Chapter Twenty #2
“The suggestion was agreed upon, and the only remaining dispute was how to determine the order. My father, ever the generous man, offered that Longbourn should host last. Sir William, having already had his moment of glory the previous year, accepted the second-to-last place.”
She spoke dryly. “Though I suspect my father’s true motivation had less to do with neighborly consideration and more to do with reducing the number of times he must endure a drawing room full of guests in December.”
Darcy laughed, thoroughly entertained. “Your father’s wit astonishes me once more. Tell me, was your mother very disappointed?”
“Oh, indeed, she was.” Elizabeth grimaced.
“We hear her complaints every year, except when it is Longbourn’s turn to entertain.
It has not curbed her delight in the activity, however, and as you may have noticed, my father’s estate hosts a great many gatherings during the winter months.
My mother claims there is nothing better to do, and so my father bears it as best he can. ”
“My mother was fond of entertaining,” Darcy said, the words slipping out unbidden, carried on a breath of memory.
He rarely spoke of her. Even with Georgiana, the subject was broached with care and only in passing. The memories were too vivid, both beautiful and sharp-edged, and they had a way of carving into his heart before he could brace for it.
“I do not believe we have ever spoken of your mother.” Her look was open, curious, but not intrusive. “Will you tell me of her?”
Darcy hesitated. His first instinct was to retreat behind reserve, to tuck away the ache and redirect the conversation. But there was something in her ardent violet eyes—gentle, unyielding—that made him feel as though he could not lie. Not by omission, not to her.
“My mother was…” He paused, unsure where to begin.
“There are no words that quite do her justice. Georgiana resembles her physically; so much so that there is a portrait hanging at Pemberley, painted shortly after my mother’s come out, which might as well be of my sister. But that is where their likeness ends.”
He shifted slightly on the log, wincing at its cold firmness. The discomfort was oddly grounding.
“Lady Anne Darcy thrived in society. She was not bold, not loud, but she possessed a vibrancy…a way of making others feel at ease. I have heard stories of the balls at Darcy House and the summer parties at Pemberley—rooms filled with music, light, and laughter. My father adored her. We all did.”
He paused, then spoke more softly, his voice shaded with pain.
“Looking back, I believe she entertained in part to distract herself. From sorrow.” His eyes fixed on the horizon.
“Georgiana is more than ten years my junior. At the time, I knew only that she came late—an unexpected blessing, we said. But later, I learned the truth. My mother lost several children between our births.”
Elizabeth’s hand entered his sight, resting gently on his arm.
“My mama lost a child,” she murmured. “A little boy. I was very young. I can scarcely remember more than a few hushed conversations. It was before Lydia was born.”
Darcy turned toward her, her touch warming him more than any hearth. “I can imagine the devastation,” he replied in a voice rough with empathy. He did not dare stir, lest she withdraw her hand. “A son to break the entail…”
She nodded, her fingers slipping away, and he felt the loss at once; his arm chilled not from the wind, but from the absence of her comfort.
“Yes. It was then she truly began to suffer her fits of nerves. Lydia’s birth brought some joy, but she never wholly recovered from the loss of her son.”
Darcy remained silent, absorbing the shared grief—the symmetry of their families’ private sorrows. It was a strange solace to speak without reserve, to be understood without the need for explanation.
“The Bennet family is filled with secrets.”
“That it is.”
Then, after a pause, her eyes glimmered with mischief. “But I can promise you, sir, our secrets are not of the scandalous sort. I have no relations who have run off to join a traveling theater.”
Darcy laughed, full and unguarded, and she joined him, their merriment mingling easily in the crisp winter air. There was comfort in laughter after sorrow—an unspoken acknowledgment that life, despite its losses, must go on.
They turned together to look across the fields, gilded by the sinking sun, the sky above brushed with strokes of amber and lavender. A tranquil silence settled between them.
Elizabeth started suddenly. “Mr. Darcy! I must get home at once. The time has quite escaped me. My family will be beside themselves. I shall miss dinner entirely, and my mother will never forgive such tardiness. I have never lingered abroad so late in the day, and certainly not alone.”
Darcy rose at once, contrition sharpening his manner. “The fault is mine. I beg your pardon. I have detained you most selfishly. Pray allow me to escort you to Longbourn. I would not see you walk unattended, least of all at this hour. Forgive me.”
“Not at all, sir. I enjoyed our time together.”
He reached for his horse’s reins, and offered his arm; she accepted, and together they descended the slope in measured step, Beau following close. As they walked in companionable silence, Darcy thought.
Three more days. Three more days until Twelfth Night. And then, if all goes as I most fervently wish, I might at last lay everything before her: my name, my home, my heart.
He glanced at her—cheeks flushed with cold and laughter, curls burnished like spun bronze in the fading light—and felt that longing swell within him. Yes. Three more days. And then, perhaps, forever.