Chapter 21
The house had shaken off its captivity. Doors slammed and voices carried; the echo of bootsteps mixed with the creak of leather and the rasp of cords drawn tight around trunks.
Maids flew past with ribbons trailing from their aprons; a groom shouted for the postilion; somewhere a child shrieked with delight at the first sight of the cleared drive.
Cold air rolled through the corridors each time a door opened, turning the last of the candle smoke to silver.
Darcy paused halfway down the grand stair, gloves in hand, watching his own breath cloud faintly in the draft.
Sunlight spilled across the landing, striking the marble floor in pale shards.
The storm had broken for good. Snow still draped the lawns, but the sky beyond the windows had the washed blue of forgiveness.
He ought rightly to be exhausted, yet his thoughts were clean and ordered. Plans assembled themselves without effort: a letter to Longbourn, a visit to his solicitor, the first discreet notices in town. For the first time in his life, duty and desire pointed the same way.
“Darcy!”
Richard’s call came from the staircase behind him. He appeared with one arm still tangled in his greatcoat and the look of a man delighted by his own survival.
“Your heroics at breakfast nearly cost me my chance with Montford,” Richard said, falling into step beside him.
“He was in such a state of befuddlement and belated moral virtue, I thought he might strike me from his next guest list altogether. A very near thing my good name was not tarnished forever, you know. I might well have been packing off to Matlock by now.”
Darcy kept walking. “And yet you are still here.”
“Barely. I had to persuade him I was a man of unimpeachable discretion, which is not a reputation I have cultivated with any consistency. I depended upon you for that.”
Darcy glanced sideways at him. “You dragged me here for the sake of your discretion?”
Richard hesitated—an uncharacteristic pause that made Darcy slow as well.
“Well,” he said at last, “not entirely. I may have mentioned your name once or twice in my correspondence with Montford. His daughter, you see, has a taste for solemn company, and I thought if she saw me keeping such distinguished acquaintance, it might improve her opinion of me.”
“So,” Darcy said, “my presence was a recommendation of your character.”
Richard winced theatrically. “A shield, more like. If she had thought me too merry, she would have dismissed me at once. You were to lend me gravity. I thought you might even be dull enough to make me seem charming by comparison.”
Darcy’s laugh came out before he could stop it. “And did it succeed?”
“Beyond all expectation,” Richard said, grinning. “You scowled through the first several days so thoroughly that she began to take pity on me. Nothing softens a woman’s heart faster than seeing a man trapped beside his glowering cousin.”
“So, my misery was your courtship.”
“Precisely.” Richard’s grin widened. “And, though I did not foresee quite how dramatically you would steal my thunder, I cannot say your interference has done me harm. The lady was rather touched, I think, by the loyalty of a man who defends a woman’s honour before breakfast.”
Darcy shook his head, but affection threaded through the exasperation. “You are impossible.”
“I am engaged,” Richard corrected, “which is far more alarming. You may expect me to be insufferably virtuous by spring.”
Darcy raised a brow. “And her father did not object?”
“Only because I made immediate use of your example. While the old man was still disoriented by your heroics, I informed him that I had declared myself to his daughter.”
Darcy could not help it; laughter escaped him, rare and genuine. “You did not.”
“I did, and the result was... unexpectedly favourable.”
“You mean to say he accepted you?”
“Accepted me and poured me a second glass of brandy to celebrate. Courage, it seems, is catching. I owe you a debt.”
Darcy shook his head and resumed walking. “You owe me a quiet Christmas next year.”
Richard’s eyes flashed. “Next year, cousin, you’ll have a wife. I expect you to start all the noise yourself. And now, off to London with us, eh? You to your solicitor, and I to my mother with the news.”
He clapped Darcy once on the shoulder and disappeared into the swirl of departing guests, whistling a tune more cheerful than tuneful.
Outside the main doors, sleigh bells chimed as the first carriage lurched forward.
Steam rose from the horses; the morning glittered around them, bright and sharp as new coin.
In the crush of cloaks and farewells, Darcy caught sight of the Gardiners overseeing their luggage.
Mr. Gardiner was in full command of the operation—issuing orders to footmen with the calm authority of a man used to both warehouses and family chaos—while Mrs. Gardiner adjusted her bonnet and murmured the occasional correction that made him change every instruction he had just given.
Darcy joined them as a porter closed the last trunk.
“You are bound for the Allenbys?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Gardiner, beaming. “We could not come all this way and not pay our respects. The messenger we sent yesterday has likely cleared the road himself by now.”
“Then I shall return directly to London,” Darcy began, “to settle matters with my solicitor and prepare for—”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Gardiner waved a gloved hand as if brushing away fog. “You must come with us. sir. Louisa Allenby would never forgive me if I told her we turned away Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, and our dear niece’s betrothed besides.”
He opened his mouth to object, but the look she gave him brooked no argument. So, he merely bowed. “You are very kind, madam.”
“Not kind,” she said. “Practical. You will need a witness when Elizabeth tells me she has changed her mind about everything.”
A laugh startled him before he could stop it. “I assure you, madam, she will not.”
“Then I shall be the first to say, ‘I told you so.’ Come—make yourself useful and see that my husband has not packed the tea with the inkstand again.”
He did as he was told, half dazed by the easy warmth that had already drawn him into their circle. No ceremony, no stiffness—just family, bustling and affectionate and alive.
Still, old habits asserted themselves. He stepped aside to see that his trunk was removed from Richard’s carriage and set with the Gardiners’ luggage, giving quiet directions to the servants who had been waiting for his word.
Richard caught his eye from across the hall and raised his brows in question.
“I am changing my escort,” Darcy called over the noise.
Richard’s answering grin was pure mischief. “Trading me for better company?”
“For more respectable,” Darcy returned.
That earned a laugh and a mock bow. “Then I shall stay and sully the reputation of the house a little longer. Miss Montford insists her father requires soothing after your display.”
Darcy inclined his head, unable to hide his amusement. “Then I leave that delicate task to your tact.”
“Pray for me, cousin.”
With that, Richard vanished back into the swirl of departing guests, and Darcy turned once more to the Gardiners, finding his name already written into their day as though it had always belonged there.
A flash of forest green cloak caught his eye: Elizabeth, descending the stairs with her reticule clasped tight in one hand and a sprig of holly tucked into her hair. The hall seemed to part for her. The chatter softened, as though even the house had learned to listen when she entered.
“Are we ready?” she asked, turning toward her aunt and uncle.
Mrs. Gardiner answered for them all. “Quite ready, my dear.”
Darcy offered his arm. She took it without pause, the gesture as natural as breathing.
The air bit cold when they stepped outside, but sunlight poured over the steps, dazzling off the snow.
Coaches waited in a line of gleaming harness and restless horses; laughter floated from every direction.
Richard had already sent back his carriage and was now standing in the door beside Miss Montford, who blushed to the roots of her fur-lined bonnet.
He caught Darcy’s eye, saluted with two fingers, and shouted, “Merry Christmas, and I shall see you in London! Try not to scandalise the city before I arrive!”
Darcy’s reply was lost in the laughter that followed. Elizabeth looked up at him, half amused, half exasperated.
“Your cousin is incorrigible,” she said.
“He is. But I find myself grateful for him.”
“Then I shall forgive him everything.”
The carriage door opened; he handed her in. Inside, warmth wrapped around them—the mingled scuffling of boots and petticoats, the faint hum of contented conversation as the Gardiners settled opposite. Outside, sleigh bells jingled; a cheer went up as another carriage set off down the drive.
Darcy sat beside Elizabeth, close enough that their shoulders touched when the wheels began to turn. Kelton Manor slipped from view, its windows bright against the white hills, and ahead the road stretched wide and unmarked.
Elizabeth glanced sideways at him, the corner of her mouth curving in that familiar, dangerous way. “What are you thinking?”
“That I have spent my life preparing for the wrong kind of happiness,” he said. “And that I mean to correct it.”
Her hand found his, a quiet pressure that said everything she need not speak.
The carriage rolled on through the glittering fields, the sound of the bells fading into distance, and Darcy let the rhythm of it settle through him like peace.
He had known many kinds of triumph, but none so simple or so complete as this: a clear morning, the woman he loved beside him at last, and the promise of home waiting wherever she was.