Chapter Ten
Darcy ought to have been content.
The fire was warm, casting dancing shadows across the music room’s polished mahogany surfaces.
Christmas garlands draped the mantelpiece with tasteful elegance, and Elizabeth sat scarcely three feet away in the wingback chair, her cheeks flushed from their earlier laughter, dark curls catching the firelight like spun bronze.
Georgiana had settled at the piano bench, her fingers finding the familiar opening chords of “The First Nowell” and even the dogs had arranged themselves with unusual harmony, Athena in her position by the hearth and Waffles sprawled across the Persian rug as though he owned every thread of it.
Everything was as it ought to be. This was a Christmas Eve scene his mother would have adored, full of warmth and music and the easy companionship of people who enjoyed each other’s company. And yet something was off.
“Elizabeth, you must sing,” Georgiana announced, her fingers dancing through the carol’s familiar melody with an effortless skill that came from years of proper instruction. “I can tell you’ve an excellent voice. I have an ear for these things.”
“Your ear is wrong,” Elizabeth protested, though she was laughing as she said it. “I’ll ruin whatever song you choose, and Athena will never forgive me for subjecting her to such torture.”
At the mention of her name, the Great Dane whined.
“See?”
“Nonsense,” Georgiana insisted. “William, tell her she must sing. You’ve heard her humming, haven’t you?”
Darcy had. Soft little melodies when she thought no one was listening, usually while she was absorbed in some task or another. “I think Georgiana’s right,” he said, trying to look encouraging. “You shouldn’t deprive us of the pleasure.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes with theatrical exasperation, but Darcy caught the pleased flush that crept up her neck. “Fine,” she said, standing with mock solemnity and pressing a hand to her heart. “But when this goes horribly wrong, I’m blaming both of you.”
Georgiana struck the opening chords of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” and Elizabeth took a deep breath and began to sing.
It wasn’t the polished soprano of his mother, whose voice had been trained by the finest instructors in London.
Nor was it the careful precision that Georgiana had developed through years of scales and arpeggios and stern-faced music masters.
It was a warm mezzo-soprano, rich as aged whisky and completely unaffected.
There was something so alive in the way she sang, so present, so joyful.
She wasn’t performing. She was sharing herself, openly and without artifice, the way she seemed to do everything.
Waffles, overcome with the sheer enthusiasm of the moment, threw back his golden head and began to howl along in what could generously be called harmony.
The sound was so ridiculous—so wonderfully absurd—that Elizabeth doubled over mid-verse, dissolving into helpless laughter.
Georgiana’s hands slipped from the keys as she succumbed to her own fit of giggles, and even Athena lifted her head to regard them all with an expression of such profound disdain that it only made the whole scene funnier.
Darcy found himself laughing too, an unguarded, ridiculous laugh that left his ribs aching and his eyes watering.
When was the last time he’d laughed like this?
When was the last time anything had felt so effortless?
This was what he wanted, this warmth, this life, this sense of home that had nothing to do with proper behaviour and everything to do with being present with the people who mattered.
Elizabeth caught his eye across the room, still laughing, and something passed between them that made Darcy’s breath catch. For just a moment, the careful distance he maintained seemed to collapse, and he felt utterly exposed.
Waffles chose that moment to provide another musical contribution, and the spell was broken.
Georgiana leapt up from the piano bench. “Right then. We must do the ornaments next. Christmas Eve isn’t Christmas Eve without hanging the ornaments.”
“I imagine they’re breakable?” Elizabeth inquired, glancing at her dog.
“Yes,” Darcy confirmed with a nod.
“Then allow me to settle Mr. Waffles in for the night. I’ll be back shortly.”
He knew this meant she would take him outside to do his business, then settle him in the utility room with his bed, a dozen toys, and his special blanket, not to mention the soft music playing in the background, so he stood to retrieve the box of ornaments from the cupboard in the hall where Maggie told him they were waiting.
Darcy picked up the battered wooden box and carried it back to where his sister was waiting.
Inside lay a collection of glass baubles and paper stars that had graced Pemberley Christmas trees for generations.
Some dated back to his great-great-grandmother’s time, others were more recent additions from his own childhood.
They were old, fragile, many of them chipped or faded, but all quite beloved.
The house had several trees, and they’d all been decorated for the few tours they did this time of year, but the smaller tree here in the parlour was always left undecorated until Christmas Eve.
He and his sister talked a bit about booking the groups for next summer's music festival on the grounds—Georgiana worked in music production and ran the Pemberley events now—until Elizabeth returned, a little flushed from the cold.
“Oh, you didn’t have to wait for me,” she said, peering into the box. “These are beautiful!”
“Of course we waited for you,” Darcy said. It was the point of having her here, to include her in their traditions.
Georgiana lifted a delicate felt figure with a bent wing and faded golden braiding. “This angel was our mother’s absolute favourite. She always insisted it go right at the very top of the tree, even though Father used to tease her that it was too small to be seen from below.”
Elizabeth accepted the angel with reverence, cradling it in her palms. “She’s gorgeous,” she said.
She passed it to Darcy, their fingers brushing in the exchange, and he climbed the step stool to place it among the uppermost fir branches.
When he stepped back down, Elizabeth was watching him with such warmth that he felt his pulse quicken.
They worked their way through the rest of the box together, Georgiana narrating the history of each piece while Elizabeth listened with genuine interest. There was the paper star Darcy had made at school when he was seven, rather flattened but considered precious enough to preserve.
The set of tiny glass horses that had belonged to his grandmother.
The collection of wooden snowflakes that Georgiana had painted herself during her first Christmas at Pemberley after their mother’s death, each one inscribed with the year.
After the ornaments came more carols, all three of them gathered around his father’s old music book.
Georgiana’s bright soprano blended with Elizabeth’s warm tones and Darcy’s deeper voice in harmony as they stumbled over the Latin verses of “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” laughed through “The Holly and the Ivy,” and when they reached “Silent Night,” Elizabeth’s voice became soft and contemplative in a way that made Darcy’s heart swell.
Elizabeth’s voice found the melody, low and warm; Darcy came in a breath late on the third line, matching her under the tune. At the edge of the music book their fingers met, his hand brushing hers.
On “love’s pure light,” he caught the harmony clean. She didn’t look over; she just gave his finger the smallest squeeze on the word, and he answered with one of his own. Georgiana smiled without turning her head, and the chord faded, quiet as snow.
When the last notes faded away, Georgiana stood and yawned. “I feel positively ancient. I’m for bed.” She hugged Elizabeth first, then him, and said her goodnights.
Left alone, the house settled into that special Christmas Eve hush that Darcy remembered from childhood.
“This is so peaceful,” Elizabeth said, curling her legs beneath her in the chair and looking entirely at home in his family’s parlour. “My family’s Christmases are rather different, I’m afraid.”
“Different how?” Darcy asked, though he suspected he could guess. Elizabeth’s smile was both fond and rueful.
“Take your dinner with my family, then double it, and that’s what it’s like from dawn until well past dusk.
My mother flapping about the turkey and convinced she’s forgotten something crucial, Lydia shrieking over presents and generally creating mayhem, Kitty sprawling in any number of odd positions to take artistic photographs of everything, Mary lecturing us all about the commercialisation of religious holidays, Jane calming us all down, and my father disappearing with a glass of wine or something stronger whenever it all gets too much for him.
Nothing elegant about it, but—” She shrugged, her expression warm with affection. “Well, it’s ours.”
Darcy found himself smiling at the image. “It sounds wonderful.”
“Well, I’m not sure Athena would approve of the noise levels.
Waffles, on the other hand, is in his element.
” Elizabeth laughed, soft and genuine, and for a moment Darcy forgot everything else.
There was just Elizabeth, firelight painting her skin gold, looking at him like he was just where she wanted him to be.
Athena chose that moment to heave a dramatic sigh and flop against Darcy’s legs.
“I suppose it’s your turn to put the dog to bed,” she said with a little laugh. “I’ll just head on up.”
As he so often did when his mind was too busy for sleep, Darcy wound up in the library.