Chapter 7 #2
She and Jane entered the dining room together, the warmth of the fire spreading pleasantly through the space.
The scents of toast, stewed apples, and tart preserves mingled with the faint, comforting aroma of cold slices of Christmas goose.
Upon the sideboard lay a generous spread: hot rolls, slices of crusty toast, boiled eggs with bright yolks, cold meats artfully arranged, jewel-toned preserves, and tender apples spiced with cinnamon and cloves.
Two large pots, one of tea, the other of hot chocolate, steamed gently nearby, offering their contents like old friends inviting conversation.
They selected their food in companionable silence before taking their seats. Elizabeth poured herself chocolate and inhaled the rich, sweet scent just as her father entered, his nose buried in a book.
“Good morning, Jane. Good morning, Lizzy,” he said, without glancing up, as he moved to his place at the head of the table.
They greeted him in kind and began to eat, the clink of porcelain and silver a soothing accompaniment to the gentle crackle of the fire.
“When is your young man to arrive?” he asked dryly, eyes still fixed upon the page. “Did he not mention he would attend you this afternoon?”
Jane smiled, clearly unbothered by her father’s habitual teasing. “Charles is to come at one o’clock. Have you something of which to discuss?”
Mr. Bennet shook his head. “No, but I expect he will bring Mr. Darcy. He promised me a game of chess when next he called at Longbourn. I have not had a worthy opponent in some time. I find myself eager to see whether we are evenly matched.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Mr. Darcy? When did you speak with him?” She had not seen him approach her father the evening prior, though she had not observed him closely after dinner. Or had she?
Her father at last looked up, a trace of mischief in his eyes. “Just after the ladies withdrew he remained behind, and we had a pleasant exchange. He seems a sensible man, certainly well-read. We debated Locke and Hume, and were discussing crop rotation by the second glass of port.”
Elizabeth set down her cup, her expression caught between amusement and disbelief. “You surprise me.”
“I surprise myself,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I begin to question whether the fae have replaced Mr. Darcy with one of their own, for he is not at all like the gentleman with whom we shared company in the autumn. That Darcy would scarce look at a lady but to observe a blemish.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “It is peculiar,” she agreed. “Charlotte believes it may be the absence of Mr. Bingley’s sisters that has prompted the change. Without their constant whispering in his ear, perhaps he is now able to form opinions of his own.”
Mr. Bennet gave a short laugh. “’Tis a sound conclusion.
Miss Bingley scarcely let him from her sight.
I imagine his time at Netherfield was intolerable, with her forever lurking about corners like a cat in search of cream.
” He shuddered and closed his book, laying it aside.
“’Tis no wonder he was out of sorts. If Miss Bingley had shadowed me so closely, I should have turned sour long before he did. ”
“Papa!” Jane exclaimed.
“What? I speak as I find, dear daughter. She trailed after him like a ship dragging its anchor—heavy, clumsy, and impossible to ignore.” He reached for his tea, then added with a pointed glance, “See that she does not do the same to your future servants, my dear, else they will be taking orders from the wrong mistress.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, her amusement tempered by a flicker of agreement.
Still, a part of her was unsettled. Mr. Darcy engaged in a chess match with her father?
Debating philosophy? Discussing crop rotation of all things?
Was he…attempting to endear himself to her family, or simply revealing that he was not so insufferable as she had long believed?
Jane watched her, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“I suppose,” Elizabeth said slowly, “I must admit he is not so great a villain as I once painted him. I do not know that I can absolve him of all his faults, but he is…well, less objectionable than he was before.”
Jane beamed, her satisfaction plain. “Then I am glad. I never thought him so dreadful as you believed.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips and reached for a muffin. “We shall see. In any case, you need not worry for my welfare. I can speak with Mr. Darcy without pain or discomfort. You are free to devote all your attention to your betrothed, and I shall manage well enough.”
Privately, however, she resolved to watch Mr. Darcy with additional scrutiny. If he had truly changed, she would be the first to perceive it—though she was not entirely certain she trusted herself to recognize what she might see.
Darcy
The gentlemen arrived at Longbourn promptly at one o’clock, their coats brushed free of snow and their boots freshly cleaned by the grooms. Though Darcy preserved his usual reserved countenance, a restrained eagerness stirred within him.
It had been less than a day since he last beheld Elizabeth, yet he felt that a peculiar tension lingered—an anticipation at the prospect of seeing her again.
Would she wear the locket? Or deem it too fine for such casual company?
The thought preoccupied him more than he cared to admit.
His mother and grandmother had both worn the locket while mistress of Pemberley, unconstrained by time of day or formality, and he had selected it in part for its versatility.
Elizabeth, however, was practical. She might consider it too conspicuous. He wanted to believe otherwise.
The gloves, of course, he did not expect to see. That particular gift was meant for the evening; it suited an elegant affair, a ball or concert perhaps. She would not display them now, and so he must content himself with the knowledge that they were hers.
Darcy had orchestrated their delivery with care.
Brisby had engaged a local lad from Meryton to carry the parcels—one entirely unknown to the staff at Longbourn.
The boy, it turned out, had formed an attachment to one of the upstairs maids, and had persuaded her to assist him.
Between the two of them, they had devised a reliable scheme.
A shilling each per delivery was a princely sum to them, and Darcy had no doubt they would maintain the secrecy required for continued payment.
Still, he remained ever mindful of discovery, and though he found the intrigue invigorating, he was not unburdened by it.
Upon entering the drawing room, his eyes found Elizabeth at once.
She stood near the pianoforte, speaking with Mrs. Gardiner, and her smile—easy, bright—struck him with renewed force.
His gaze, ever drawn to her, slipped to her throat.
There, against her skin, lay the familiar garnet cross.
Yet something else caught his notice—a second, finer chain nestled just beneath it, partly obscured by the modest neckline of her gown. She wore the locket.
Relief washed over him, mingled with something far warmer.
She had deemed it worthy of wear—perhaps more than worthy.
He observed how her fingers strayed to the chain now and again as she conversed, brushing it with unconscious familiarity.
He longed to see the locket in full view—to admire how it rested against her skin, to witness her wearing it not as a trinket, but as a token of sentiment.
Darcy busied himself as best he could. He conversed with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, estimable people whose intelligence and manners would set them apart in nearly any company.
He had come to admire them greatly over their short acquaintance, finding their gentle warmth a balm against the harsher tones of country society.
Mr. Bennet, too, claimed his attention. They engaged in a lively game of chess before the fire, and to Darcy’s surprise, the older gentleman proved a formidable opponent.
Darcy won by a narrow margin, but it was by no means an easy victory.
“I shall demand a rematch next time you come, sir,” Mr. Bennet declared, a twinkle in his eye and the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. His tone was a curious mix of solemnity and teasing: a blend Darcy had come to recognize as the elder Bennet’s particular form of approval.
“You have my word,” Darcy replied with sincerity. “It has been some time since I was made to concentrate so thoroughly on a game. Thank you.”
“Then there is chance of my victory yet!” Mr. Bennet chuckled, pleased with himself, and shuffled off to his study in search of a particular volume he claimed would settle an argument with himself.
With Mr. Bennet gone and the room’s energy mellowing, Darcy allowed himself to wish for a moment with Elizabeth.
He turned, meaning to seek her out, but she was gone.
Miss Lucas had drawn her aside, it seemed, to discuss something domestic, and before she could return, Mrs. Bennet intercepted her to inquire after the household linens.
When that matter was settled, the Gardiners had questions about a letter from London, and then Miss Kitty experienced a small mishap with her embroidery that required Elizabeth’s patient hands.
Each time Darcy believed he might speak to her alone, another diversion arose.
It was maddening. He had imagined, foolishly, that their recent improvement in understanding might yield further opportunity for conversation. Instead, he was forced to admire her from afar, his expectations diminishing with each missed chance.
By the time he and Bingley made their farewells, Darcy’s mood had darkened considerably.
He masked it well, of course—his expression ever calm, his words measured—but inwardly, he simmered with frustration.
Elizabeth had been gracious, kind, even attentive when they exchanged pleasantries; yet the moments were fleeting, the glances brief.
He had offered her a piece of his family, of his heart, and though she wore it close, she did not yet know it had come from him, or that it carried the weight of his heart.
There will be another chance, he told himself as they stepped into the waiting carriage. He had not come this far to be disheartened by a single unremarkable afternoon.
And with little else to occupy his mind once they returned to Netherfield, he set to work composing the third day of Christmas for Elizabeth, determined that the next gift would speak louder than the last.