Happy Christmas Mr Darcy

Chapter 1

A CHRISTMAS BALL

Elizabeth smoothed her gown over her legs for perhaps the tenth time as the carriage drew to a halt in front of one of the many grand houses in Mayfair. Her brows raised almost of their own accord seeing the width and elegance of the edifice.

“Quite the place, eh, Lizzy?” Mr Gardiner chuckled.

“It is,” Elizabeth said and reached for her sister’s hand.

She gave it a squeeze, feeling the icy coldness of Jane’s fingers even through both of their gloves.

Was she hoping to see Mr Bingley? Her serene countenance gave no indication of how she was feeling.

Elizabeth had not asked, not wanting to mention his name, not when her sister had been seeming so much improved in the last weeks.

The defection of her suitor had certainly laid Jane low, and it made Elizabeth burn with indignation remembering it.

Mr Bingley’s sister and his friend were to blame, she knew it, even if she had no real proof of it.

Jane had written to Caroline Bingley both from Hertfordshire and from London and had received no reply to either; she had called upon the lady in Grosvenor Square and had been told Miss Bingley was away from home.

Perhaps she was, at that, but taken together with the lack of response to Jane’s letters, it seemed to Elizabeth that Miss Bingley had no interest in furthering the acquaintance.

Jane had taken the rejection with her customary placidity.

The carriage door opened, admitting a chill wind that did nothing to cool the ire bestirred by her thoughts. Put it aside, Lizzy, she told herself. In any case, who knows? Perhaps we shall see Mr Bingley here. Perhaps Jane will leave tonight in love.

“How did you say you knew our hosts?” Elizabeth enquired as her uncle handed her down. “I do not think I caught their name.”

“The gentleman—a Mr Darcy—came to me for some investment opportunities,” Mr Gardiner replied as Jane and Mrs Gardiner shook out their skirts.

The utterance of the name stopped Elizabeth in her tracks. “Darcy, did you say?”

“Yes, Mr Darcy.”

“Surely not Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy? Of Pemberley?”

Mr Gardiner nodded. “Are you much acquainted with him?”

Elizabeth inhaled deeply. At the home of Mr Darcy!

“What is it, Lizzy?” Mrs Gardiner asked, drawing near.

“Only that…well, is Mr Darcy aware that I am accompanying you?”

“Of course,” said Mrs Gardiner. “Why would—”

“Because we dislike each other. We cannot be in a room for five minutes without breaking into an argument,” she said quickly.

Apropos of nothing, Jane said, “But he is very handsome.”

Mrs Gardiner and Elizabeth both gave her odd looks, but Mrs Gardiner continued to speak to Elizabeth. “He said nothing of that to us, and I know you are too well mannered to behave with anything less than civility to him in his home.”

“Of course, Aunt. I would never embarrass you or my uncle.”

“Good girl,” said Mrs Gardiner with a fond pat on her niece’s cheek.

Another carriage had drawn up, and the occupants were alighting from it, prompting Mr and Mrs Gardiner to move towards the door. Elizabeth linked arms with Jane to follow her aunt and uncle into the house, curious, above all, about what such an unexpected turn of events might bring.

How well she recollected the day she had arrived at Netherfield Park to care for an ailing Jane, turning up uninvited and on foot.

For these sins she had paid grievously, with Miss Bingley, Mrs Hurst, and Mr Darcy unflinchingly expressing their scorn in word and deed.

She wondered whether they knew how often she had heard them, including that first night after dinner, when she had left the dining room to return to Jane.

They had begun to abuse her the moment she had stepped over the threshold, even before the door had closed behind her.

“I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connexions, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”

“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton.”

“Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”

“If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside,” cried Mr Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable.”

“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world,” replied Mr Darcy.

And to imagine he had called on that same uncle! Greed, she supposed, had driven him thither. A wealthy man can never be rich enough, and her uncle had spun many a fortune from nothing.

Recollecting that evening, and the sharp tongues of the ladies and Mr Darcy, she was left in no doubt of the architect of Jane’s heartbreak.

Had she the opportunity tonight, she meant to get the truth of what precisely had happened in Hertfordshire.

What had caused Mr Bingley to disappear so hastily?

Why had Miss Bingley treated her beloved sister with such careless indifference?

And was there any hope left for her dear Jane and her errant suitor?

Their role in Jane’s heartbreak would not be allowed to pass—of that she was determined.

You can hardly dress the man down in his own home, she counselled herself, but then countered it with: but a few questions would not be amiss.

She might have imagined a home that was gaudy; something ostentatious that shouted about the wealth of its owner.

Instead she found true elegance and refinement—if the receiving hall was any indication, that was.

A multitude of persons had arrived at once, it seemed, and they were all pressed together to greet their hosts.

She took advantage of the moment to look about her with unhidden curiosity.

The chamber had been thoroughly bedecked for the Festive Season with boughs and ribbon, and it looked and smelt divine.

The sounds of gaiety and laughter drifted down the hall from what she supposed was a ballroom.

She had just begun to believe that the night might have some enjoyment to it when she heard him speak. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. How do you do?”

She came. Darcy pressed his lips together to hide the exultant smile which threatened.

The weeks since they had all departed Hertfordshire had been a torment.

Elizabeth Bennet never left his thoughts, not while he slept, not while he was awake.

In his mind he rehearsed their time together, their conversations, and their little debates over and over, until he believed he might truly run mad.

The passage of the days did nothing to cool his ardour.

Instead it seemed to grow more fevered until at last he had decided to go down to Gracechurch Street, to visit the warehouses of her uncle.

Surely seeing the brother of Mrs Bennet would be sufficient to cure him of all attachment?

He went seeking a firm reminder of just how unsuitable Elizabeth Bennet really was and how absolutely untenable it would be to call such a person his own uncle.

Instead he had found a fashionable and erudite man, about five-and-thirty, sitting in an office that plainly bespoke of his success.

His home—which yes, admittedly, was in view of his business—appeared to be commodious and elegant.

Darcy learnt that the same five thousand pounds that had been settled on Mrs Bennet and Mrs Philips had also been given to Mr Gardiner, and the latter had turned it into sizeable wealth.

He was no expert, but a few calculations and considerations led Darcy to conclude that Mr Gardiner was likely no less wealthy than Bingley.

How much he might enjoy telling Miss Bingley that!

He had left his meeting with Mr Gardiner—and a subsequent dinner they invited him to—feeling like a fool for his presumptions.

But he had managed to glean one important morsel of information: Miss Bennet and Elizabeth were to come to London to spend the Festive Season with their Gardiner relations.

He had issued an invitation to his ball the very next day.

Then he had informed Georgiana that she needed to help him plan a ball.

And now she stood in his home, looking about her collected and calm. He greeted her aunt and uncle, then turned to behold her arm in arm with her sister. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, how do you do?”

But before anyone could answer, before one could even draw breath sufficient to utter a syllable, his cousin, Viscount Saye, intruded.

He stepped directly onto Darcy’s foot—ruining the Champagne shine his valet had laboured to produce—and said, “You both must do exceedingly well because how could such lovely young ladies be otherwise? Darcy, where are your manners? Introduce me, man!”