Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Christmas morning at Longbourn usually began around nine o’clock.
The youngest of the Bennet sisters were always the first to meander downstairs—Lydia with red and white ribbons woven into her hair, and Kitty drawing her favorite shawl tightly about her shoulders.
Mary, Elizabeth, and Jane descended a little later, followed by their parents.
After breakfast, it was their habit to spend a quiet morning together, each occupied with their own tasks or amusements.
Dinner that evening would consist of roast meats and fowl—typically beef, venison, and goose, followed by plum pudding filled with suet, dried fruits, spices, and brandy.
Cook always served it with a rich sauce, setting the dessert alight for a dramatic flair.
Both sweet and savory pies were also on offer, mince-pie being a family favorite.
Cheeses, jellies, preserved fruits, nuts, and spiced wine or punch also graced the sideboard.
According to custom, the servants were granted the day following Christmas, Boxing Day, to visit their families.
Consequently, meals on that day comprised cold fare and simple bread and cheese.
Elizabeth awoke slowly that morning. She glanced toward the window, where the ice clinging to the panes promised snow upon the ground below.
Her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner had arrived the night before and were already abed when the rest of the family had returned from Haye Park.
A snowball fight, she thought, would be just the thing to entertain her young cousins.
Stretching luxuriously, Elizabeth rolled over and sat up in bed.
She pulled back the covers and shivered slightly as the chill air enveloped her.
The fire had burned down to coals, and she hastened to stir the embers into flame.
Her long braid fell over her shoulder, and she pushed it aside lest it reach the now crackling blaze.
Holding out her hands, Elizabeth warmed herself for a moment.
It was still early, barely seven o’clock, and she wondered what had woken her.
She donned her dressing gown and moved to her favorite place in her chamber: a comfortable armchair near the hearth.
As she settled herself, she noticed a wrapped parcel resting on the table beside it.
“That was not there last night,” she murmured aloud.
With a shrug, she picked it up and examined the brown paper for any sign of the sender.
She saw nothing other than her name written on the front in an elegant, masculine hand.
She tugged at the twine and peeled back the paper.
A velvet-covered jewel case lay within, and she stroked the smooth nap tenderly.
As she opened the lid, a piece of paper tumbled into her lap.
A few lines were written on it in the same hand as the inscription on the outside.
On the first day of Christmas, a memory restored,
A token once cherished, from a heart long ignored.
Your true love came softly, with hope to reclaim—
A locket he gave you, on a gold chain.
Inside the case lay a lovely gold locket.
An oval diamond sat at its center, its edges encircled by red garnets.
The gems were set in gold, and the locket itself measured more than an inch tall.
It struck her that it might be a family heirloom, and Elizabeth gasped in delight as she traced the embedded jewels with reverent fingers.
Surely, this is not meant for me!
Elizabeth was incredulous as she opened the locket, scarcely trusting her own eyes.
Inside, a lock of dark hair was curled in a ring and tied with a bit of white ribbon.
It held no hint of who the sender might be.
She snapped the case closed and slipped the chain around her neck.
The pendant felt heavy against her chest, but somehow, the weight was comforting.
“Lizzy?” Her door opened, and Jane stepped inside.
Letting out a small squeak, Elizabeth startled and turned to face her sister. “Jane! You frightened me. Come in and shut the door—quickly!”
Jane did as she was bid and came to her sister’s side. “What is that?” As expected, her first question concerned the mysterious gift.
“A gift…though I do not know who it is from.” She explained what had happened in hushed tones, as though afraid her recitation might bring others to her bedchamber.
“Oh, how lovely! You have an admirer.” Jane clapped her hands, excitement radiating from her in waves. “Could it be from Mr. Wickham?” she asked impulsively.
The hair in the locket was dark—just like the officer’s. Yet Elizabeth immediately doubted it could be so. No one had seen the gentleman since Mr. Darcy’s return to the neighborhood.
“I suppose we must wait and see if you receive another gift tomorrow. How very romantic for your admirer to recreate the Twelve Days of Christmas for you.” Jane sat on the arm of the chair. “I have exciting news to share, too, Lizzy. Mr. Bingley proposed last night!”
“Jane! You sly thing, you did not say a word!” She swatted her sister playfully. “Tell me, was it terribly sweet and satisfyingly charming? When will he speak to Papa?”
“If you recall,” Jane began, “last evening after the games, the furniture was moved for dancing. We danced a reel, and though my feet moved as they always do, my heart seemed quite untethered. Mr. Bingley—Charles—watched me with such fondness, as if I were the only one in the room.”
“When the music ended, he asked if I might take the air with him. I knew it was snowing—it had begun sometime after supper—but I said yes. We walked into the garden behind the house. Everything was still, hushed under a fine mantle of white, and the snow was falling slowly, like lace drifting from the sky.” Jane’s expression grew dreamy, her gaze drifting far away.
“We did not stray far, pausing by the arbor beneath an old hawthorn tree, and for a moment, he said nothing. I could hear the snow settling on the leaves and feel his hand trembling slightly as he took mine. Then, in his dear, earnest manner, he asked me to marry him. I could not speak right away; my heart was too full. But when I nodded and he smiled, I felt as though the snow, the stars, the whole of the world had conspired to make that one moment perfect. It was a modest proposal, but in every way...it was mine.”
“Be sure to record that in your journal, dear sister, for that is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.” Elizabeth sniffled. “Who knew your ‘Charles’ could be so very tender? I am extremely pleased for you, Jane. You will be very happy.”
Her sister reached out and clasped her hand. “As for when he will speak with Papa, I believe he intends to approach him before we all dine this evening on the Christmas feast cook has prepared. He and Mr. Darcy are to attend, if you recall.”
A small part of Elizabeth bristled at the prospect of once more enduring that man’s company, though her displeasure had waned somewhat.
“Will you wear the locket to-day?” Jane asked. “It is very fine.”
“I shall, though I mean to tuck it inside my gown. Can you imagine what Lydia will do if she sees it? I shall have to find a very good hiding place.”
“It will look lovely with your cream gown, and the sheer gold muslin overskirt shall catch the light most charmingly.” Jane jumped up and moved to the wardrobe, quickly finding the articles of clothing for which she searched.
“Ah, here they are! Yes, these will do very nicely. We can weave a red ribbon into your hair, too.”
She thought the ensemble Jane chose for her was better suited to evening wear, but she cheerfully accepted her sister’s suggestions.
Elizabeth then selected a moss green gown with cream embroidery for the day.
She still wore the pendant, but it was tucked securely beneath the bodice of her gown.
The chain was long enough that it would not slip into view unintentionally.
“It is a perfect gift,” she murmured to Jane, who was about to return to her own chamber. “Who do you suppose left it in my room? I am certain that is what woke me so early.”
“We shall have to be on alert so we can discover the identity of whomever left it.” With that, Jane departed to dress for the day.
Darcy
Darcy stood before the mirror in his bedchamber, fastening the final button of a waistcoat he rarely wore.
The deep gold fabric shimmered in the candlelight, its sheen catching the red embroidery that curled delicately along the edge of the lapels and framed the small brass buttons.
It was festive, almost ostentatiously so, by his standards, and certainly not something he would have chosen for himself.
But it had been a gift from Georgiana, her eyes full of apprehension when she had first presented it to him two Christmases past. He had thanked her warmly, expressing his affection with a gentle embrace.
He had worn it only once before tucking it away, hidden deep within his wardrobe like some artifact too bright for daily life.
Tonight was…deliberate; like the waistcoat, he would no longer remain hidden.
He pulled the lapels taut and adjusted them slowly, brushing away invisible dust. The mirror reflected a man less austere than he normally appeared; still solemn, yes, but touched with something warmer. Christmas warmth, perhaps. Anticipation most likely. Tonight he would see Elizabeth again.
Elizabeth, who had unwittingly upended his ordered world and charmed him without design. Elizabeth, whose laughter danced on the air like sleigh bells. Elizabeth, who would, he hoped, wear his gift this evening.
The locket, a family heirloom once worn by his grandmother and then by his mother, was oval-shaped, etched with an elegant leaf motif, and inset with a diamond surrounded by garnets the color of pomegranate seeds. It was steeped in meaning, timeless in design. Like Elizabeth herself.
He had retrieved it from the safe at Darcy House just days before returning to Netherfield, having resolved, though not without some trepidation, that he would give it to her during the holiday season.
The decision had not been made lightly. Nothing about her stirred frivolity in him.
He had only needed the opportunity to present it, and fate—or Providence—had provided one.
As he composed his new “Twelve Days of Christmas” poem, each verse a token, a gesture, a whisper of courtship, he determined that the locket must be the first gift.
Not merely for its value or beauty, but for its meaning.
It was an offering of legacy, of inclusion, of remembrance and promise.
A lock of his hair, coiled and bound within, was a token of him she could carry next to her heart.
His fingers lingered at the cravat tied neatly beneath his chin. Was it too much? Did the gold fabric of his waistcoat suggest something too foppish? Would Elizabeth think he was trying too hard to impress? Would she even notice his efforts to please her? He sighed.
Brisby, ever-attentive and unruffled by his master’s moments of doubt, stepped forward with unhurried assurance. “You are dressed to advantage, sir,” he said, smoothing the sleeve of Darcy’s coat.
“Thank you,” Darcy replied, his gaze fixed still upon his reflection. “I begin to fear I resemble a gilded peacock,” he added dryly, but Brisby only chuckled and handed him the coat.
“You will outshine the greenery and decorations at Longbourn,” Brisby quipped.
Darcy allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward. “Let us pray not.”
And yet he wished Elizabeth would notice—if not the waistcoat, then the sentiment behind the locket.
He had written a short verse to accompany it, unsigned but unmistakably personal, delivered with the rest of the small gifts that had been dispatched in secrecy the night before.
He imagined her reading it, her look intent, head tilted just slightly, her lips pursed in that way she did when she was puzzled—or perhaps when she was amused. Would she know? Would she guess?
Given her…uncertain feelings toward him, Darcy suspected she might be slow to connect the verses to their author.
But that was well. He would have patience in his pursuit.
The usual superficial flirtations of society had never held his attention, and any previous courtship he had considered had been perfunctory.
But not this. Elizabeth was not a passing fancy.
She was a flame that demanded steady tending.
He would woo her as best he could. Thoughtfully.
Subtly. Honestly. Conversation would be his opening.
He longed to engage her in one of their spirited discussions, to let their minds meet and twine and clash as they had before.
And if fortune smiled upon him, perhaps that connection could deepen into something more intimate, more enduring.
“Mr. Bingley will be waiting in the library,” Brisby said, stepping back after a final adjustment to Darcy’s collar.
Darcy nodded and retrieved his gloves. As he paused at the door, he turned once more to Brisby. “Do not wait up. You have earned an evening’s rest. I shall manage well enough on my own upon our return.”
The valet blinked, surprised but grateful, and bowed low. “Thank you, sir. Happy Christmas.”
Darcy stepped out into the hall, heart steadying with every step he took toward the evening ahead. Let the soiree begin. Let the music play. Let Elizabeth wear her garnet cross—and may she place the locket beside it, not merely for its beauty, but for what it represented.
A beginning.