Chapter Eleven
Elizabeth woke to an idea for the ending that disappeared before she could jot down notes.
She looked around. Where was she? Oh, right. Pemberley.
The winter light streamed through the tall windows.
The house was quiet except for the gentle sounds of morning.
She stretched beneath the ridiculously high thread-count sheets and allowed herself a moment of pure optimism.
Today would be different. Last night they had kissed into the late evening, and she felt reassured.
Today, she and Darcy would finally have a conversation about the presents, clear the air, and perhaps figure out what was happening between them.
She changed out of her pyjamas and stopped in the doorway of the small sitting room downstairs.
Darcy was curled into one corner of the sofa, his long legs up on an ottoman, hands cradling a steaming mug.
Around his neck was her scarf, the blue-grey wool looking impossibly soft against the navy blue of his jumper.
Georgiana sat cross-legged on the hearth rug, her dark hair falling in waves down her back, writing in her manuscript book and stifling a yawn.
This was what belonging looked like. This was what home felt like.
“Happy Christmas, Lizzy,” Georgiana called, glancing up with a smile. “Did you sleep well?”
“Happy Christmas to you. Yes, too well, maybe,” Elizabeth admitted, settling into the armchair opposite Darcy. “I am rather surprised to see you up so early, Georgiana.”
Darcy looked up at her over his mug, and she caught his smug little smile.
She couldn’t help but smile back.
“I know,” Georgiana said, sounding surprised. “I had an idea for a song and couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“Coffee’s fresh,” Darcy said, nodding toward the side table where a carafe and a second mug waited. “Maggie somehow heard Georgie was up and started breakfast. She’s in there now, muttering about Christmas breakfast and ‘proper timing.’”
Elizabeth poured herself a cup of coffee and sipped. She immediately felt more human. “Should we be concerned?”
“Undoubtedly,” Georgiana said. “But it’s Christmas morning and nothing is going to spoil today.
” She bounced to her feet with the energy of a young woman who still believed the universe generally arranged itself for her benefit.
“Shall we do the exchange now? Everything’s ready in the drawing room. ”
“I thought we'd had the exchange,” Elizabeth said, confused.
Darcy’s mouth quirked upward. “So did I, but Georgie seems to have been planning a surprise.”
“And it worked,” Georgiana said. “So just be pleased someone thinks you deserve presents.”
She trotted out before them.
Elizabeth crossed to him. The scarf sat a little crooked over his jumper; she took the ends and neatened the knot, smoothing it flat against his chest. He tipped his head without being asked.
She kissed his forehead and patted the settled knit.
“Better,” she said. He caught her hand for a second longer than necessary, then let it go.
He stood. “Georgiana loves giving presents. I always try to get her not to spend her money on me, but this year she had another person to buy for, which has made her happy.”
Soon enough, Elizabeth found herself installed on the drawing room sofa, watching Georgiana arrange beautifully wrapped packages.
Georgiana sat up, satisfied. “Now, shall we begin with—”
A fire alarm began shrieking.
“Oh, bollocks,” Darcy muttered. “Maggie.”
They rushed toward the kitchen as a unit, following increasingly thick smoke and the sound of Maggie’s voice raised in what sounded like heated negotiation with an uncooperative oven.
“It’s not supposed to do that!” the housekeeper was saying when they arrived. She stood before the Aga, oven mitts raised defensively, while something that might once have been a breakfast casserole smouldered ominously behind glass. “The Aga man said it was fixed!”
Darcy moved to open the windows while Elizabeth grabbed a tea towel and began fanning the smoke away from the shrieking detector. Georgiana joined her, waving a towel in the direction of the windows and doing no good at all.
“What were you cooking?” Elizabeth asked, peering at the charred remains of what might have been eggs and cheese and . . . bread?
“A Christmas strata,” Maggie said with a sigh.
“We’ll call the Aga man after Christmas,” Darcy said. “In the meantime, there is plenty of food here. Why don’t you sit down and let me make you something?”
Maggie took this as a personal affront, and Darcy backed away, his hands held out before him and a smile on his lips. “I concede,” he told her, and his housekeeper huffed.
“You had better. I will make the breakfast.”
In the meantime, Elizabeth was able to make herself useful for perhaps the first time since arriving at Pemberley, scraping and soaking the original strata pan while Darcy helped clear the room of smoke. There was something comforting about working alongside him, even in emergency management mode.
“I’ve never heard of a Christmas strata,” she said as she scrubbed.
“It’s American,” Darcy said. “Maggie saw it on a cooking show some years back, and it was such a success that we’ve added it to our traditions.”
“Ina Garten,” Mrs. Reynold added as she set a carton of eggs on the worktop. “She’s my favourite of the chefs on the telly.”
“Right,” Georgiana announced when the kitchen no longer resembled a disaster zone. “Back to presents.”
Attempt number two at the morning’s civilized present exchange lasted approximately five minutes before Georgiana developed an urgent need for something from the coat cupboard upstairs.
“My reading glasses,” she explained, looking remarkably innocent for someone who was twenty-two and had, Elizabeth suspected, perfect vision. “I think I left them in the pocket of my jacket. William, would you fetch them for me?”
“What, your legs don’t work now?”
“I’m trying to arrange all of this.” Georgiana waved her hands over the presents.
Darcy rolled his eyes, and Elizabeth wanted to laugh. “I’ll come with you so that Georgiana can create whatever ambush she has in mind next.”
“Excellent decision,” Georgiana said.
The coat cupboard was small. Smaller, Elizabeth realized, than she’d remembered from yesterday. Not quite large enough for two people to stand in front of without bumping into each other, which was precisely what happened when she and Darcy both reached for Georgiana’s jacket.
“Sorry,” he said, not moving away. His hand was still extended toward the coat hook, effectively bracketing her against the wall, and Elizabeth was having thoughts that were inappropriate for a cupboard at nine in the morning on Christmas Day.
“Actually,” Georgiana called from the bottom of the stairs, “I think they might be in the hall cupboard instead.”
The hall cupboard was even smaller.
“She’s doing this on purpose,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Undeniably,” he agreed, sounding amused rather than annoyed. “She’s been reading too many romance novels.”
“Are we going to call her out on it?”
“After we don’t find these fictional glasses she’s lost? I don’t know,” he said, giving her a quick kiss and then pulling back. His eyes lingered on her lips. “Perhaps we should take advantage instead.”
“Mmm,” Elizabeth replied, tossing her arms around his neck and pulling his face to hers. “I do like the way you think.”
She felt the cool panelling at her back and the reassuring weight of him in front of her, his breath warm against her cheek.
The kiss he gave her was brief and bright, a spark rather than a blaze, and it made something low in her stomach turn over in the most agreeable way.
She was aware, absurdly, of the faint draught from the tall window and of the whisper of his laugh when she tugged him closer by the collar.
Of course Georgiana had contrived it. Elizabeth ought to be annoyed on principle, but it was difficult to muster indignation with Darcy’s mouth returning to hers, patient and then not.
“Mitigating circumstances,” he murmured, as if drafting their alibi against her skin.
She smiled into the kiss. “Purely procedural.”
His hand settled at her waist, careful, then certain, and she felt, as she often did with him, that curious mixture of safety and excitement. She slid her hands to Darcy’s jaw and took one last, thorough kiss for the road. Research, really. One mustn’t file a report without adequate evidence.
She let the kiss ebb, softening until it was more punctuation than sentence, and touched her forehead to his. “I believe our findings are . . . conclusive,” she whispered, smiling.
He huffed a laugh against her mouth. “Replicable results.”
Elizabeth smoothed his collar; Darcy brushed his thumb along her jaw. She drew a steadying breath. “I suppose we should resume the search for Georgiana’s imaginary glasses and maintain the illusion.”
“Naturally,” he said, offering his hand. She laced her fingers with his. He squeezed once, and together they left the alcove.
They were pretending to search the shelf in the small storage cupboard under the stairs—why anyone would leave glasses there, Elizabeth couldn’t imagine—when they heard a series of distinctly suspicious sounds. “What was that?” she asked.
Darcy tilted his head, listening. “It sounded like . . . rummaging?”
They looked at each other with dawning understanding.
“Waffles,” Elizabeth said, closing her eyes.
They found the dog in Darcy’s room, having somehow gained access to a neatly organized suitcase and redistributed its contents.
Toiletries were scattered across the Persian rug like confetti.
Judging by the mounds of golden hair, a few of Darcy’s expensive shirts had been rolled on.
And Waffles was now greeting them from inside the suitcase with a happy look and a thumping tail that suggested he was at peace with his life choices.
Elizabeth sighed. “I swear I brush that dog every day.”
Darcy stared at the carnage for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he began to laugh.