Chapter 13 #2
Your aunt and uncle have been astoundingly gracious throughout.
You must be proud to be able to claim such relations.
Excepting Lizzy and the children, they are the only two people here of whom I am not at least a little bit afraid.
Even my brother—nay, I daresay especially my brother when he is as angry as he was yesterday—can be a fearsome creature.
My cousin Fitzwilliam assures me matters will settle down in a few days, but his grandmother thinks otherwise and insists that, when my other cousin Lord Ashby and his wife arrive, the fireworks will begin in earnest.
I am not afraid, though. Not with Lizzy here.
She has such a way of manoeuvring people out of ill-humours and encouraging them to good cheer.
Already, she has persuaded my brother to overlook Lady Catherine’s incivility and have her seated next to him at dinner this evening.
All apprehension aside, I believe this will be the liveliest and, I hope, the merriest Christmas Pemberley has seen in many years.
To answer your query: yes, Lizzy does very well.
Very occasionally she tarries abed of a morning, but she assures me a little fatigue is quite common, and thus, you must be similarly assured that she is in perfect health.
I share your anticipation for the arrival of a niece or nephew.
Lizzy teasingly suggested that I watch Lady Catherine closely during her stay for ideas on how best to go about the business of being an aunt—at least, I hope she was teasing, but I would prefer to be more like Mrs Gardiner.
Enclosed is the music for two cradle songs I thought we might learn and play for the baby when he or she arrives. Mention it not to Lizzy in your letters. Let it be our surprise when next you visit, which I hope will be very soon.
Wishing you a very happy Christmas,
Yours sincerely,
Miss Georgiana Darcy
Thursday 24 December 1812, Derbyshire
“’Tis a play!” Fitzwilliam shouted. At Mrs Gardiner’s nod, he gave a bark of triumph—it being his only correct guess of the entire game.
It was a game to which everybody’s (mostly) willing participation he could only attribute to the vast quantity of mulled wine and punch collectively consumed over the course of the evening.
Whatever had brought on the singularly peaceable interlude, he approved of it, for against all odds everybody seemed to be having uncommonly good fun.
“’Tis but one word,” Elizabeth surmised from her aunt’s raised index finger—and then, “One syllable.”
“You might actually guess this one then, Dickie,” mumbled Ashby from the chair next to Fitzwilliam.
“Fie, you have not guessed one correctly yet, either.”
A host of calls loosely apropos of horses erupted around them as Mrs Gardiner began enacting her clue.
“Mayhap my understanding does not run to a mercantile bent,” Ashby said under his breath.
“Untwist your ballocks, man. The Gardiners are very good people.”
Indeed, Mrs Gardiner was presently proving what a very good sport she was, galloping to and fro before the fire, to everybody’s delight.
“Stallion?” Fitzwilliam guessed.
“One ruddy syllable, you ninny,” Ashby grumbled, adding, “And my manservant is a very good person. It does not mean I wish him to cease pressing my shirts and begin playing parlour games with me after dinner.”
“Mare?” called Mrs Sinclair.
“Upon my word, you are a fastidious arse,” Fitzwilliam hissed. “Even Lady Catherine has condescended to converse with them. She and Mrs Gardiner exchanged ten words at least over dinner.”
Ashby snorted. “Lady Catherine only approves of the woman because she believes it is deference that makes her blush and mumble whenever Darcy addresses her.”
Fitzwilliam had to smirk. He, too, had noticed Mrs Gardiner’s appreciation for his fair-favoured cousin. “Let her think it is deference if it makes the situation more palatable to her.”
“Trot?” Gardiner tried.
“It makes it no more palatable for me,” Ashby replied.
Fitzwilliam gave up attempting to placate him with reason and handed him his hip flask instead. “Here. Have something spiritual to cleanse the injury to your pride.”
Ashby accepted the flask with a broad grin then shouted, “Charge?”
Mrs Gardiner shook her head. Still, she galloped about on the rug, now looking exceedingly vexed.
“Horse!” Lady Ashby said for possibly the third time, seeming bemused it was still not correct.
“Steed?” Montgomery guessed.
Again, Mrs Gardiner shook her head and galloped furiously back the other way. Fitzwilliam heard Elizabeth hoot with laughter.
“Reins?” Gardiner attempted again. “Horse?”
“That has already been said!”
“Nag, then? Pony? Mule? Goat? I do not know! Do something else, for heaven’s sake!”
Mrs Gardiner ceased galloping and stood on the rug with her hands on her hips, glaring at her husband.
“‘The Provoked Wife,’” Matlock called.
The room erupted into laughter, though a feeble exclamation, barely audible above the merriment, caught Fitzwilliam’s notice. He turned to his aunt, sitting on his left, and enquired whether anything was the matter.
Lady Catherine withdrew an emaciated hand from her blankets and pointed at Darcy. “You are correct. He is happy. He looks the picture of my sister when he laughs.”
The observation was as unexpected as it was moving, and Fitzwilliam knew not what to say.
His aunt, never plagued by such difficulties, spoke on. “And she is jousting.”
“Pardon?”
“Mrs Gardiner is jousting.”
“Inspired, madam!” Fitzwilliam swivelled back to the room and called, “Joust” over the hubbub.
Mrs Gardiner pounced upon it, waggling her ear forcibly.
“Sounds like joust?”
“Faust!” Gardiner roared, coming to his feet exultantly.
“About time, sir!” his wife replied, to the delight of the entire room.
Gardiner doffed an imaginary cap and scuttled past her in deep obeisance, apologising facetiously.
He then began his turn by re-enacting the exact same gallop across the room as she had.
A chorus of groans went up from everybody else, but Mrs Gardiner instantly and correctly guessed canter, showing her husband how easy a thing it could be to make a sensible suggestion.
“The Canterbury Tales!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed, to an uproarious round of applause. “How can you find these two aught but agreeable?” he whispered to his brother before standing to take his turn. “I think they may be the most diverting couple of my acquaintance.”
Ashby only grunted but notably refrained from demurring. Fitzwilliam left him to brood upon his prejudice, full in the belief that it was as at much risk as every other prepossession in the room of being overturned.
All the hilarity sank in Darcy’s awareness next to the sound of Elizabeth’s laughter.
Her countenance glowed, and her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.
Her merriment was wholly unaffected—demure, yet altogether without ceremony.
He marvelled at it, for despite all their prior hostility, she was genuinely enjoying his family’s society.
Moreover, his family appeared, quite against their will in some cases, to be genuinely enjoying hers.
It was all her doing. This was Pemberley as it was intended to be: a true family seat.
And this was his family, with Elizabeth at its heart.
Because he was watching her, Darcy noticed her laughter ebb. She shifted in her chair and rubbed the swell of her stomach. He reached to lay his hand over hers and whispered a query as to her wellbeing.
She bit her lip and slid her hand from beneath his to press his palm to her belly, whereupon he felt a small but unmistakable nudge.
His heart thudded in his chest, and he waited, staring at his own hand, and was rewarded with another palpable shove.
Overcome with wonder and delight, he raised his eyes to Elizabeth’s.
She was beaming, her countenance suffused with joy.
“Happy Christmas,” she whispered.
It was a moment before he composed himself enough to whisper back how very dearly he loved her.
Absorbed in their own private rejoicing, they missed the end of the game, alerted to it only when Anne guessed Fitzwilliam’s charade, and he roared an exasperated “Hallelujah!” After that, the festivities drew to a natural conclusion.
The elders took themselves off to bed, and everybody else adjourned to the great hall to check the Yule log was still burning and to enjoy a last glass of mulled wine.
Fitzwilliam came to stand next to Darcy and gave him a firm slap on the shoulder. “I own I was not convinced even you could accomplish it, old boy, but a pleasanter Christmas I cannot recall.”
“Do not believe me ignorant of the fact that is because you won your wager with Ashby.”
“You wound me, Darcy! What wager?”
“Whether or not I would exclude at least one relative from the house before Christmas Day.”
Fitzwilliam grimaced. “I am discovered, though still ten pounds richer than my brother.”
“Not so, regrettably, for I wagered him fifteen pounds he could not make you give up your hip flask. By my reckoning that makes him five pounds richer and significantly drunker than you.”
Fitzwilliam muttered an unseasonable imprecation.
Darcy returned the slap on the back. “I am delighted you are here, Fitzwilliam. It has been the happiest Christmas in my memory also.”
Pemberley
11th January
Jane,
I shall not pretend I am not deeply grieved by your silence, yet because I love you and because I cannot dispel my concern for your happiness, I shall make another attempt.