Chapter 1
Darcy sank into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk in the study of Darcy House.
The fire in the grate crackled softly, giving off a steady warmth that failed to settle the agitation in his chest. A thin beam of afternoon light filtered in through the tall windows, catching the gilt edge of a book left forgotten on the windowsill.
It might have been peaceful, had he not just returned from White’s and a thoroughly unsatisfying luncheon with Charles Bingley.
They had not quarreled, precisely. But Bingley had been restless and melancholy, folding and refolding his napkin with increasing agitation as the soup course went cold.
Darcy had known what was coming before Bingley spoke a word.
“She is the loveliest creature I have ever known,” Bingley had said abruptly, with a note of strained defiance. “And I do not care what Caroline or Louisa says. I intend to return to Hertfordshire and offer for her before Christmas.”
Darcy had weighed his words with care. “You know I hold Miss Bennet in high regard, Bingley. But I must ask: are you certain of her affections?”
Bingley looked genuinely distressed. “I… I believe so. I think so. Do you not?”
Darcy had hesitated. “Her manner is amiable, but I have observed it to be the same with all. It would be… ungenerous to presume too much upon her kindness.”
Bingley had faltered, his hopeful smile fading. “Do you truly think she does not care for me?”
Darcy had met his gaze evenly. “I cannot say with certainty. But I know you would not wish to press attentions upon a lady whose feelings are not engaged. That is not in your character.”
Bingley had not answered. Not properly. The soup had cooled, the fish dried beneath its sauce, and their conversation limped toward other matters before they both gave it up entirely and parted ways with strained civility.
Now, alone in his London study, Darcy unbuttoned his coat and leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk.
His gut twisted uncomfortably. He had done what was best—for Bingley.
For Miss Bennet, too, surely. If her affections were not deeply engaged, she would recover in time. If they were… No, they are not.
Or is that just wishful thinking? a voice in his head taunted. After all, if Bingley were to marry the eldest, you would often come in company with her sister.
He shoved the thought of Miss Elizabeth away and reached for the stack of letters awaiting his attention. They had been set aside by his man of business and were meant for review before being forwarded on to Netherfield. He glanced at the topmost one—his steward’s familiar hand, steady and neat.
Sir,
The lambing pens are in place, and the eastern pasture has been reinforced as you directed.
Mrs. Anstruther has recovered from her fall and sends her gratitude for your gift of wine.
The tenant families have been informed of your usual Christmastide gifts, and all anticipate a parcel from Pemberley on the Eve…
He read on a while, soothed by the simple routine of caring for his home.
Another letter followed, this one from the parson in Kympton, reporting minor repairs to the parsonage and informing him which tenant families still needed help preparing for the winter. Darcy drafted a short note of approval on a half sheet and set it aside.
The next letter in the pile, however, made him groan aloud.
The script was unmistakable: bold, slanted, and underlined with imperious flourish. Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Darcy hesitated a moment before breaking the seal. The wax cracked like a pistol shot in the quiet room. He opened the thick parchment and read, brow furrowing as the lines progressed.
Fitzwilliam,
Your cousin Anne has taken ill. I do not speak of some trifling ague or a winter cough, but of a malady which may claim her life before the Easter season begins.
She grows thinner by the day and takes no nourishment of substance.
The physician has confessed that she may not survive the month.
You are her nearest kin, and if you wish to see her again in this life, you must come at once.
Your uncle’s family will not expect you for Christmas; I have already written to my brother.
Your sister will be at the Matlocks. You have no excuse to delay.
I have taken the liberty of arranging for Mr. Collins to remain in residence at the parsonage through the holiday, should the need arise to procure a common license.
I expect you no later than the twenty-third.
—Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Darcy’s jaw tightened. So, it was to be this again. He had no desire to spend the holiday in the draughty halls of Rosings Park, tripping over his aunt’s schemes and Anne’s feeble protests. But the letter struck a note that could not be ignored: if Anne truly was ill, if there was any real danger…
He let out a long breath and looked toward the fire.
He would have to write to Georgiana—she would be disappointed, though she would put on a brave face.
She had planned to spend the Christmastide with the Matlocks, but they had hoped he might join them at Twelfth Night.
Now, it would seem, he would instead be fending off Lady Catherine’s lectures and her hints for him to marry his cousin.
If Anne had eyes half as fine as Miss Elizabeth’s, or even a quarter of her wit, then marrying her would not be quite so unpalatable.
No—these were thoughts that were best left in the past. Miss Elizabeth was entirely inappropriate as the future Mrs. Darcy.
He reached for his pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and set it to paper.
My dear Aunt—
He paused, then crossed it out.
Lady Catherine—
That would do. With a grim expression, Darcy began to write.
∞∞∞
Hertfordshire, December 4th, 1811
Elizabeth’s boots crunched softly over the snow-packed lane, her breath curling before her like smoke in the cold morning air.
The countryside lay hushed beneath its pale white blanket, trees sheathed in silver and hedgerows dusted like sugarplums. Though her bonnet did little to keep her ears warm, she relished the feel of the brisk air on her cheeks.
Winter does have its charms… especially when one is out of doors and away from talk of marriage prospects.
Tree branches were etched in white, and holly berries gleamed scarlet in the frost. She ought to have been merry. It was the season for it. But her heart felt heavier with every step.
It had been two days since Charlotte Lucas—her steady, pragmatic Charlotte—had paid a quick call, cheeks pink and voice unnaturally light, to share the news of her engagement to Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth had not known what to say. She had said something, surely—polite congratulations, expressions of surprise, perhaps even a half-hearted compliment on the match.
But it had been difficult to summon any genuine warmth, much less enthusiasm.
Charlotte, who had always seemed sensible, if not particularly romantic, had calmly accepted the attentions of that man, as though reason could outweigh ridicule, and comfort make up for companionship.
Now, as she trudged the snowy path to Lucas Lodge, Elizabeth found herself more sad than shocked. Sad that Charlotte had felt so little hope for anything better. Sad that the world was organized in a manner that intelligent women were forced to make such decisions.
And sad, if she were honest, that this Christmas—their last together as girls—would be colored by such a sacrifice.
As she gave her name to the maid and was shown into the modest parlor of Lucas Lodge, Elizabeth realized she felt no nearer to peace on the subject than she had before her walk. Poor Charlotte; to share the rest of her life with such a man.
Lady Lucas and Maria were seated near the hearth, bent over a basket of mending, their fingers working nimbly despite the chill in the room.
“Miss Eliza!” Lady Lucas greeted her warmly. “Do come in, my dear. Your timing is excellent—we have just stoked the fire again.”
Maria gave a cheerful, if slightly breathless, smile. “Charlotte is downstairs helping Cook with the fruit puddings—she will be up directly.”
Elizabeth removed her gloves and took the offered seat, unable to entirely suppress a flicker of surprise. Charlotte in the kitchens? It was not entirely improper—particularly in a household without a full staff, and Charlotte would be marrying soon—but it still gave her pause.
Mrs. Bennet would be horrified.
“My girls? In the kitchens?” she could hear her mother’s shrill voice echo in her head. “They are daughters of a gentleman, not housemaids!”
A few minutes passed in pleasantries before Charlotte entered, her cheeks pink with exertion and her hands lightly dusted with flour.
She wiped them hastily on her apron, but the dusting remained like a ghost upon her fingertips.
Elizabeth rose to greet her, noting that her friend’s eyes were red-rimmed, though her smile was bright enough to distract anyone not looking too closely.
“Lizzy! You are so good to come in this weather. I hope the snow was not too deep on the lane?”
“Only enough to be pretty,” Elizabeth said gently, eyeing her friend. “Though I begin to worry that your cook may be working you to death before you even reach Hunsford.”
Charlotte laughed, but it sounded brittle. “It is only Christmas puddings. I must learn to manage such things myself soon enough.”
Maria, who had been watching the exchange with barely contained energy, burst out, “Have you told her yet? About the letter?”
Charlotte flushed. “Maria—”
Lady Lucas gave a small sigh and stood. “I shall leave you young ladies to speak privately. Maria, come assist me with the linens.”
“But Mama—”
“Now, Maria.”
With a theatrical groan, Maria rose and followed her mother from the room, pausing only to shoot a significant look back at Elizabeth.
When the door had closed, Elizabeth turned to Charlotte. “What letter?”
Charlotte sighed and sat. She began pulling at the edge of her apron—an old nervous habit. “Mr. Collins has written. From Hunsford.”
Elizabeth nodded. “And?”
“He told Lady Catherine of our engagement.”
Elizabeth made a small sound. “I would have thought he had done so already.”
“He wished to do it in person. He was eager to share the news with her directly.”
“And her ladyship was displeased?”
“Quite the opposite,” Charlotte said with a small, almost rueful smile. “She was very approving. In fact… too much so.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Go on.”
Charlotte hesitated. “Lady Catherine insists that a proper lady must be established in her own home before Christmastide begins. She believes it sets the tone for the entire marriage. Mr. Collins agreed at once, of course.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “You mean to say…”
“The wedding is to take place on the seventeenth,” Charlotte said quietly.
“Of December?”
“When he returns to Hertfordshire.”
Elizabeth stared at her. “But—but that is in two weeks.”
Charlotte nodded. “Yes.”
“And you had intended—”
“To marry in January. To spend Christmas at home. My last as Miss Lucas.” Her voice broke a little on the last word, though she straightened at once. “But Lady Catherine was insistent. Mr. Collins wrote that the arrangements are already in motion.”
Elizabeth sat back, absorbing the news. “That is… very sudden.”
Charlotte gave a thin, watery smile. “Yes. But I knew, when I accepted him, that my life would no longer be my own.”
There was no bitterness in the words, only resignation.
Elizabeth reached for her friend’s hand. “I am so sorry, Charlotte.”
“I had hoped Maria might accompany me. If we were taking the usual wedding trip, she would be my companion in any case. But my father’s cousin is visiting for Christmas, and she is bringing her children. Maria will be needed here to help tend them.” Charlotte’s voice broke on the last word.
There was a faint creak from the hallway. Elizabeth glanced toward the parlor door just in time to see it open an inch farther.
Maria slipped inside without shame or apology, her eyes bright with excitement. “Well, if I cannot go,” she said with the air of someone who has had a marvelous idea, “why not take Lizzy?”
Elizabeth blinked.
Charlotte turned sharply. “Maria—”
“She could,” Maria insisted, stepping into the room. “It makes perfect sense. She is your dearest friend, and she is not needed at Longbourn. Jane and Mary will manage the mending, and Kitty and Lydia are not likely to notice one way or another.”
“Maria, it is not your place to extend an invitation—” Elizabeth began.
But Charlotte had already turned to her. “Would you?” Her voice was low and earnest. “I would not have asked, but… if you could come, Lizzy, I would be so grateful. It would make it all bearable. Truly.”
Elizabeth hesitated, caught entirely off guard. “I—well—I must ask my father, of course.”
“Of course,” Charlotte echoed quickly, but her eyes were already shining with relief. “Only if he agrees.”
“I was only trying to help,” Maria said, flopping into a chair and reaching for the sewing basket with complete innocence. “Better you than me, anyway. I could not stand being shut up with Mr. Collins all through Christmastide.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest again, but the words failed her. There was nothing to say. Charlotte looked so worn and hopeful, and Maria had said aloud what no one else dared.
The matter, it seemed, was decided: to Kent she would go.