Chapter 13
Elizabeth’s Guest Bedchamber
Pemberley
Christmas Day
Elizabeth woke on an incredibly comfortable bed and blinked bemusedly at an unfamiliar ceiling.
It was not the old familiar crown and molding of her lifelong bedroom at Longbourn, nor the bedroom at Half Moon Street which had rapidly become almost as familiar.
For a moment, she lay still, trying to recollect where she was and why.
Mr. Darcy, her mind supplied, and Pemberley.
Of course. He had arrived while she was packing up to flee Mrs. Gregson's house and had offered, nay, insisted, that she take refuge at his home estate of Pemberley in Derbyshire.
Adrift and afraid, Elizabeth had accepted gratefully.
A swift journey had followed, the Darcy carriage rapidly departing London and the dangers there in its dust. Darcy had instructed his coachman not to spare the horses but to hurry along to the next hostelry and change them there.
They had spent but one night on the road, in a comfortable inn, before leaving early the next morning to arrive by mid-afternoon in the wild hills of Derbyshire, and had crossed the Pemberley parkland in a dim twilight that deepened into dusk before they reached the manse.
Elizabeth's first impressions of the house consisted mainly of size, a massive edifice sprawled in the darkness, a few golden windows glowing in impossibly vast walls.
The vestibule had done nothing to dispel this feeling of magnificence, and at any other time, Elizabeth would have been effusive with admiration.
Much stress and a long day of travel had taken their toll, however, and Elizabeth had not been the only one too tired to do much beyond bid her fellow-travelers goodnight and follow a maid to the chamber appointed for her.
Here she had found herself in the lap of luxury.
Her guest chamber was obviously well-furnished, even lit only by a well-fed fire in the hearth, though again Elizabeth had been too tired to fully appreciate it.
Her focus had largely been on the soft warm nightgown and thick wrapper provided for her, the light repast brought to her by a maid whose starched apron and ruffled mobcap were as neat as a pin despite the lateness of the hour, and the pan-warmed bed that had welcomed her less than an hour after her arrival at the house.
Now she sat up in bed and looked around thoughtfully.
The light blue curtains were lit up from sunshine streaming through them, which permitted her to observe the cream-colored walls, the two dark blue plush chairs by the crackling fire in the fireplace, and the small desk in the corner of the room.
She smiled and flung the blanket and sheets aside, just as the door opened to reveal the maid who had assisted her the previous night.
“Miss Bennet,” the girl said with a bob of her head, “would you care for a bath this morning?”
“If it is not too much trouble, I would like that,” Elizabeth said gratefully.
“It is no trouble at all, Miss,” the girl said. “By the by, my name is Annette, and I am to be your personal maid. Would you like some toast and hot chocolate, perhaps?”
“Yes, please,” she replied. The maid left immediately, and Elizabeth rolled out of bed and onto the floor.
The wood was chilly underneath her feet, but she hurried over to the Oriental carpet which covered the half of the room near the fire.
It was thick and plush, and she took a few minutes to stand by the warming flames, relishing the heat and the comfort.
When the door opened again, three maids entered; Annette with a tray containing a steaming cup and toast, the other two with ewers of hot water.
Annette carefully lowered the tray onto a small table by the chair sitting closest to the fire, and Elizabeth sat down to enjoy a modest repast as the other two maids walked into an adjoining dressing room with their steaming ewers before quickly leaving to obtain more.
Fifteen minutes later, with the hot chocolate gone, Annette guided Elizabeth into the dressing room where the half bath was waiting by yet another fire.
It was wonderful to be safe and warm in a rich man’s home, taking a hot bath and being waited on by her own private maid, as opposed to being on her own in the bowels of London. She was incredibly thankful and blessed.
***
Drawing Room
Longbourn
That Evening
Christmas
Longbourn rang with many voices wishing each other a Happy Christmas and blessing the cheer of the season.
Merriment and joy were the very order of the day.
Massive Yule fires leapt high in every fireplace, and dozens of candles blazed together like tiny suns.
Dinner was cooking in the kitchen, the tantalizing aromas filling the air of the dining room and hallways and sitting room and drawing room.
Holly and laurel and rosemary and bay livened doorframes and lintels and mantels.
The servants were busy in the dining room, laying cloths and serving utensils out on the tables, preparatory to a grand buffet being spread out.
Guests streamed in the door, divesting themselves of their outerwear to reveal their Sunday best, flashing like jewels or the bright plumage of birds.
A knot of brilliant scarlet coats and pealing laughter heralded the arrival of a band of militia officers behind the latest group of families.
The butler and several maids stood by to assist guests and direct them down the hall to the drawing room, where their hosts awaited.
The Bingleys, by virtue of living closest, had arrived first, and now Mr. Bennet stood relaxed by the fire, speaking with his son-in-law.
Mrs. Bennet was seated beneath the big bow window, across from Jane Bingley, and the two women leaned towards each other as they chatted.
George Wickham stepped into the warm drawing room of Longbourn and looked around eagerly.
He had not been to Longbourn in more than a fortnight, which was far longer than he preferred.
The Bennets were, by far, the family he appreciated the most in this backwater, with their five daughters, four of whom were most handsome, and an indolent set of parents who made no attempt to keep their children in check.
The last two weeks had been busy ones, with numerous local families inviting the red-coated officers to dinners and parties and the like. He had enjoyed every minute, but he looked forward to the Christmas dinner today the most.
“Oh, Mr. Wickham!” a familiar voice cried out, and he turned a practiced smile toward Miss Lydia, the youngest of the Bennet daughters.
She was very pretty in a green silk dress whose neckline was sufficiently low that the girl’s bountiful décolletage was not entirely concealed.
Her dark curls were tied up in a matching ribbon, and her entire posture was flirtatious.
Wickham did not mind, of course, that a mere fifteen-year-old was acting more like a courtesan than a well-mannered lady, but nor was he particularly interested in Lydia, whose head was full of nothing in particular.
“Miss Lydia,” he said with a dramatic bow, “it is wonderful to see you today. Happy Christmas.”
“Oh, Happy Christmas!” the girl replied coquettishly. “I am so very pleased that you are here, Mr. Wickham. We have not seen you in too long!”
“I do apologize,” he said contritely. “I had heard that there was illness in the family and did not wish to intrude unnecessarily.”
This, while technically true, was also deceptive because he had heard that Elizabeth Bennet was ill, not the rest of the family. But he liked Elizabeth the best of all the sisters.
“Oh, only Lizzy is sick,” a new voice said, and he turned and bowed slightly to Kitty Bennet, the fourth daughter.
“The poor thing has scarlet fever and is staying in London until she recovers entirely,” Miss Kitty continued.
Wickham struggled to keep his expression cheerful.
He was not in love with Miss Bennet, of course.
He was not certain it was possible for him to be in love with any woman, but in this case, none of the daughters of the house were wealthy enough to be worthy of his true devotion.
But Miss Elizabeth was bright, and intelligent, and sunny, and he liked her very much.
“I am sorry,” he said. “How difficult for her to be unwell during such a wonderful time of the year. I hope that she will return soon.”
“Oh, I am certain she will,” Lydia said indifferently, but Kitty, her eyes sparkling, said, “If you ask me, she is probably happy to be sick because it means her wedding will be delayed.”
Wickham turned a startled look on the young lady. “Wedding? Is Miss Bennet engaged?”
The two girls giggled, and Lydia said in a rather too loud voice, “Oh yes, to Mr. Collins, our father’s heir!”
“Well, many congratulations to her,” Wickham said, though he was aware of a twinge of disappointment.
Kitty moved a little closer and lowered her voice. “Have you met our cousin, Mr. Collins, sir?”
“I believe we met once in Meryton, on the day I had the honor of meeting you all.”
“Oh, yes, I remember, but you hardly know him at all. I must tell you he is a clergyman and very stupid. He talks and talks and talks…”
“And he does not even like novels!” Lydia cried out.
“I feel sorry for Lizzy,” Kitty said, nodding wisely, “but of course he is the heir to the estate, which means that we will all be able to stay here at Longbourn after our father dies. It is for the best, even if Lizzy will not like being Mr. Collins’s wife.”
“She could not like him, because no one does,” Lydia said, “but as Kitty says, it is for the best. But I assure you that I will never marry a clergyman, Mr. Wickham. I will only marry an officer in a red coat!”
He smiled broadly at her, careful to show his white teeth. He would never marry Lydia Bennet, who, while pretty, was stupid and flirtatious. Certainly, he would marry a stupid and flirtatious woman, but only if she were rich, and none of the Bennet girls were. But he always appreciated flattery.
“On behalf of both myself and my fellow officers, I thank you,” he said with a slight bow.
Lydia and Kitty giggled, which was annoying because Wickham hated gigglers, but then the youngest Bennet daughter invited him to partake of her father’s favorite brandy, which made up for the irritating noise.
Thirty minutes later, the large doors which separated the drawing room from the dining room were opened, revealing a large table groaning under the weight of a veritable feast. Hams and chickens and turkeys and haunches of beef rose like mountains above a rolling landscape of breads and pies and buttered vegetables and ragouts and soups and puddings and trifles and scones.
Wickham eyed the banquet avariciously, his mouth already watering.
Mrs. Bennet really was a consummate hostess, never serving a misguided thriftiness by stinting on her table, the way Lady Lucas sometimes did.
His was a good life, Wickham reflected comfortably.
Perhaps he had at last found his true calling as a militia officer.
The nomadic lifestyle would carry him away from any pecuniary embarrassments with the local shopkeepers, and the doors of the local gentry would always be open to a handsome, charming man in a scarlet coat.
Susceptible mothers and easily flattered fathers would ply him with toothsome morsels and quite acceptable brandy and wine, eager to secure his engaging, handsome person for their parties.
No onerous work burdened his life; the duties of a militia lieutenant being light and consisting mainly in enchanting the locals.
Meryton was warm and welcoming, and while that might eventually change, with piffling shopkeepers and irritated farmers who had fathered girls of dubious virtue starting to grow restive, the regiment would surely move on before anything serious happened to interfere with his comfort. Yes, life was just about perfect.