilling to be forgotten, stepped forward. “Now, if I may, it would be most fitting to conclude with prayer. It is always proper to humble oneself in gratitude, particularly in so distinguished a house—”
A discreet cough from Mr Bennet interrupted him. Darcy’s steady gaze completed the reminder that this wasn’t time for long prayers. The prayer that followed was brief indeed.
When the final Amen was spoken, the company began to disperse, voices rising again in ordinary cheer. Georgiana rose, relieved. Mary looked eager to continue; Lydia whispered some new verse to Kitty and was hushed by Jane’s gentle hand.
Elizabeth watched as Darcy returned the hymnal to the table from which she had taken it. As she turned to follow the departing party, he fell into step beside her.
"May I escort you to the hall, Miss Elizabeth?" His voice was low, meant for her alone.
"Thank you, sir," she said softly.
They moved together several paces behind the others, not quite private but no longer part of the general company. The corridor beyond was dimmer, lit only by scattered candles, and their steps echoed lightly upon the polished floor.
"I trust you found the evening agreeable," he said at length.
"Very much so. Your sister performed beautifully."
"She was pleased to have Miss Mary's accompaniment." He paused, then added, "As was I to have yours during the carols."
Elizabeth felt warmth rise to her cheeks. "You are generous to say so, sir."
He glanced toward the small book she still carried—Captain Ashford's gift. "Your volume of poetry. Does it please you?"
She looked down at it, her expression growing thoughtful. "It is handsomely bound. I am grateful for the kindness that prompted the gift."
"Yet you do not seem entirely satisfied with it."
She smiled slightly. "Poetry is a curious thing, Mr Darcy. When it is sincere, it may speak as deeply as any conversation. But a poem written for one heart and read by another becomes something borrowed—admirable, perhaps, but not quite one's own."
He considered this. "Then you believe a poem less valuable because its sentiments were not intended for you?"
"Not less valuable," she replied, "only less personal. To feel what another has felt is a worthy exercise, but it is not the same as being understood."
"You prefer, then, words spoken plainly."
"I value sincerity wherever it appears," Elizabeth said carefully. "Though I confess there is particular comfort in words that require no interpretation."
"Plain speech is indeed rare," Darcy said quietly. "It requires both courage and trust."
She met his eyes briefly. "Then I hope I may one day possess such courage."
"You already do, Miss Elizabeth." His tone was earnest. "Few could speak as directly as you do while remaining so generous in judgment."
She looked away, unsettled by the intensity of his regard. "You credit me too much."
"I think not."
They had nearly reached the entrance to the great hall, where firelight still flickered against the marble. The rest of the party was still visible ahead, their voices carrying softly through the space.
Elizabeth hesitated, then said, "Still, I shall read Captain Ashford's gift with care. Perhaps I shall discover some verse that will teach me to value borrowed sentiments more highly."
"I do not doubt it," Darcy replied. "Poetry, like music, speaks only when the heart is prepared to listen."
"And you believe mine prepared?"
A faint smile touched his lips. "I believe it uncommonly discerning."
Her answering laugh was quiet. "You are determined to make me vain, sir."
"That," he said, his voice dropping, "would be quite impossible."
Their eyes met and held. The noise from the hall seemed suddenly distant.
Elizabeth drew a steadying breath and looked ahead. "I thank you for the music this evening, Mr Darcy. And for the conversation."
"The pleasure was entirely mine." He bowed. "I wish you good night, Miss Elizabeth, and Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, sir. Good night."
He remained where he stood as she moved forward to rejoin her family. Only when she had reached the others did he turn and walk in the opposite direction, his tall figure disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
Elizabeth slipped into place beside Jane, the small volume still in her hand, her thoughts considerably more settled than they had been since she arrived Pemberly.