Chapter Eleven
The next evening, Elizabeth waited until everyone had gone to bed before making her way to the dimly lit stillroom, carefully ladling herbal balm into small glass jars. They would cool overnight, and she could fill the boxes in the morning.
Her mind was focused on her purpose as the fire in the hearth crackled softly and the clock in the hall struck midnight.
She was exhausted, but this was the only time she could work uninterrupted, away from her mother’s prying eyes and her guests’ questions.
Come Christmas, these jars, meant to soothe dry and cracked skin—common during the winter—would find their way into the hands of anyone in the parish who needed them.
As the jars began to fill one by one, Elizabeth let out a soft sigh.
This was just one small part of all that lay ahead.
The list of tasks she had written in her journal was daunting—decorations for the great hall, baskets of provisions for families in need, gifts for the children, arrangements for the Christmas feast, the list never seemed to end.
She thought ahead to St. Nicholas Day when the first wave of gifts would be delivered.
There were toys to be selected and purchased, spices to be ordered for the pudding, and greenery to be collected before Christmas Eve, to hang throughout the house. And then, there was Christmas itself.
Mr. Ellis had carried this burden alone for years.
Elizabeth marvelled at his quiet strength—however had he managed?
Of course, there were places he could go and people he could seek out as a man that she could not—and she had duties as mistress he had not.
She began to wonder if she had the fortitude to sustain this immense responsibility year after year.
Despite Mr. Ellis’s cautions, she would have to confide in Thatcher, at least to tell him that she was doing charity work and did not wish to be acknowledged for it.
He could accompany her to Lambton when needed, and tomorrow evening she would need him to carry the box of these jars, which, unlike Mr. Glidding’s sample books, was going to be too heavy for her.
Her thoughts drifted to the idea of having a partner.
Someone who could share this responsibility with her, someone who understood.
Her mind, involuntarily, lingered on Mr. Darcy.
She was not sure he wanted her, especially after last night.
But it was late, and she was weary, so she allowed herself to imagine that he did.
Would he be the right sort of man for this responsibility?
The life of Christmas House required more than just a match of the heart; it demanded patience, generosity, and a deep sense of duty.
Could Mr. Darcy fit into that role? Could he truly embrace what Christmas House was meant to be?
Elizabeth paused her work, holding an empty jar in her hand as the question hung in her mind.
She could imagine him in his fine coat, surveying the estate, offering support in his quiet way.
But did he understand the demands of generosity that Christmas House required all year long?
Could he care for this place and the people beyond his estate as she meant to do?
She shook her head, feeling a wave of uncertainty. He had his own estate and people to tend to, but she supposed time would tell. For now, all she could do was keep going, jar by jar, task by task, hoping that somehow the disparate pieces of her life would come together.
Darcy stood at the edge of the gardens. He had come out for a moment in the cold air to speak with Thompson before retiring.
He had done that and was on his way back inside when he spied Miss Bennet.
His eyes followed her as she moved briskly across the lawn.
Something about her furtive glances caught his attention.
This was no idle stroll. Miss Bennet moved briskly, her cloak pulled tightly around her as if trying to shield herself from more than just the chill.
As she reached the stables, Miss Bennet paused, glancing around again before entering. Darcy frowned. Was she afraid? Moments later, she emerged from the stables with Thatcher by her side. They were headed towards the front of the estate, to the narrow road that led to Lambton.
Darcy felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck.
He considered stepping forward, asking her what she was doing, but something stopped him.
She had a certain air of determination about her, and he could not shake the feeling that this was not something she would want him—or anyone else—to see.
It was not as though she was engaging in anything improper, but there was an unmistakable secrecy to her actions that intrigued him.
This was her family’s home. If she did not want to be caught, he would let her continue unobserved—for now. But his mind churned as he returned inside, the image of Elizabeth’s hidden errand lingering. What could she be doing?
Then he heard the familiar sound of a wagon rolling away.
He could not stop thinking about her. Miss Bennet was no ordinary woman.
She had a sharp mind and a compassionate heart, but there was something more to her, a mystery he had yet to unravel.
Darcy felt himself growing more drawn to her every day, his curiosity sharpening into something deeper.
And yet, despite his growing affection, there was a wall she had built around herself, one he could not yet breach.
Then he thought of how he had himself pulled away from her and chastised himself as a hypocrite.
As the week progressed, Darcy found himself settling into a routine at Hollydale.
Each morning, he met with Thatcher, Freedman, Thompson, and the other men to discuss any findings and plan the day’s patrols.
The reports were frustratingly similar: small disturbances in the woods, a few more items missing from the outbuildings.
The items were small enough that they could not have even been certain the property had been taken rather than just misplaced had they not already been watching for thefts—but the small items never showed up in the cache.
No matter how closely they watched, there was no clear sign of the interloper, so he was not returning to his store of stolen goods often.
Though Darcy had nothing of consequence to report, he still sought out moments with Miss Bennet to keep her informed. Brief moments, where neither of them seemed able to look one another in the eye.
On Friday, Darcy was returning from a ride around the property and saw a brief glimpse of Miss Bennet walking into the gardens, Thatcher following at a discreet distance.
He dismounted and handed the reins to a stable boy before brushing his clothes off and directing his steps back in that direction.
When he stepped through the opening in the wall to the largest of the gardens, he hesitated. “Miss Bennet,” he called, not wishing to startle her.
She turned. At the sight of him, a polite little smile appeared on her countenance.
She had been keeping herself more distant from him since that moment on the landing, spending more time with his sister instead.
While a part of him was sorry for it, it did make it easier to focus on his purpose here.
At least this morning she appeared able to greet him with more ease than she had of late.
“How was your ride, Mr. Darcy?” she asked.
He fell into step beside her. “Uneventful, I am afraid.”
She nodded. “Thank you for keeping me informed.”
He paused, carefully considering his words. “I am frustrated we have not yet apprehended the culprit.”
“I share your sentiments, sir. It is becoming increasingly difficult to keep these matters from my mother.”
Darcy nodded sympathetically. “I understand. However, your decision to protect her from anxiety is commendable.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment, Darcy forgot about his purpose and his promise to remain aloof until this matter was satisfactorily concluded.
He was simply a man, walking with a woman he admired.
He was acutely aware of Miss Bennet’s presence beside him, how the subtle scent of jasmine clung to her hair, the natural grace with which she moved.
“I must admit I am both frustrated and relieved by our lack of progress.”
Miss Bennet glanced up at him, her dark eyes curious. “Why is that, Mr. Darcy?”
“My sister is flourishing under your mother’s kind attentions and your own,” he remarked.
Miss Bennet had taken it upon herself to teach Georgiana some fine embroidery—including a few stitches his sister had not yet learned—and to include her in a sewing project she and Mrs. Bennet had started at Hollydale to provide warm clothing for the children of the estate’s tenants.
Georgiana now planned to ask Mrs. Reynolds about anyone at Pemberley who might be in need.
She had also told him a great deal about their discussions, including a story about Miss Bennet making a shirt for her father that had a neck so small he could not pull it over his head.
Georgiana had said Miss Bennet just laughed and promised her skills with a needle were far better now.
He missed hearing Miss Bennet laugh. Hopefully, all of this would be over soon, and he could ask to call on her as more than a concerned neighbour. He allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, what that might be like.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows when Thatcher walked back to her. Mrs. Travis was usually out of the house at this time of day, working in the chandler’s shop.
“No one home, Miss Bennet,” he said with a slight smile. “Not even the cat.”
It was a good thing she was an excellent walker. They could not have driven a carriage up this winding road—it was no more than a path, truthfully, that led them to Mrs. Travis’s cottage.