Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Netherfield Park
Darcy
A liveried footman from Darcy House had arrived at Netherfield the evening before bearing the seventh gift of Christmas.
Though Darcy had wrestled with indecision over the selection, a sincere conversation with the Gardiners a few days earlier had offered inspiration.
Their warm praise for the fine wares of Gardiner’s Emporium—their pride in quality and uniqueness—had settled his mind.
The seventh gift would come from the very heart of her family.
Something beautiful, practical, feminine—and personal.
Darcy had penned a note to his steward with careful instructions, detailing precisely what he wished to be procured and how it was to be prepared.
The task was not lightly entrusted. He had selected each piece by description, size, and material, requesting that all be wrapped individually in fine cotton squares—items useful in themselves, yet chosen to display forethought.
The footman, Jameson, tall and broad with the air of a seasoned soldier, had delivered the package to Darcy with solemn efficiency.
His greater purpose, however, had not merely been to carry a parcel to the Gardiner household, but to stand ready for another mission: to escort George Wickham to London and, ultimately, out of England.
Darcy had not forgotten his vow—to Elizabeth and to himself—that he would put an end to Wickham’s threats and misdeeds.
Later that night, in the solitude of his guest chamber at Netherfield, Darcy sat at the writing desk with the delicate fans spread before him, inspecting each one with painstaking care.
They were exquisite—crafted of varied materials, painted and gilded with refinement.
All were perfect for a lady of wit and grace, suitable for assemblies or evenings at the theatre.
He took especial care with the final wrapping, securing the parcel himself and enclosing the seventh stanza of his Twelve Days arrangement in his own hand.
The thought of her discovering them filled him with a boyish eagerness.
Though he would not witness her delight, the knowledge that she would find joy in it was reward enough.
When prepared, the gift was entrusted to his valet, who would see it placed in the proper hands at first light.
But dawn brought with it a far graver duty.
He rose early, foregoing breakfast, and donned his great coat before the rest of the house had stirred.
The morning brought little change in the weather; the air remained raw, the frost lying as heavy as it had all week.
He strode to the gatehouse where Jameson waited, arms folded, his posture that of a man braced for unpleasant work.
“He will come?” Jameson asked, eyes still on the road.
Darcy gave a single nod. “He will. Wickham never neglects opportunity; not when it promises money.”
They waited in silence as the first tendrils of light crept over the distant hedgerows, catching on the bare branches and turning them to lace against the morning sky. Every hedge and tree seemed cloaked in the glitter of cold fire.
At length, a figure appeared in the lane, sauntering with an ease wholly at odds with his precarious circumstances.
“Good morning, Darcy,” Wickham called, his voice too bright, too forced. His gaze flicked from the waiting carriage to Jameson. “I see I am to be chaperoned. How thoughtful.”
Darcy did not answer the pleasantry. “Jameson will accompany you. He will see you aboard a vessel bound for the Americas. The funds I have arranged will be delivered at the docks. My man will leave once the ship has cleared the harbor.”
“And if I refuse?” Wickham smirk was half-hearted.
“Then you will be escorted to Marshalsea, where you may enjoy the comforts of your own making.”
Wickham’s features twisted, amusement and bitterness mingled. “Still so cold, Fitz. All business, as ever. Not even a farewell handshake for an old friend?”
“My offer is rescinded in ten seconds if you are not in that carriage.” Darcy’s words fell like granite, immovable.
“Very well, very well.” With a careless flourish, Wickham mounted the steps. “You always did lack a sense of humor.”
Jameson followed, shutting the door behind them. The carriage lurched forward.
From within came a muffled remark—Wickham’s final barb: “Give my compliments to Georgiana.”
A thud, followed by a faint oof, reached Darcy’s ears. A grim smile tugged at his mouth. He had instructed Jameson that Wickham’s taunts were not to be indulged. It appeared his man had dealt with the provocation in earnest.
The carriage rolled down the frozen path, wheels crunching against the rime. Darcy let out a breath he had not known he held. It was finished. Wickham was gone.
For so long, the blackguard had coiled a noose around his and Georgiana’s lives—deceit, manipulations, debts—and now he had ensnared the people of Meryton as well.
At last Wickham was gone, and none of them would be bound by him again.
In removing his foe from their lives, he had acted as honor demanded, as justice required. And above all, as love compelled.
He turned back toward Netherfield. The wind swept across his cheeks and lifted the fur collar of his coat. They were safe now. And on the morrow would come the eighth day. When she opened it, would she begin to suspect? Would she smile? The notion warmed him more than the wan morning light.
December 31, 1811
Elizabeth
On the seventh day of Christmas,
With a flourish so grand,
Seven painted fans
From a faraway land.
The morning began much as others had of late, with frost upon the panes and the same still, wintry cold.
Yet for Elizabeth there was a brightness in it, for she woke with the happy expectation of another gift.
Already dressed in a simple gown, she was fastening her sash when Jane entered her bedchamber, eager to hand over the latest delivery.
“Another parcel has arrived for you, Lizzy.” Jane held up a box in the now-familiar style, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. She came to her sister’s side and dropped it into Elizabeth’s lap and clapped her hands once.
“I am very excited to see what lies within. How are you not bursting with curiosity?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Oh, but I am, dearest, I assure you.”
Jane sighed, a fleeting bit of envy mingling with her smile, yet her eyes shone with genuine happiness for her sister. “It is very romantic. How carefully your admirer woos you.”
“Goodness, Jane, is Mr. Bingley such a poor lover that you must live vicariously through me?” Elizabeth’s playfulness made her sister laugh.
“No, Charles is not lacking; but ’tis exciting to witness what new treasure this mysterious gentleman presents. Now hurry and open it!”
Elizabeth pulled the string, her heart fluttering more than she cared to admit. “Seven swans a-swimming?” she guessed, her voice laced with dry humor.
Jane laughed as she leaned closer. “I suspect this suitor has something more fashionable in mind. Open it!”
With unsteady fingers, Elizabeth folded back the paper. Within, laid upon tissue and wrapped in neat cotton squares, were seven exquisite fans—each one more beautiful than the last.
Elizabeth sat stunned, a hand rising to her mouth. “Oh…”
Each fan was unique, though clearly part of a set.
One was made of black lacquered wood, its surface edged with delicate gold filigree, French in design.
Another was ivory, with the silk panels embroidered and painted with pastoral scenes.
A third boasted rich navy silk stitched with silver stars, the thread catching in the morning light.
The fourth was bamboo and paper, hand-painted with cranes and lotus blossoms, surely imported from Asia.
Another bore Spanish boldness, red lace over bone sticks, vivid and flirtatious.
The sixth was simple yet refined: white silk mounted on mother-of-pearl sticks, embroidered with pale pink roses.
The last, Elizabeth’s favorite, was pale green silk with gold leaf detail, bordered in the faintest blush of rose.
“They are breathtaking,” Jane whispered in awe. “And see—each one is wrapped in a cotton square—handkerchiefs, perhaps? ’Tis two gifts in one.”
Elizabeth lifted one of the squares. It was supple, finely woven, the edges neatly hemmed and ready for embroidery. “How lovely,” she murmured, stroking the weave. “What shall I place in the corner?” If only she knew her generous admirer’s name—she would work his initials on at least one.
Jane peered over her shoulder. “Whoever he is, he knows you well.” She looked at her sister with a curious tilt of her head. “Have you no suspicions, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth returned the fans and cloths back to the box and folded the paper once more, as though preserving the mystery might quiet her tumult within. “I have entertained many notions. But no—I cannot say who is behind these gifts.”
That was not wholly true. She had begun to wonder—no, to hope—that it might be Mr. Darcy. Each time he called with Mr. Bingley, her heart faltered and her stomach fluttered with anticipation. She looked forward to their walks, hoping he would offer his arm.
More than that, his name arose in her thoughts, unbidden.
Of late, his presence at Longbourn had been marked by civility and accompanied by a most attentive manner.
Where once she despised him, now she longed for his conversation.
He spoke with greater ease, asked after her reading, her opinions, and her memories.
In his eyes she discerned a warmth she had not seen before—or perhaps had not allowed herself to see.
In truth, she had long since dismissed the prejudice she once held against him. The tales of his pride and interference had lost their edge in the face of his recent kindnesses. His steadiness, his patience—even with her most trying relations—had not gone unnoticed.