Chapter Nine
Lucas Lodge
Darcy
Lucas Lodge was ablaze with candlelight, its windows glowing amber against the night.
The snow fell light and slow, catching the glimmer of lanterns strung along the front steps and across the hedges.
Inside, the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses drifted from windows, left slightly open to provide relief from the warmth of the many bodies filling the manor house.
The festivity of the season clung to every surface: garlands of evergreen adorned each doorway, holly berries glinted among polished silver, and the air held the faint scent of orange, clove, and evergreen.
Darcy disembarked with a murmur of thanks to the footman and adjusted the buttons of his coat. Beside him, Bingley straightened his cravat and bounced upon the balls of his feet like a schoolboy.
“It looks lively,” said Bingley, his voice bright with anticipation. “Do you suppose there will be cards after dinner, or will the Lucases send us straight to the dance floor?”
“I can only surmise our host’s plans from past experience,” Darcy replied, brushing a snowflake from his shoulder. “Sir William favors dancing; we shall find out soon enough.”
Though less elegant and certainly not as large as Netherfield, Lucas Lodge exuded warmth and welcome.
As ever, Sir William spared no effort in impressing his guests.
Dinner consisted of three abundant courses, filled with delicacies and delights, more than enough to please any guest. The table overflowed with roast goose, savory pies, vegetables, chestnuts, and puddings of every sort.
Conversation buzzed all around, but Darcy heard little of it.
He sat far up the table from Elizabeth, across from her, yet frustratingly distant.
As the highest-ranking gentleman in the room, he was seated at the right hand of their hostess.
On his own right sat a widow whose name he could not recall.
Resigned to having his nerves taxed throughout the meal, he responded politely when spoken to, but otherwise watched Elizabeth.
Every glance, every smile she offered to others stirred in him a deep awareness of her.
He knew the curve of her smile, the way her laughter warmed the surrounding space.
And now, adorned with his mother’s combs, she seemed impossibly near and yet forever out of reach.
After the gentlemen had enjoyed their port and cigars, they drifted into the drawing room.
It had already been cleared for dancing, and a small ensemble tuned their instruments near the hearth.
The polished floor reflected the chandelier’s glow overhead, and cheerful conversation rose above the strains of a violinist preparing to play.
Darcy had no need to search; she stood just as he had imagined.
Elizabeth was near a window, her head inclined toward Charlotte Lucas as they conversed.
She wore a gown of deep sapphire blue, its neckline and hem embroidered in a golden-hued thread that shimmered when she moved.
Cream lace edged the fine fabric, and the whole of it suited her so perfectly he could scarce imagine her in any other attire at this moment.
But it was not just the gown that held him fast—it was the cream-colored gloves, worked in gold thread, and the glint of pearl combs nestled in her dark curls.
The sight of those combs pierced him more deeply than he anticipated.
The memory surged forward, unbidden. He was a boy again—perhaps eight years old—tucked beneath the covers in Pemberley’s nursery.
His mother had come to bid him goodnight, her hair pinned up and the combs gleaming in the firelight.
She had kissed his brow, her perfume sweet and familiar.
He had asked where she was going, and she had replied, “To dance with your father, dearest. Do not grow up too quickly.”
The combs had arrived just the day before, sent from Darcy House. Mrs. Hanson, his housekeeper, had seen they were cleaned and packed in velvet, and he had arranged for their delivery to Longbourn along with the next stanza.
On the third day of Christmas, he recited silently. She wore them tonight, and the gift from the second day as well. Bless his staff for their hasty fulfillment of his requests. Thankfully, they still had time to acquire the items needed for the remaining days of Christmas.
The combs and gloves suited Elizabeth better than he imagined. The silver gleamed against her chestnut curls; the pearls caught the firelight as she turned her head. His heart pounded with longing.
Darcy approached Elizabeth, coming to her side and smiling kindly at her and her companion. “Good evening, ladies,” he said.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, dropping a graceful curtsy. Her eyes sparkled, and a delicate flush rose in her cheeks as their eyes met.
“You are most welcome.” He hardly heard Miss Lucas's greeting, so intent was his gaze on his love. Darcy did not miss the shrewd glance Miss Lucas cast toward her friend before excusing herself with little more than that polite greeting.
“Miss Elizabeth.” He bowed, his gaze lingering a moment longer than propriety allowed. “You look… quite fine this evening.” She looked more than fine. Exquisite, magnificent, luminescent…those were the words that came to mind.
She seemed to divine his unspoken thoughts, and she regarded him with amused challenge. “Quite fine?” Her tone held a teasing lilt—light, not mocking.
Heavens, she is magnificent.
“Exceptionally so. Enchanting, if I am to be entirely honest,” he murmured, his sonorous baritone low.
Her eyes danced. “I suppose the combs help,” she said, angling her head just so, allowing the pearls to catch the firelight from a nearby candelabra. There was something almost expectant in her manner.
“They do,” he replied truthfully. “The workmanship is exquisite. Were they fashioned in London?” He would play the simpleton, for he was not yet ready to confess he was the gentleman responsible for them.
“I am afraid I do not know,” she answered, her smile dimming slightly. “They arrived just this morning. I cannot imagine who would wish to bestow such wonders upon me. I am no one.”
Darcy remained silent, though he disagreed with her words most fervently.
“And to send them with only a brief note, without expectation of thanks… Can you think of anyone so kind? So self-sacrificing?” she asked lightly. Her eyes remained intently fixed upon his.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to hold her gaze. Allow me to keep my secrets a little longer. “I am certain such persons exist.”
Her lips quirked. “Indeed. It is fortunate, is it not, to have such friends?” He could see the inquisitive light in her eyes—faint, yet true—and for that he felt grateful.
Her dislike had so recently been banished; he dared not presume upon the change so soon and declare himself.
He merely gave the barest nod, fearing more words might betray him.
A cheer rose from the younger ladies, and the musicians began a familiar air.
Elizabeth stood, and Darcy stepped forward, offering his hand.
“You did promise me a set, Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a slight bow.
“I did,” she replied, smiling. “And I am a woman of my word.”
He led her to the center of the floor as couples took their places. The Minuet de la Cour filled the room, stately and refined, and they began. Even through the fine fabric of their gloves, the feel of her fingers sent a thrill through him.
They moved in slow, sweeping elegance, executing each step in perfect time. She was grace itself—pure perfection—and the air thickened with something unspoken. The other dancers blurred around them, their faces indistinct. For a moment, it seemed they alone occupied the room.
“You dance well, Mr. Darcy.”
“I have had some practice.”
She smiled. “How very surprising. Given the distaste you so often display for company, I should never have imagined it.” She paused, and her playfulness gave way to something more earnest. “I confess I never thought to enjoy your company so much.”
Now it was his turn to smile, his expression dear as he admired her beauty. “I am gratified to hear it, for I take great pleasure in yours.”
They turned in the dance as the music swelled. She looked up at him.
“I have often wondered what made you so very…proud.”
Again with her candor. Darcy could hardly complain; he had misunderstood her often enough. He frowned slightly as he considered her words. “Unrighteous pride is not the sentiment I would attribute to myself. I believe we spoke of vanity and pride when you stayed at Netherfield nursing your sister.”
“Indeed. I recall the conversation clearly.”
She spoke with a lightness that danced on the edge of mockery; he was certain a tease would follow.
“I remember you saying, ‘Where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will always be under good regulation.’”
“Indeed. I do not believe you agreed with me.” He waited, curious to hear her reply. She did not disappoint.
“I believe any pride, when used to place oneself above another, can never be considered in good regulation. Pride in one’s accomplishments cannot be faulted; everyone deserves to be proud of themselves.
But when that pride encourages feelings of superiority, the belief that someone is better than their neighbor simply by an accident of birth, greater fortune, or intelligence, then it turns into something twisted and unrecognizable.
Then, we fall into a trap of our own making. ”
“‘Pride goeth before the fall,’” Darcy recited.
“An excellent proverb,” Elizabeth agreed. “Tell me, sir—if it is not pride, what would you call it?”