21. The Return
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE RETURN
Twelve days of Christmas went by without any hint of Darcy or news on Georgiana’s condition.
Elizabeth told herself the post was slow over the holidays, and that, surely, Bingley would have received an express if Darcy’s sister had taken a turn for the worse.
She contented herself with her great-great-grandmother Philippa’s commonplace book, in which she had noted her children’s growth and development.
The firstborn was Thomas. Alice was the second, followed by Martha, Belinda, Susan, and Clarissa; no other boys.
Naturally, there would be no mention of the Darcy boy who did not join their household until much later.
Elizabeth had found a receipt from Philippa for a Twelfth Night cake frosted with sugared rosemary, and Cook had agreed to create the evening’s crowning dessert.
Mrs. Bennet and her usual confederates were gathered at the sideboard admiring the preparations for the evening festivities that would close out the Yuletide season.
Bingley and Jane sat together on the sofa nearest the hearth.
They were inseparable since New Year’s Day when Bingley’s carriage made that turn on the Longbourn lane, and Elizabeth was content with their happiness.
“The almonds are from London,” Mrs. Bennet stood in front of the concoction which was dressed in white icing with the rosemary and holly berries pressed into the top.
“Mr. Philips brought them especially. And the taste is from my husband’s great-grandmother Philippa.
Elizabeth unearthed the hundred-year-old receipt and described it exactly to Cook. ”
“It is lovely, Mrs. Bennet.” Lady Lucas’s smile was fixed. “Quite the finest cake I have seen this Twelfth Night.”
“Yes, and the bean and the pea inside would crown the King and the Queen,” Mrs. Bennet announced.
“And I do suppose it would be Jane and Bingley who would get the honors. Imagine that, Lady Lucas, our Jane is the heir now, you know, and Mr. Bingley is such a gentleman, so attentive. I always said he would come back, did I not, Mr. Bennet? I always said—”
“You said many things, my dear.” Mr. Bennet did not look up from his wine. “Some of them were even accurate.”
Elizabeth, stationed near the fire with Charlotte, watched the room arrange itself around the evening’s twin centers of gravity: the cake on the sideboard and Jane beside Bingley near the fire.
Her sister was luminous—there was no other word for it—her usual serenity transformed into a warm brilliance, as though a candle had been lit behind her eyes.
And Bingley was helpless before her, and even more so because Jane easily forgave him.
“He cannot stop looking at her,” Charlotte said. “And she cannot stop smiling. Genuinely smiling, not the serene composure she shows the world.” Charlotte turned her sharp eyes toward Elizabeth. “It is good to see her happy. It is good to see you happy, too.”
“I am happy, yes. And I do wish you shall be happy again in this new year.”
“I suppose I shall manage,” Charlotte said. “You are waiting. I can tell, and at least you have someone to wait for.”
“Yes, but we never know who may be just around the corner, do we?” Elizabeth glanced out the window at the Longbourn lane.
It was not quite as grey as it was the morning Darcy departed.
The slanted winter sun had shone through clear skies—a surprising spell of warmth that would be a blessing when they headed out to the apple orchard later.
Elizabeth accepted a glass of negus and watched the shadows creep across the lane as the sun set.
She was content, if not exactly happy. Jane had been patient in her disappointment, and had never expected Bingley to return.
She had had even less to go on than Elizabeth, and now she received the reward she deserved.
She had never complained, even when Darcy had returned, not mentioning Bingley, and commandeered their drawing room with improvement campaigns.
She had graciously accepted the gift, learned to watercolor, improved her singing voice, and smiled at both gentlemen with kindness rather than spite.
“Lizzy, you are standing at the window like a ghost,” Mrs. Bennet announced in passing. “Come away and be sociable. Mr. Bingley’s sister is watching you, and she will think we raised a morose child.”
“Mrs. Hurst is asleep, Mamma.”
“She is resting her eyes.”
“Then she will be awakened as I see Mr. Moretti pulling out his fiddle. I do believe Lydia has persuaded him there will be dancing and festivities.”
Mary moved to the pianoforte, and the first chords of a country dance filled the room.
The younger Lucas brothers and sisters joined hands and skipped around the drawing room while the even younger boy shot his popgun at his older sisters.
Lydia tried to grab Mr. Bingley’s hand, but he was already bowing and offering Jane his hand.
The footmen moved the furniture, stopping in front of Mr. Hurst’s sleeping form, the one Kitty was painting with what Mr. Cecil would have called “an unsparing eye for character.”
“Up you go, Mr. Hurst,” Lydia commanded, pulling him from the couch. “We must have dancing, and the sofa must be moved.”
And so, Mr. Hurst stumbled to his feet, rubbing his eyes, and was pulled into a reel by the youngest Bennet.
Sir William asked Elizabeth for the dance, which she accepted, because Sir William was a kind man and an appalling dancer, and the combination was exactly the distraction she needed.
He trod on her foot twice, complimented her deportment four times, and mentioned St. James’s thrice.
By the end she was laughing along with them, because her family and their neighbors were ridiculous and dear, and Twelfth Night at Longbourn was a tradition she had loved since childhood.
Even though she wondered about Mr. Darcy, she now knew his true character, and that he had sat beside his sick sister and had written to Bingley to bring him back to Jane.
He did not give his promises lightly, and his heart was even more precious.
Wherever he might be—Matlock or Pemberley—she trusted he was thinking of her, just as she thought of him, missed him, and forgave him. After all, accounts belong in ledgers, not between friends.
The dinner proceeded with the controlled mayhem that characterized all Bennet entertainments.
Cook’s goose was pronounced excellent. The roasted vegetables were consumed in quantities that suggested everyone had been fasting since Boxing Day.
Bingley made Jane laugh, which was rather more laughing than Jane had done the entire twelve months preceding Bingley’s arrival.
“He is going to propose,” Charlotte murmured, seated beside Elizabeth at the table. “Before Epiphany, I would wager. He cannot bear to wait longer.”
Elizabeth traced the rim of her wineglass, glancing toward the end of the table where Bingley leaned forward with the breathless air of a man treading upon glass.
“That is scarcely a daring wager, Charlotte. A blind man on a galloping horse could perceive his intentions, and Mamma has already mentally selected the lace for Jane’s veil. ”
“True. Your mother is no doubt ready to post banns,” Charlotte agreed. “He is entirely gone, and your sister is ready to receive him.”
“Too ready, perhaps,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Jane is all forgiveness, as she always is, but a man who permits his friends to dismantle his happiness with a word ought to endure a trifle more probation than a single week of repentant smiles. Caution is surely warranted when the gentleman’s spine has proved so pliable in the past.”
“Their love is simple and transparent.” Charlotte’s voice was certain.
“They met, and the interest was immediate. They spoke like good friends, seeking each other’s opinions and sharing stories.
Their misunderstandings were caused by others, and once that was explained, they returned to their easy friendship.
No drama or complications.” She paused. “Some loves are harder. But that does not make them less worth having.”
Elizabeth fell silent, her fingers tightening about the stem of her glass until her knuckles whitened.
Harder, indeed. Some attachments required navigating oceans of prejudice and untangling the wreckage of pride.
And here she sat, alone, uncertain and paralyzed by her own stubborn terror, wondering when and if she would next see the man who had vanished after leaving a scrap of his heart behind in the crumbling masonry.
Around her, the joy of family and holidays marched on.
Charlotte sipped her cider and agreed with something her brother said.
Lydia howled at Mr. Hurst, demonstrating some drama between a donkey and a spaniel.
Mrs. Bennet spoke about the rabbit in the boot room who had been let loose on New Year’s Day, completely healed but would likely help himself to the kitchen garden come springtime.
Mr. Bennet carved the goose to Mrs. Hurst’s critique, and Elizabeth began to relax and to savor the simple comfort of knowing her place in the family and neighborhood when she heard a sound that rattled her.
Faint, beneath the laughter and the clatter of dishes, came the unmistakable sound of carriage wheels and hoofbeats, slowing as they turned from the lane onto the Longbourn drive.
The wheels halted. Horses snorted, and the coachman’s voice drifted through the dining room windows, issuing a brisk instruction to the postilion.
Hill appeared in the doorway. “Ma’am,” she said, addressing Mrs. Bennet. “A carriage has arrived.”
“A carriage?” Mrs. Bennet looked up from her supervision of the dessert course. “Who could be arriving at this hour? We have all our guests already—unless the officers have decided to call, though I gave them no invitation, and Lydia was quite put out about it.”
“It bears the Darcy crest, ma’am.”
Every eye in the room seemed to find Elizabeth at once, and she felt the peculiar sensation of being both flushed and chilled. “Excuse me,” she murmured, rising from the table. Was Darcy well? And Georgiana? Surely he would not have left if his sister were still unwell. But—
“The Darcy crest?” Mrs. Bennet’s voice had risen to a pitch that suggested she might faint, explode, or both. “Mr. Darcy? Here? At Longbourn? On Twelfth Night? But we have no warning! The house is not prepared, and Jane, your hair; Elizabeth, your dress; Mr. Bennet, why did you not tell me?”
“I did not know, my dear.” Mr. Bennet had risen from his chair, his expression one of genuine surprise. “I have received no letter from Derbyshire.”
Elizabeth did not wait for their verdict. She did not remember standing or running from the dinner table. Her legs moved, and she lifted her skirts and ran before her mind could catch her heart. Darcy was here. He had returned to Longbourn. And she could not even say she had believed it or knew.
“Lizzy, wait—” Jane’s voice was somewhere behind her.
But Elizabeth did not wait. Her feet moved faster, and she was out the front door passing the surprised footman.
The evening air hit her face with a slap of frost. The drive was dark, and her inadequate dinner slippers skidded on the icy steps.
Carriage lanterns lit the way toward the horses steaming in the cold and the Darcy crest gleaming in the lamplight.
The coachman was climbing down, and a footman reached for the carriage door.
Elizabeth arrived at the carriage right as the door opened, and there he was, Darcy’s head emerging, his eyes lifting, and then his hat fell, but he made no attempt to look for it, for the world had stopped, and there was nothing but Darcy’s dark and somber eyes, the softness of his gaze, raw, and holding her like a warm embrace.
“Miss Elizabeth.” His voice was rough. “I—”
“Mr. Darcy.” She could not say more. She could not breathe. She could only stand there, trembling with cold and joy and the overwhelming relief of seeing him again, alive and real and here.
He stepped down, and behind him, a young woman appeared, dark-haired, delicate-featured, with eyes that were unmistakably her brother’s. Darcy turned to assist her, breaking the moment, and Elizabeth felt the loss of his gaze like the sun going behind a cloud.
But it scarcely mattered. Darcy was here; he had returned. For her.