Chapter Nineteen
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Elizabeth woke with a start, her breath catching as the last threads of a dream clung like morning mist. Her eyes opened to the pale dawn glimmering at the casement, yet she wished with every fiber of her being to slip beneath the coverlet and return to that strange, tender vision.
In the dream, Darcy had confessed his love, a truth spoken with a gentleness and certainty she had never dared expect.
He was the secret admirer who had sent the gifts, those mysterious tokens of regard that had charmed her for more than a week past.
The memory of his words, deep and unwavering, lingered as she reluctantly put aside the warmth of her bed. “It was I,” he had said, “who admired you from afar.”
A blush rose even in the solitude of her chamber. She wished the dream were real, yet feared it was but her heart’s yearning at play. Still, the tender promise glimmered like a secret light in the early gloom.
Her attention shifted to the small table near the window, where the previous gifts had appeared overnight—delicate, thoughtful, and extravagant in their several ways.
There, among the remnants of the last, stood another parcel, larger than any before: an elaborate bandbox tied with silk ribbons that gleamed in the morning light.
“Surely he did not gift me nine hats!” she murmured, a wry smile tugging at her lips as she swung her legs to the floor. The boards were chill against her bare feet, but she paid it no mind. Curiosity and wonder carried her forward.
She crossed the room and lifted the lid with careful fingers, revealing a stack of finely folded fabrics. A neatly penned note lay within—the next stanza of the mysterious rhyme:
On the ninth day of Christmas,
Through streets lined with frost,
Nine shawls to soften
The chill winter tossed.
(Woven of silk,
From a Bond Street display,
To warm gentle shoulders
In fine winter gray.)
Her thoughts strayed to Darcy’s claim the previous evening that he was no poet.
The rhyme’s cadence might halt in places, yet her heart was all the warmer for it.
“Not the best verse,” she allowed, though I do not care.
She looked further into the box and caught her breath.
The splendor of the gift silenced any further censure.
Each shawl was exquisite, the patterns delicate and varied, textures rich and inviting, their colors ranging from muted grays and blues to creamy ivories, all perfectly suited to the season fast advancing upon the countryside.
Her fingers traced the edge of the top shawl, a shawl from Kashmir, the finest cashmere wool she had ever touched.
The fabric was warm and light, the intricate paisley seeming almost to dance beneath her hand.
Such pieces, she knew, were handwoven with exquisite care and often reserved for the wealthiest and most discerning ladies.
Beneath it lay an Indian shawl, of greater weight, with a rich pattern of gold and crimson woven through the wool and silk. Elizabeth imagined it as a gift fit for a lady journeying to distant parts, a piece that spoke of faraway lands and exotic beauty.
Next was a Paisley shawl, recalling the origins of those cherished designs in the Scottish town of that name.
Elizabeth remembered reading that, though many shawls came from India, Scottish manufacturers had begun to imitate the prized patterns upon their own looms, making such luxury somewhat more accessible, though still costly and elegant.
Her hand brushed a shawl of fine Merino wool, imported from Spain or Saxony, its simple weave a contrast to the more elaborate. It was understated but undeniably genteel, its welcoming touch a promise of warmth on the coldest of evenings.
Next, a silk shawl caught the morning light, shimmering as if woven with threads of moonlight. Lighter than the rest, it was suited to evening wear—delicate and refined, embroidered with modest floral motifs.
Another bore embroidery of silk and gold thread over a fine muslin ground. Elizabeth pictured the hours of labor such a work required, the patient hand of an artisan breathing life into every stitch.
There was also a French cashmere-style shawl, fashioned upon Jacquard looms to imitate the prized shawls of Kashmir. More affordable, yet still beloved by the European elite, it testified to the blending of cultures and the shifting tide of fashion.
At the bottom lay an evening shawl of gauzy silk, edged with Mechlin lace and tiny metallic embroideries, the perfect finishing touch for a formal ball or intimate gathering. Elizabeth recognized the lace, prized for its airy delicacy, and thought it a choice of uncommon refinement.
Elizabeth smiled, torn between amusement and delight. “Nine shawls, indeed,” she murmured, “each more exquisite than the last.”
The rhyme might have faltered, but the thought behind the gifts was beyond doubt. She could feel the care, the affection, the deep attention to detail in each choice. More than the material worth, it was the gesture—the patience and imagination—that moved her heart.
She draped one of the shawls across her shoulders, a gentle silver-gray that would enhance the blue of a gown she much favored. The fabric slipped like water over her skin, light yet comforting, a shield against winter’s bite.
She stepped before the looking glass, the shawl cascading in graceful folds, framing her figure with refined elegance. The thought of Darcy—of the man she suspected had chosen each gift so thoughtfully—filled her with a strange warmth that had little to do with wool.
“What a quiz,” she murmured, “to send such treasures and yet remain so hidden.” He had implied the night before that it was he. Why did he not speak? Surely he must know his efforts had borne fruit.
For a moment, she allowed herself to picture the shawls at the social gatherings to come—the rustle of silk, the murmur of admiration, the inevitable whisper of envy that attends a lady well-dressed.
But more than vanity, the gifts made her feel seen, not merely as a gentlewoman, but as one worth cherishing.
I love him, Elizabeth realized, standing beside the table with a shawl gathered in her hands.
As she folded them back into the bandbox, a tender hope took root within her.
Perhaps this Christmastide promised more than just gifts and rhymes.
Perhaps the dream with which she had awakened was a pledge, and the gentleman behind these tokens was prepared to reveal himself in the waking world.
She lifted the box and carried it to the window, where the frost-lined drive without echoed the imagery of the verse.
A wistful smile played about her lips as she whispered, “Thank you, whoever you are.” In her heart she saw Darcy’s face, wreathed in gentle affection.
Some sly-boots indeed, to hide himself thus, and yet contrive to be so generous.
It must be you…it simply must be you. No other will do, for my heart is now irrevocably tied to you.
Outside, the first pale rays of morning touched the rooftops of Hertfordshire, promising a day of new possibilities, and perhaps the beginning of a new chapter in her story. She had never been in love. This day was as fitting a beginning as she could desire.
The scent of tea and fresh bread lured Elizabeth below, her thoughts still fluttering like snowflakes from the dream she had left behind.
Darcy’s voice—so tender, so unguarded—had remained with her as she stirred from slumber.
Even now, she could almost hear the whispered confession: I love you. I am your secret admirer.
She gave a small shake of her head and pressed her hand to her lips as she entered the breakfast room.
The air held a crisp chill, the fire not yet having fully warmed the space.
A hush lay upon the house, broken only by the occasional clink of crockery.
Elizabeth took her chair and buttered a warm scone.
Moments later, Jane entered, her cheeks warmed by sleep and her eyes alight with curiosity.
“I overslept.” She leaned near. “What did he leave you today?”
Elizabeth bit her lip to contain a smile. “A bandbox,” she whispered. “But no hats. Nine shawls. Exquisite ones.”
Jane gave a warm and easy laugh. “He grows ever more extravagant.”
Mrs. Bennet’s sudden exclamation broke their tempered merriment. “What are you two whispering about? Wedding details, I presume! Jane, my dear, you must set a date soon. It is not seemly to keep a gentleman waiting.”
Jane demurred, mild as ever. “I shall speak to Charles this afternoon, Mama.”
Before her mother could press further, Mr. Bennet lowered his paper. “Leave the girl be, Mrs. Bennet. You only experience the blush of first love once. Let her revel in it.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a girlish giggle and colored, casting a coy glance at her husband. Elizabeth observed their exchange with wry amusement, recognizing beneath the playful sparring the deep—if at times bewildering—affection they bore each other.
The peace was soon broken by the boisterous arrival of Lydia and Kitty, who swept into the room like a pair of windblown leaves.
“Have we received any invitations for Twelfth Night?” Lydia demanded, her bonnet askew and her countenance bright with anticipation.
Mrs. Bennet answered briskly, “The Longs are to host a dinner party this evening. It is their turn, after all.”
Elizabeth, sipping her tea, let her mind drift.
She recalled a time, years before, when Sir William Lucas, newly knighted, had taken to holding such splendid Twelfth Night assemblies that others in the neighborhood felt compelled to compete.
The divisions that followed had caused no small measure of ill-will.
At last, in an effort to preserve civility, the families agreed to rotate the duty of host. It restored peace—though Kitty still lamented.
“I wish it were Longbourn’s turn,” Kitty said wistfully.