CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AFTER brEAKFAST ON the day after Christmas, the house settled into a quieter pattern.
The meal had been well attended, though Lady Catherine, pleading fatigue, had not appeared, and her absence passed with little remark save from Mr Collins, who observed it pointedly and delivered a short homily on the importance of St Stephen’s Day.
Elizabeth ignored the significant looks exchanged by Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst throughout the meal, and received only the briefest acknowledgement from them when she enquired whether they had enjoyed their Christmas.
Once the table was cleared, the company dispersed according to inclination rather than schedule. Some retired above stairs, others repaired to writing desks or books, and a few lingered below, content to let the morning pass without design.
Elizabeth found herself once more in the drawing room, glad of the reduced company.
Mrs Gardiner sat near the window with her husband, their conversation low and unhurried.
Georgiana Darcy had drawn a chair closer to the fire with her book, while Jane spoke with Mr Bingley in tones sufficiently subdued to satisfy propriety, yet warm enough to be easily heard.
Mary had retired with a headache, Kitty and Lydia whispered together in one corner about ribbons and Lydia’s hopes for the coming year, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was nowhere to be seen.
Elizabeth was just beginning to feel her eyes doze when Mr Darcy entered the room, his coat removed, his manner composed but purposeful. He addressed Mrs Gardiner first, as though aware she would be most eager for news.
“Jenkins reports that the worst of the snow is past,” he said. “The thaw has begun, and the roads are already improving. If the weather holds, they should be quite serviceable again in three or four days.”
Mrs Gardiner looked up at once, relief brightening her expression. “That is welcome news indeed. I shall be very glad to return home before the week is out. I have enjoyed our stay exceedingly, but I begin to long for my children. I fear the housekeeper must think us quite lost to them by now.”
Elizabeth smiled at her aunt’s expression, understanding it well, though she did not immediately examine her own response to the prospect of departure. Darcy offered a brief acknowledgement to the others present and then withdrew once more, summoned again by estate business.
The morning continued without urgency. There were no calls to receive and no duties pressing for attention. Kitty and Lydia soon took their leave of the room, declaring themselves in need of rest, and withdrew above stairs with little ceremony.
It was some time later that Mr Darcy returned, a servant attending him with several small parcels, which were placed upon a side table without announcement, as though it were perfectly understood that this was the proper hour for such exchanges.
“As is our custom at Pemberley,” Mr Darcy said quietly, “Christmas gifts are given today. It has been a pleasure to have you all here—family and friends alike.”
His gaze moved briefly across the room and rested, for no more than a moment, upon Elizabeth. She felt her heart give a sudden, unaccountable leap, and was obliged to steady herself before it betrayed her.
“Pray accept these small tokens,” he continued, a faint smile touching his lips, “as a remembrance of the season. And once again—Merry Christmas.”
Elizabeth observed the distribution with interest. Jane received a warm shawl and expressed her thanks with gentle pleasure.
Mrs Gardiner was presented with a book she admired, opening it at once with animation.
Georgiana accepted a small parcel from her brother, colouring faintly as she did so. Others received varying items.
Mr Darcy remarked that those not presently in the room would receive their gifts as soon as they came for dinner or thereabout.
Elizabeth’s breath caught when he stopped before her.
He did not speak at first, but placed a small box into her hands. It was modest in appearance, well made, and carefully closed.
“For you,” he said quietly. Then, with a glance that kept the exchange within the bounds of ease and propriety, he added, “I would ask that you open it later, if you please.”
She looked up at him, surprised. “Later?”
“When you are alone,” he replied, in a tone that invited no attention beyond the two of them.
Elizabeth inclined her head at once. “Very well.”
She did not ask his reason, nor did he offer one. The box rested lightly in her hands, and she found she had no wish to set it down immediately. Whatever it contained could wait. There was something in the manner of his request that made waiting feel not like restraint, but consideration.
When the gifts had all been distributed, the room gradually returned to its former quiet.
Georgiana rose and excused herself, saying she had to fetch her gift for her brother too.
Mrs Gardiner declared she might make use of a short rest. Jane and Mr Bingley continued their conversation in lowered voices, as though reluctant to disturb the peace.
Elizabeth remained where she was, the small box still in her keeping.
She did not open it. Yet the weight of it lingered, not in her hands alone, but in her thoughts, and as the morning wore on she became quietly aware that the day was no longer passing unmarked.
Something had been set aside for later — and she felt, with a certainty she did not attempt to resist, that when the moment came, it would matter.
***
Darcy Retired Earlier than usual that evening.
The day had been a full one. He had spent much of it abroad upon the estate, speaking with tenants, seeing to the comfort of the servants, and ensuring that the customary gifts had been properly distributed.
Such duties were familiar to him and generally restorative, yet by the time dinner was concluded he felt the quiet fatigue of both body and mind.
It was Elizabeth who occupied his thoughts as he crossed the threshold of his chamber.
At table she had been as composed as ever. She spoke when addressed, listened with attention, and offered neither remark nor glance that betrayed anything out of the ordinary. Most striking of all, she said nothing to him of his gift. Her countenance gave no hint that she had opened it.
The thought surprised him more than he cared to admit.
Yet perhaps it was for the best. The gift had been chosen with care, and with restraint besides. Had she opened it earlier in the day—amid company or in haste—its usefulness might have been diminished. As it was, he could not regret having waited.
He paused by the fire, unbuttoning his coat, and allowed himself a moment’s reflection. He hoped she would like it. He hoped, too, that she would not think him excessive.
Unless he was very much mistaken, Elizabeth had, in these last two days, shown a regard for his opinion that went beyond mere civility.
She received his attentions not with indifference, but with a warmth that suggested she valued them.
The conviction was a quiet one, yet it settled comfortably in his mind, and proved justification enough for the boldness of his gift.
Darcy extinguished the candle and prepared for rest, resolved to wait. Whatever her response, it would come in its proper time.
And when it did, he believed he would know it at once.
***
Elizabeth Read The note again.
The small box Mr Darcy had given her stood open upon the table beside her chair.
She had delayed as he wished, waiting until the house was still, until there could be no interruption and no curious eye.
Even then, her hands had hesitated upon the lid, as though she feared what she already knew she hoped for.
Within she had found the locket.
It lay now upon the cloth before her, gold catching the candlelight with a subdued gleam. She had opened it with careful fingers and discovered the folded paper tucked precisely in the centre, as if the verse had been meant to rest there from the first.
She unfolded it once more, though she could already have recited it without looking.
No partridge perched in pear tree's height,
No lords a-leaping through the snow,
Could match the pleasure and delight
Your presence grants to those below—
For Pemberley has found this year
Its brightest ornament is here.
You spoke of wanting words your own,
Not borrowed sentiment or verse—
So let me make my meaning known:
No season's blessing could disperse
More warmth than does your gentle wit,
And Christmas shines the more for it.
She let out a slow breath, scarcely aware she had been holding it, and folded the paper again with a deliberation that felt almost reverent.
The words were clever, yes, and pleasingly turned, but it was the remembrance within them that unsettled her most. He had listened.
He had not merely heard her, but retained her meaning.
“You are reading it again,” Jane said, combing her hair.
Elizabeth had showed her the gift when she opened it, and she had watched her sister go over the note severally.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “It bears repeating.”
Jane’s gaze drifted to the open locket and the folded paper beside it. “He chose his words carefully.”
“He did.” Elizabeth closed the locket with deliberate calm.
Jane studied her sister for a moment. “Mr Darcy is very intentional.”
Elizabeth gave a short, almost disbelieving laugh. “He is that.”
Feeling, all at once, as though she must justify herself against an accusation no one had yet spoken, Elizabeth said quickly, “It is not as though he gave gifts only to me. He gave you one as well.”
Jane’s eyes danced. “Yes, he did.”
“There,” Elizabeth said, as if the matter were concluded. “Entirely proper.”
Jane’s smile deepened. “Entirely proper. But, Lizzy…” She paused just long enough to enjoy herself. “My shawl did not come with poetry.”
Elizabeth’s laugh was short and helpless. “Must you tease?”
“I do not tease,” Jane said, with the very look that proved she did. “I only observe.”
Elizabeth turned away, but not before Jane had seen enough.
After a moment, Elizabeth said, with an effort toward steadiness, “Did Mr Bingley give you anything?”
Jane’s expression softened at once, all amusement giving way to warmth. “His attention is more than enough.”
Elizabeth nodded, though her thoughts were elsewhere again, turning over what lay before her.
When did he buy this?
He could not have known that she—or her family—would come to Pemberley at all to get her a gift beforehand.
Moreso, they had been confined to the estate for days.
There had been no opportunity for errands, no casual trip to a market town.
Had he sent a servant out into the cold?
The question turned quietly in her mind, unanswered.
More striking still was the care of it all. He had listened. He had remembered her aversion to borrowed verses, her preference for words honestly meant. He had taken that knowledge and shaped something wholly his own.
She picked the locket gently and slipped it carefully back into its wrapping.
Jane, having completed her nightly cares, extinguished her candle and sat upon her bed. “It has been a long day, Lizzy,” she said gently. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
Jane soon lay down, the quiet rhythm of her breathing settling into the room. Elizabeth remained where she was a moment longer, her gaze resting upon the small box on the table. Though its contents were safely returned to their wrapping, she found she could not look away from it at once.
The house lay quiet around her, the day entirely spent. Her heart warmed in ways she was now accustomed to, particularly when her thoughts turned to Mr Darcy. She felt no inclination to question what had settled so firmly within her.
He had listened. He had remembered. That knowledge alone was enough.
At last, she turned away, extinguished her candle, and lay back in the darkness. Sleep did not come immediately, but she did not resent the waiting.
And while she waited, Elizabeth allowed herself to hold fast to what she felt, embracing it quietly until sleep claimed her at last.