Chapter 17
Darcy laid the penknife’s edge to the green satin and made the first careful cut.
The ribbon did not resist him; it yielded with a whisper, light as breath against steel.
He steadied the length across his palm—familiar, trusted, absurdly precious—and set it beside the small array he had gathered: a worn duodecimo notebook from Kelton’s library with half its leaves still clean; a scrap of dark morocco taken from a broken binding; a pot of gum arabic; linen thread; a bit of beeswax softened near the grate.
Nothing costly. Nothing that could be used against her.
Only what any gentleman might contrive on a snowbound afternoon when London’s shops were as far away as spring.
He had invented the exchange for this very purpose.
A trifle, the company believed. A Christmas amusement to lift a house made anxious by gossip and storm.
The rules were his, written with more care than any statute from Parliament: each gift must be kind; each must be chosen with thought; no jests made at a neighbour’s expense; names drawn in confidence; no receiver pressed to display the offering if delicacy forbade it.
He had caught the Colonel’s eye as those last lines were read aloud to the assembled party and seen a flicker of comprehension there. Good. Let there be no room for cruelty in merriment.
Darcy unpicked the old notebook’s thread and warmed fresh wax between thumb and forefinger.
The house murmured faintly beyond the panelling—footmen crossing the passage, a piano scaled by some lady’s light touch, someone laughing too loudly and then remembering to be quiet.
Snow pressed its forehead to the glass and breathed cold upon the panes.
He bent to his task with a craftsman’s patience, teasing the limp quires into order until the spine lay true.
Work steadied thought better than philosophy ever had.
He cut the morocco to measure, scored the turn-ins, brushed gum in a thin, gleaming film.
Leather met paper; his hands smoothed the union as if soothing a restless creature.
The modest book took shape under his palms—plain, serviceable, dignified.
It would be explained, if explanation were required, as a little commonplace book, a lady’s pocket companion.
Not a lover’s token; not an indiscretion.
A gentleman might offer such a thing to any lady, and no one be the worse for it.
But he had not made it for any lady.
The ribbon waited.
He drew it nearer and examined the satiny length for a flaw he knew by heart: a faint crease where it had once been knotted.
That small imperfection had been, for months, a sentence he had read and read again.
Not a word in it changed; yet the meaning had deepened until it was the only text that mattered.
He ran the pad of his thumb along the crease and felt the old ache settle, tolerable now not because it hurt less, but because it was chosen.
He had kept this with deliberation. He would return it with the same.
He opened the new cover and pricked, with the knife’s point, two neat rows of holes across the inner board.
Then, drawing the ribbon through the paper in a measured pattern, he tied it into an old sailor’s knot his father had taught him at Pemberley’s lake in his boyhood—a true lover’s knot, if one wished to be fanciful.
The loops sat flush and even; the ends lay long and free.
He tested them. A single tug would loose the figure without tearing.
Choice must be honoured, even here. Especially here.
The knot shone discreetly in the firelight.
He leaned back and considered it. Too plain?
Too frank? To any casual eye it would be merely pretty.
To hers—if she remembered the colour against her hair—if she remembered evenings at Netherfield at all—it would be something else.
Not demand. Not plea. A vow that had found its form.
Footsteps paused beyond the door. The latch lifted, then dropped as if someone thought better of interruption. Good. He had no patience for company in this.
He threaded the linen with the wax, resewed the book, burnished the edges with the side of his knife until the paper gleamed faintly.
Beneath the knot he slipped a small card cut from clean vellum.
He took up his pen. The nib hovered. Any flourish would be a boast; any verse, a theft of courage from borrowed words.
He wrote one word only, small and grave beneath the knot:
Fidelis.
He set it to dry and felt, for the first time that day, a warmth that was not from the fire.
Fidelity. To her good name as much as to his own feeling.
To hope that waited without demand. If the roads cleared and she were gone, the book would ask nothing of her but to write what she pleased and forget the rest. If the storm held and Providence allowed one hour at midnight, then he would put it into her hand and let the truth live or die on the breadth of her breath.
A sharp rap came at the door, followed by Richard’s unmistakable voice. “Darcy, are you bent over that infernal project still? It is half-past four. The house is in uproar about your little gift notion.”
Darcy did not lift his eyes from the table. “Come in, then.”
Richard entered, a gust of cold air and good humour preceding him.
“I bring tidings from our hostess. Lady Montford proposes that the great distribution should be delayed until Christmas morning—her notion being that the gifts will be more lavish with more time for the diversion. And there is the bit about… well, no one gives gifts on Christmas Eve. Where is the spectacle in that?”
“No, no” Darcy interjected. “Tell her that it must be tomorrow. The storm may clear, and by Christmas morning half the company will be on the road. If we wait, there will be no exchange at all.”
Richard cocked his head. “You are determined.”
“I am practical.”
“You are neither,” his cousin returned, resting a shoulder against the doorframe. “You are playing Providence with paper slips and twine. And you have the expression of a man plotting his own undoing.”
Darcy smiled faintly. “I take comfort in your confidence.”
Richard’s gaze flicked toward the worktable. “What is it, then—wood carving? verse? Or are you stitching your heart to a bit of muslin for all to see?”
Darcy laid a palm over the small, paper-wrapped parcel beside him. “No one will see.”
“Not even the lady?”
“Only if she chooses.” He straightened, his tone final. “Return to Lady Montford, if you please, and say that midnight will best suit the house. There, that ought to satisfy the revellers. If she wishes, I will stand the cost of candles and chocolate myself.”
Richard chuckled. “She will like that little flourish. Very well. Midnight it is.” He lingered at the threshold, the mischievousness in his eyes softening to something like affection. “Darcy… you mean to go through with it?”
“I do.”
“Then Godspeed.” Richard gave a brief, soldierly nod and closed the door behind him.
When the sound of his steps faded, Darcy looked again at what lay before him.
The book was finished now—plain, sober, bound in dark morocco, its inner clasp secured with the green ribbon he had carried all these months.
He had tied it in a true lover’s knot: two loops that would give at a single pull.
Fidelis, he had written on the small card within, and nothing more.
He wrapped it in clean paper and tied it with unadorned twine. No seal, no flourish—only a sprig of ivy tucked beneath the knot, green against the pale wrapping. The simplest disguise for the most dangerous truth.
He turned it over, writing in a firm, steady hand: Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
The name itself was an ache.
He sealed the knot with a touch of warm wax to hold the ivy in place, slipped the gift into the inner pocket of his coat, and felt at once the familiar shape against his heart.
Midnight tomorrow. He could wait that long.
He doused the lamp and stood at the window, watching the falling snow blur the lanternlight into halos. The house was full of noise and light, yet he had never known solitude so deep—or purpose so certain.
Tomorrow night, before the world could separate them again, he would give her the truth. Quietly. Respectfully. Entirely.
Elizabeth had never seen so many people so busy at doing so little.
Christmas Eve at Kelton Hall bustled like a fair, though there was nowhere for anyone to go.
Every parlour was claimed for some new activity: the gentlemen pretending to argue over billiards, the ladies tying ribbons and arguing over garlands.
The scent of evergreen and spiced rum hung heavy in the air, and the sound of laughter was always a little too loud, as if the storm outside required a matching cheer within.
Elizabeth tried to join in—she had meant to trim a few sprigs of holly for the mantel—but every time she reached for the shears, her gaze strayed across the room.
To him.
Darcy was standing near the pianoforte with Sir Edward, both men discussing something in low, even tones.
He was perfectly at ease in manner, his coat cut close and severe, his head bent to listen—but his eyes, when they lifted, were alive with something she could not name.
He looked present again, as though some long weariness had slipped from his shoulders.
And she was the fool standing ten yards away with a sprig of half-tied holly, wondering what on earth she could possibly give to a man like that.
She had considered a poem, then scorned herself for the thought. A handkerchief? Too impersonal. A sketch? Presumptuous. There was nothing she could buy, nothing she could craft, that would not betray more than propriety allowed. She wanted something that meant—
“Miss Bennet?”
The voice was bright and brittle as ice.