Chapter Ten Truths in the Snow
The carriage ride back to Gracechurch Street had been filled with the excited chatter of the Gardiners recounting the unexpected warmth of the Earl and the elegance of the Countess, but Elizabeth had remained quiet.
Her mind was a tangle of impressions: Darcy's hand on hers in the entrance, the grim look on his face when he read the letter, and the terrifyingly open adoration Lord Keathley had bestowed upon her sister.
Now, in the sanctuary of the bedroom she shared with Jane, the silence of Christmas Eve settled around them.
Jane sat at the vanity, brushing out her hair, the rhythmic shhh-shhh of the bristles the only sound in the room.
Her reflection in the mirror was serene, a soft smile playing about her lips that had nothing to do with the memory of the evening's port.
Elizabeth watched her from the bed, hugging her knees. She felt the weight of protective anxiety that always accompanied her love for her gentler, kinder sister.
"Jane," Elizabeth said finally, unable to hold it back.
"Hmm?" Jane didn't stop brushing.
"In the conservatory. With the Viscount. You were gone for quite some time."
Jane set the brush down. She turned on the stool, her hair falling like a curtain of gold around her shoulders. "We were."
"And?"
"And he asked if he might court me properly."
Elizabeth let out a breath. "And you said?"
"I said yes."
Elizabeth climbed off the bed and moved to sit on the rug beside Jane's stool, looking up at her sister's face. "Are you sure, Jane? Truly sure? You have known him for four days. Four days! And you literally fell into his lap on Piccadilly. It is... it is all so fast. So reckless."
"It is, isn't it?" Jane's smile widened, becoming bright and unfamiliar.
"But is he stable?" Elizabeth pressed. "He is a Viscount. He is a rake—by his own admission! He is charming, yes, but charm is cheap in London. What if he is another Bingley? What if he is swept away by the next pair of fine eyes or the next novelty?"
Jane reached down and took Elizabeth's hands. Her grip was surprisingly firm.
"Look at me, Lizzy. I am three and twenty. I have spent my entire life being dutiful. Being careful. Being the sensible eldest daughter who smiles and waits and hopes that goodness will be rewarded. And look where that got me."
"It got you a broken heart," Elizabeth whispered.
"It got me ignored by a man who let his sisters tell him who to love," Jane corrected, her voice devoid of bitterness but heavy with truth. "I feel like I have been a pushover, Lizzy. A leaf blowing in the wind. Well, I am not. Not anymore."
"You have never been a pushover. You are simply good."
"I want to be more than good. I want to be happy.
Robert..." Jane paused, saying the name with a reverence that made Elizabeth's stomach flip.
"Robert makes me feel alive. He makes me laugh until my sides ache.
He listens to me, Lizzy. He does not just look at me.
He hears me. And he is not so frivolous as he wants the world to think.
Beneath those fashionable waistcoats and the jokes, he is deeply educated.
He has a sharp mind. We talked a lot—about books, about his tenants, about everything.
He would not be so openly attentive, so willing to brave his mother's dinner table, if he were not serious. "
"He does seem devoted," Elizabeth admitted.
"He is. And for the first time, I do not want to be careful. I want to live it. Whatever happens, I want to step off the ledge and see if I can fly."
Elizabeth looked at her sister and saw the steel spine beneath the velvet gentleness.
Jane wasn't a victim of Bingley's abandonment anymore.
She was the heroine of her own story. Tears pricked her eyes.
She rose to her knees and wrapped her arms around Jane's waist, burying her face in her sister's hair.
"Oh, Jane," she mumbled. "You are so brave. I am so proud of you."
"And you," Jane whispered back, stroking Elizabeth's hair. "You and Mr Darcy... I think you are finding your own courage, are you not?"
Elizabeth pulled back, flushing. "That is entirely different. We are merely... establishing a truce."
"If that was a truce in the hallway," Jane laughed, "then I should hate to see a surrender."
Christmas morning in Cheapside dawned crisp and white, the world dusted in a fresh layer of snow that hid the grime of the city and turned Gracechurch Street into a landscape from a storybook.
Elizabeth and Jane were downstairs early, helping Mrs Gardiner manage the children. Henry, Alice, and Ruth were vibrating with the specific frequency of children who knew there were oranges and sugarplums in their immediate future.
"Papa says we must wait for breakfast," Henry lamented, pressing his nose against the frosty windowpane. "But it is Christmas! Breakfast is a waste of time!"
"Breakfast is essential," Mr Gardiner declared, entering the room with a pile of wrapped parcels. Then stilled, watching a carriage clattering to a halt outside. Not just a carriage—the carriage. The Darcy crest was visible through the frost on the windows.
"Good heavens," Mrs Gardiner murmured, moving to see at a better angle. "They are keen, aren't they?"
A moment later, the invasion began. A footman helped unload a staggering number of packages.
Then came the culprits. The Viscount entered first, carrying a rocking horse under one arm as if it were a baguette.
Mr Darcy followed, looking less laden but infinitely more nervous, holding a stack of books.
Miss Darcy came last, clutching a basket of ribbons and sweets.
"Happy Christmas!" Lord Keathley announced, depositing the horse in the middle of the drawing room. "We come bearing tribute for the small Gardiners. And possibly a few things for the large ones."
"Lord Keathley! Mr Darcy! Miss Darcy!" Mrs Gardiner exclaimed, though she looked delighted. "You are early."
"We were excited," the Viscount claimed. "And Georgiana has never spent a Christmas with children. We thought we'd borrow yours."
The next hour was a blur of domestic chaos that Elizabeth watched with a sense of surreal wonder.
She saw the Viscount sitting on the floor, showing Henry how to properly mount the rocking horse, his expensive breeches collecting lint, his laughter ringing out as loud as the boy's.
Jane sat nearby, watching him with a look of utter adoration.
She saw Miss Darcy helping Alice and Ruth tie ribbons into their hair, the shy girl blossoming under the uncritical admiration of the little ones.
And she saw Mr Darcy.
He stood by the fireplace at first, stiff and watchful.
But when Ruth approached him, holding up a wooden soldier he had brought, he melted.
He crouched down—THE Fitzwilliam Darcy, crouching on a Cheapside rug—and engaged in a serious conversation about the tactical disadvantages of a wooden musket.
He looked up and caught Elizabeth watching him. His face softened. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a tentative, hopeful warmth.
"We intrude," he said softly when she brought him a cup of coffee.
"You are most welcome," she replied, and meant it. "You have made their day. And I suspect, my sister's."
"And yours?"
"I am pleasantly surprised," she admitted. "I did not peg you for a man who played with wooden soldiers."
"I have a younger sister," he reminded her. "I have spent many Christmases on the floor playing games."
"It suits you."
He smiled, and Elizabeth felt that dangerous flutter in her chest again.
"The children seem restless," he noted, looking at Henry, who was now galloping the rocking horse with alarming speed. "Would you object to a walk? The park nearby is covered in snow. It might be refreshing."
"A walk," Elizabeth agreed, seeing the opportunity. "I think that is an excellent idea. We all need to cool our heads."
The park was a few streets away, a square of common land that had been transformed by winter into a pristine playground. The children ran ahead, screaming with joy, while the adults followed at a more sedate pace.
The group naturally fractured. Lord Keathley and Jane drifted to the left, ostensibly to admire a frozen fountain but mostly to gaze into each other's eyes. Mrs Gardiner and Miss Darcy walked with the children, leaving Mr Darcy and Elizabeth relatively alone.
The air was biting, but Elizabeth felt warm in her heavy cloak. Mr Darcy walked beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, his stride matching hers.
"Mr Darcy," she began, deciding to broach the subject that had kept her awake half the night. "Last night, in the hallway. You received a letter."
He stiffened slightly, but he didn't pull away. "I did."
"You looked grave. And you were talking to your uncle. About not hiding anymore." She stopped walking and turned to face him. "Is everything well? I would not pry, but you seemed worried."
Mr Darcy sighed, his breath pluming in the cold air. He looked at the grey sky, then down at her.
"The letter was from my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She claims there is a compact between our mothers—a pre-engagement from our cradles—uniting me with my cousin Anne. She intends to make that engagement public and binding before the New Year."
Elizabeth felt a cold knot of dread. "And will she succeed? She is a formidable woman, from what I recall from Mr Collins' rhapsodizing. And you have great respect for your family's wishes."
Mr Darcy took a step closer. He looked different today. The hesitation that had marked him since their meeting at the bookshop was gone, replaced by a quiet, ironclad certainty.
"There is no compact," he said firmly. "There never was. It is a fiction she created to suit her own desires. And as for her success... no. She will not succeed."
"You seem very sure."