Chapter 19
The evening had collapsed into amiable chaos.What Lady Montford called “a Christmas Eve Ball” had become a heroic struggle between goodwill and noise.
The Colonel’s violin had lost a string, the curate’s flute had gained one by accident of pitch, and the pianoforte was being punished by turns of courage rather than talent.
Darcy did not mind. The confusion kept attention elsewhere, and for that he was grateful. He had never in his life felt so conscious of the weight in his pocket, or the time creeping toward midnight.
He stood near the hearth with Montford and Mr. Gardiner, enduring a spirited debate about whether eggnog was a wholesome beverage or an ungodly experiment. Around them, the laughter rose and fell, mingled with the rustle of silk and the flicker of the candles that guttered against every draft.
Elizabeth was across the room, surrounded as she had been all evening by sudden admirers—the sort of men who would be after the next spectacle tomorrow.
Darcy watched her only when he could not help it.
Her eyes were brighter than they had been in days, her smile unguarded.
It gladdened him and hurt him in the same moment.
He had wished her happiness, and now that he saw it, he felt the cost of that wish.
He turned away before he could stare.
Richard’s bow screeched one last protest and gave up entirely. Laughter followed, and Lady Montford—with a slightly pained smile—declared the musicians released from duty. The room applauded as though some great victory had been won.
At last, the air began to clear. Guests drifted toward the hearth and the refreshment tables; the music was replaced by softer conversation. Darcy glanced at the clock: five minutes to twelve.
Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, cousin, your grand scheme of gift-giving has saved us all from tedium, if not from torture. Shall we see it through?”
Darcy nodded, his throat too tight for speech.
Montford was already summoning attention, his voice good-humoured and commanding. “Friends, as our gallant musicians have at last survived their labours, we will now conclude this festive evening with the exchange of our secret gifts. No speeches, mind—our organiser insists upon modesty.”
All eyes turned toward Darcy at that, and a ripple of laughter followed. He inclined his head, managing a smile.
The table by the fire had been cleared for the purpose.
Packages, ribbons, and curious wrappings appeared from pockets and reticules as guests stepped forward to deposit their offerings.
The rule had been that no one must name their recipient aloud; each gift would find its way quietly into the proper hands.
It worked admirably… in theory.
In practice, half the company could not resist watching which gifts were laid by whom.
Darcy waited until the first bustle subsided before he moved. He crossed to the table, the little book in his hand, wrapped in its plain paper and tied with common twine. The ivy sprig had dried slightly, but its green still caught the light. He laid it down among the others and stood back.
He did not look toward Elizabeth—did not need to. He could feel her nearness, as surely as warmth felt through fabric.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her glide forward, her reticule drawn close to her wrist. She slipped something small and ivory-wrapped among the parcels, her movements quiet, almost reverent. For an instant, her gaze lifted—and found his.
No smile, no start. Only that exchange of awareness, too deep for surprise.
Lady Montford, pleased beyond measure, clapped her hands.“There! Every parcel delivered, every secret kept. Now—though I believe I commanded restraint until morning—I see no faces capable of obedience. Open them, then! Let us have Christmas at midnight.”
A cheer went up. Paper rustled; laughter spilled out as knots of guests bent over their mysterious bundles.
Darcy did not move at first. He watched the others—Miss Talbot exclaiming over a ribboned fan, Montford laughing at a caricature someone had sketched of him with a shovel—and then saw Elizabeth, standing near the hearth, her parcel in hand.
She glanced around once, as if hoping for privacy, then untied the thread.
He could not see the contents, but he saw the moment she did. Her breath caught, a faint colour rose in her cheeks. She touched the edge of what she held—something small, carved, familiar in shape—and for one suspended instant her eyes lifted and found his.
Understanding flashed between them, silent and sure.
He turned away at once, lest anyone notice, and busied himself with his own parcel.
The paper came loose beneath his fingers, revealing the pen rest she had made—oak leaves and ivy twined along its edge, a small penknife laid within, and, beneath it, a folded slip of paper. He unfolded it carefully.
For the words that changed everything.
A wave of heat swept through him that had nothing to do with the fire.He closed the note quickly, tucking it back into the box before anyone could see.
Richard was already at his shoulder, craning like a schoolboy over a forbidden secret.“Well? What have you drawn, cousin? Something improving, I hope.”
Darcy schooled his face. “A trifle. But chosen with care.”
“Indeed,” said Richard, far too innocently. “And was it chosen with care—or by a certain person?”
Darcy shot him a warning glance. “You arranged the names. You know the answer.”
“Yes, but I do not know what she has given you.” Richard leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You’ve gone pale as parchment and red as fire in the same breath. Either it’s poison or it’s affection.”
Darcy set the lid back on the little box, his movements careful. “It is neither. And you will hold your tongue.”
Richard studied him for a heartbeat longer, amusement softening into sympathy. “I suppose I must. But I warn you, cousin—if you mean to look at her like that all evening, you’ll have the whole house guessing what I already know.”
“Then perhaps,” Darcy said, almost smiling, “you had better keep them entertained elsewhere.”
Richard laughed under his breath, clapped him lightly on the shoulder, and turned away—still grinning, still curious, but gentleman enough to leave the matter be.
Darcy exhaled, slow and unsteady, and let his gaze travel across the room.
Elizabeth stood by the fire, the small parcel open in her hands.
Her aunt leaned close, admiring the workmanship of the little book without touching it.
Elizabeth said something—Darcy could not hear what—but she smiled as she spoke, that soft, private smile that belonged to thought, not performance.
Her fingers brushed the green ribbon that bound the book. She hesitated, tracing it once with her thumb, then looked up.
Their eyes met.
For one still, unguarded instant, the noise of the room vanished. Every candle, every voice, every fluttering ribbon in the hall seemed to fall away until there was only that silent exchange between them—the ribbon in her hand, the knowledge in his.
She understood.
She knew what it was, what it had meant to him, and that he had given it back not as an ending, but as a vow renewed.
Her shoulders rose with indrawn breath; then her lips curved, not in surprise, but in a tremor of feeling too deep for mirth. A smile that was wonder, and gratitude, and—perhaps—affection.
Darcy bowed his head slightly in answer.
He had thought he might never see that expression again—the look of Elizabeth Bennet when her wit gave way to warmth. And now she held, quite literally, the proof of his constancy in her hands.
His keepsake.
All around them, the chatter rose: Lady Montford delighting in a charcoal sketch of her little pug, the Colonel pretending rapture over a badly painted snuffbox, Miss Kendrick exclaiming too loudly at her own gift and glancing hopefully now and then at himself, as if trying to decide whether he might have been her benefactor.
It was all laughter and paper and candlelight.
Yet beneath the noise, something had settled between them—quiet, certain, like the hush before snow.
Darcy closed the small box and slipped it into his coat pocket. He would keep it there until he could trust his hands to be still.
When he looked up again, Elizabeth was still watching him. The firelight touched her hair, turned it to bronze; the faintest, nervous joy trembled through her expression.
It was enough.
Outside, the wind had died, and snow fell softly again against the windows—thin, delicate flakes that drifted down like unspoken promises.
The laughter had gentled to a pleasant hum; the company lingered, unwilling to part.
Candles had burned low, and the mistletoe drooped from its ribbons like weary sentinels.
The air was warm, scented with pine and the faint spice of the punch that had loosened even Lady Montford’s dignity into cheerfulness.
Elizabeth stood near the hearth, the small book still in her hands.
Its weight was slight, but her pulse had not yet steadied since she had unwrapped it.
The green ribbon caught the light, glimmering against the morocco cover.
Every turn of it spoke of remembrance, of endurance, of a question she had longed and feared to hear asked again.
And then, as her fingers traced the satin’s edge, memory struck her with the force of touch rather than thought.
That ribbon.
The shade, the texture—it was hers. She could see, with aching clarity, the candlelight of another room at Netherfield, the mirror before which she had sat after tending Jane, her hair half loosed from its pins, her hand reaching for the ribbon that was no longer there.
She had assumed it dropped somewhere in the corridor, or that one of the maids had taken it up and neglected to return it.
She had looked for it the next day—looked for it with irritation rather than sentiment—and then forgot it entirely.
Forgot, while he had kept it.