Chapter 16 #2
She thought of what she had heard from him of his tender care for his sister, of the sincerity with which he confessed his faults. He had told her, with more feeling than she had credited him, that he had been raised to think meanly of others; she knew he was striving to do better.
No, she would not name him, not even to Jane. It was folly to attach such meaning to anonymous gifts. And yet…the fans were too elegant, too carefully chosen, to be the work of common taste or means.
She faced her sister, diverting the subject. “I am only glad you have found someone to love. Mr. Bingley is an excellent man, and your happiness brings me joy beyond measure.”
Jane’s smile widened. “And what of your own happiness, Lizzy? Do you not think yourself worthy of such gifts?”
Elizabeth flushed and turned aside. “I think…I think I am still learning of what I am worthy.”
Later that morning, the parlor was unusually still.
The three younger Bennets had gone to Meryton in search of a diversion.
Their peace was shattered when Lydia burst in like a storm wind, her voice loud enough to make even Jane start and drop her embroidery.
Kitty followed close behind, protesting that she ought to be the one to tell the news.
“Wickham has left the regiment!” Lydia declared, wide-eyed and breathless. She raised her voice over Kitty’s complaints. “He has gone! Disappeared! And poor Miss King—she is in tears.”
“What?” Mrs. Bennet nearly spilled her tea. “What do you mean, gone?” She set her work aside and gave her full attention to her youngest child. “Tell me everything.”
“Her uncle arrived from Liverpool,” Lydia said, throwing herself into the nearest chair in high dudgeon.
“The gossips say he heard some unsavory tale of Wickham and told freckled Mary she could not marry such a man—as if any of it were true! He carried her straight back to Liverpool with him saying there would be no match. And Wickham? He vanished—before the Kings even knew he had gone.”
Mary stood in the doorway, cheeks warm. “It is shameful to abandon one’s post in a time of war.” Elizabeth pressed her lips together to hide a smile.
Their mother seemed to agree. “Quite shameful,” Mrs. Bennet huffed. “And after we were so good to him! To leave the militia so suddenly! Who will protect Meryton now?”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “There are others enough to do that. The officers are searching for him. But ’tis a scandal, that is what it is. He was the handsomest of all the officers. I am certain I shall die without him.”
Mary’s color deepened as she looked down. “Not all redcoats are dishonorable,” she murmured. Elizabeth guessed her sister’s mind was with Mr. Sanderson, who had lately returned her dropped prayer book with gallantry and continued to call. They seemed to be getting on well.
Elizabeth held her peace, though her mind was in turmoil. Mr. Wickham gone? What could it mean? Was it linked to what Sir William had uncovered about his debts in Meryton? The shopkeepers had begun to whisper, and Mr. King had lost no time in removing his niece.
Could Mr. Darcy have had a hand in the lieutenant’s sudden disappearance?
Her chest tightened. Had he acted upon what she told him?
She recalled their conversation in the drawing room but a day earlier—his stricken look, as though guilt or his late father’s memory pressed upon him.
She had not believed he would not stir himself to intervene in his former friend’s affairs.
Yet it seemed he had already fulfilled that vow. Once more, she had misjudged him.
Elizabeth's thoughts returned to the fans, now hidden with the other tokens of affection she had received. Seven days. Seven thoughtful gifts. Seven moments of wonder, confusion—and hope. She could not name her admirer. But with growing certainty, she knew who she wished him to be.
Later that evening, Elizabeth sat at her writing desk intending to write in her journal, one of the gifted quills in hand, but no words came.
The candle beside her guttered low, throwing wavering shadows across the page, while the paper remained untouched.
The day had left her unsettled, not with alarm, but with a restless mingling of thought and emotion that would not be stilled.
Her eyes drifted toward the wardrobe. Almost without thought, she rose to retrieve one of the gifts.
Her fingers closed around the ivory fan—the one adorned with a pastoral scene painted with such delicate strokes that the tiny shepherdess beneath the tree seemed to move in the candlelight.
Elizabeth carried it back to her desk and unfolded it, the whisper of silk on polished sticks soothing her mind.
The fan, with its tranquil scene, set her to picturing Pemberley as she had heard it described—broad landscapes, ordered and serene, echoing a world of taste and stately grace. Such a house, she mused, must surely reflect the character of its master—controlled, elegant, and deeply thoughtful.
She held the fan close to her face and let her fancy wander.
She saw herself at an assembly, standing amidst a glittering throng, catching Mr. Darcy’s eye across the room.
Would he notice the fan in her hand and know it as his gift, if indeed it came from him?
Would he allow the barest hint of a smile? He looked so handsome when he smiled.
The notion made her blush. She snapped the fan closed, the warmth rising in her cheeks not unwelcome. She had not sought his attention—not at first. Now, with each passing day, her feelings shifted like the tide, slow but inexorable.
If it was Mr. Darcy—if he truly stood behind the twelve days of Christmas—what then? Could such careful tokens be a silent courtship, a way of proving not only his affection, but his constancy and depth?
Her thoughts were a blend of wonder and trepidation. She had long prided herself on her discernment, her wit, her independence. Yet as she reflected on all her suppositions regarding him—his pride, his arrogance, his cruelty—it was with a sense of humility that bordered on awe.
She had been mistaken. Not merely in him, but in herself.
She had let first impressions, wounded pride, and the words of a charming deceiver sway her judgment.
But now…now she saw more plainly. In the steadiness of Mr. Darcy’s manner, in his efforts to make amends, in the quiet strength with which he bore himself even among her family, she saw a man deserving of her esteem, perhaps even of her affection.
She smiled to herself, her heart warming against the chill. She could not be certain of the sender. No name, no confession, no signature betrayed him. But her heart whispered a name nonetheless—not with assurance, but with yearning.
Elizabeth turned her eyes back to the sheet of paper before her.
It remained blank, though her mind was crowded—with questions, with possibilities, and with desires newly awakened.
She dipped her quill, but still she did not write.
Instead, she leaned back, looking through the window, where stars pricked the winter sky and the moon laid silver across the fields.
Seven gifts had come. Each more personal than the last. And with each, her defenses had fallen, like leaves fading in autumn.
One truth was clear now: her heart was no longer indifferent. And perhaps the finest gift would not be the seventh nor the eighth, but the last. For that gift might hold more than a token—it might bring her the answer. And just maybe, it might bring him.