Christmas at Darcy House

by Victoria Kincaid

  “I do not even like Mr. Darcy!” she wailed.

  Any woman except Elizabeth Bennet, apparently.

  Darcy’s mouth dropped open. Could she possibly be in earnest? She had teased him, laughed with him, danced with him—beautifully. She liked him even if she did not love him. Did she not?

  Elizabeth dried her tears on the sleeve of her gown as her aunt tried awkwardly to embrace her. “I will not marry Mr. Darcy!” she declared.

  “Elizabeth—” Darcy pleaded.

  She ignored him. “I dislike the man. Why should I marry him?”

  Darcy was falling backward into a deep hole, with nothing to grasp to slow or halt his descent. She dislikes me? She dislikes me? But…

  Mr. Gardiner shook his head slowly. “Lizzy, I am afraid you have no choice.”

  “No!” There was more despair in her tone now.

  Darcy had been certain she would embrace the opportunity, at least to help her family if not for her own sake. But even that inducement was not sufficient. The world spun around him. Good Lord, what did she actually think of him?

  Gardiner regarded with dissatisfaction the growing crowd of onlookers, which by now included the cook and another maid, no doubt the entire household staff. “Lizzy,” he said gently, putting his arm around his niece, “you have had a shock. Perhaps you should go upstairs to rest, and we may discuss this on the morrow over breakfast.”

  Wickham made a great show of viewing his pocket watch. “I should depart as well. I am expected at the barracks soon.” He turned away, oblivious to Elizabeth’s despairing look.

  The sight broke Darcy’s heart. Did she really care for the blackguard?

  Gardiner nodded. “I think it would be best.” Wickham wasted no time in hurrying back toward the house.

  “And you as well, Mr. Darcy.” Gardiner gave him a pointed look. “We must discuss this matter another day.” In other words, he would cajole his niece into accepting Darcy’s offer.

  Leave Elizabeth when she was experiencing such distress? Every instinct screamed against it. And he had not achieved his objective of telling Elizabeth the truth about Wickham. Darcy started to voice his objection, but Gardiner spoke over him. “You may return tomorrow if you wish to discuss…the future.”

  Elizabeth made a noise like a wounded animal, and Darcy’s stomach churned even more sickeningly. How could he have misjudged her sentiments so completely?

  Darcy nodded to the man and to Elizabeth. “Very well. I will return tomorrow.” He gazed into Elizabeth’s dark eyes, wishing he could say something to reassure and please her. Wishing he could see some spark of caring in her eyes. But her face was stony as she bit her lip, trying not to cry. Darcy trudged away, his entire body heavy with regret.

  ***

  At this time of year, it grew dark early, but Darcy had not bothered to light any candles in his study. The gradually dimming light suited his mood. The fire had died down, but Darcy had not stirred from his armchair for hours, so the room had grown chilly. He had left orders that nobody disturb him…and now he sat in the chair trying not to think: about Elizabeth, about his egregious assumptions, about the monumental errors that had brought events to this head. Sleep would be the best remedy, but he feared dreams populated by Elizabeth.

  His thoughts turned in circles like a dog chasing its tail. Where had he first gone wrong? Was it at the Meryton assembly? Or was it when he left Hertfordshire without declaring his feelings for Elizabeth? Perhaps it was his failure to warn Elizabeth immediately about the danger that Wickham posed.

  No. He was deluding himself if he thought anything was to blame except for his arrogant assumption that she returned his attraction. If he had suspected Elizabeth harbored reservations, he had assumed her doubts would be quelled by his fortune.

  Both his hands clenched into fists. Whatever he had done, however he had arrived at this place, Darcy was certainly guilty of ruining both of their lives.

  By compromising her, Darcy had inevitably tied their lives together. Tied his life to a woman who did not want him. He could tolerate ruining his own life; after all, it was his to ruin. But being the instrument of destroying the life of the woman he loved…

  That thought seemed to crush his lungs in an iron grip, making it difficult to breath.

  That was the point when he usually gave up on thinking altogether. Or attempted to.

  Without so much as a knock, the door was flung open. Light flooded in from the hallway. Darcy started and then twisted around in his chair to growl at whoever was disobeying his orders. Georgiana stood in the doorway with his cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, behind her.

  This did not bode well. They could not be as easily deterred as servants.

  Darcy turned back toward the fire without a word, but they ignored the hint. Their footfalls were muffled by the carpet as they approached his chair. Georgiana spoke to Richard as if Darcy were not in the room. “He has been holed up in here for hours. Not working. Not reading. Not even lighting the candles.”

  Richard leaned over to scrutinize his cousin, his face inches from Darcy’s. A move designed to provoke a reaction, which it did. With a hand on his chest, Darcy forcefully pushed his cousin away. A corner of Richard’s mouth curved upward as he addressed Georgiana. “It is good you sent for me. Will you light the candles? I shall get a blaze started.”

  Remaining immobile, Darcy watched as his cousin stacked wood on the dying embers and coaxed flames into life. Damnation. Summoning Richard had been a clever thought. Darcy could have ignored Georgiana and ordered her to leave him alone; she was still the younger sister. But experience had taught Darcy that Richard would not suffer being ignored.

  Once the candles were lit and a fire was warming the room, Richard strolled to the sideboard and poured a glass of port. Handing it to Darcy, he instructed, “Drink it all.”

  Getting foxed sounded like a capital idea to Darcy, so he consumed it in three gulps and held out his glass for more. However, no more port was forthcoming, and Darcy did not have the energy to obtain it of his own accord.

  Instead, Georgiana and Richard took seats on either side of his chair, bracketing him in. “Darcy, can you tell me what is the matter?” Richard asked gently.

  “Everything is fine, Richard. Go away.”

  Richard rolled his eyes at Georgiana. “You did not warn me that he would sound like a sulky child.”

  “Earlier he would not speak at all,” she countered. “This is progress. I pray you, continue.”

  “I will not depart until you speak with me,” Richard warned Darcy. “You might as well concede defeat now.”

  Darcy continued to stare at the fire. “I have no need or desire for conversation.”

  Richard leaned back in his chair. “Very well. I shall converse with Georgiana.” Darcy’s sister chuckled. “I pray you, fair cousin, tell me in great detail about your last shopping trip with my mother. Did you purchase a new hat?”

  Georgiana immediately caught on to his scheme. “I did indeed,” she said with a grin. “It is blue, although Aunt Mary thought the green would suit me better. But I loved the feathers in the blue hat. Then I found the most exquisite lace. I thought it too dear, but Aunt Mary said I would not find such fine lace again in my lifetime, so I should purchase it while I could. I believe I will have it affixed to the new gown I am having made up for the dinner at the Randalls’. Or perhaps I will save it to be part of a ball gown for my coming out year. It really is so fine! Then we went to Madame Ballard’s shop, and she had the daintiest gloves in a white kidskin—”

  Darcy’s patience was worn out. “Enough!” he bellowed. Georgiana giggled; they were enjoying themselves a little too much.

  “Are you prepared to tell us what happened, or shall I torture you with details about dancing slippers?” she asked. When Darcy did not respond, she leaned forward anxiously. “Does this have to do with Miss Bennet?”

  Darcy sighed at the sound of her name. Perhaps appearing to cooperate would be the best way to e
ncourage their departure. “Very well, I will tell you.” Perhaps a few vague statements would satisfy them.

  However, once Darcy started the story, the words tumbled out of his mouth faster and faster. Soon he had confessed all: his feelings for Elizabeth, Wickham’s threats, and the entire disaster at the Gardiners’ house.

  When his story faltered to a conclusion, the room was silent.

  “I am impressed,” Richard said slowly. “When you make a mistake you do so thoroughly. No half measures for you.”

  Darcy snorted despite himself.

  Georgiana’s hand covered her mouth, and her eyes were wide with horror as if she witnessed a battlefield littered with dead soldiers. “You kissed her? Before her aunt and uncle and the servants?”

  “And Wickham,” Richard added helpfully.

  “I could think of nothing else to do,” Darcy confessed.

  Richard drew his brows together. “Did you consider calmly telling her the story of Georgiana’s experience with Wickham and requesting that she break off the engagement?”

  No, it had not occurred to Darcy. Not even hours later. He shook his head. “It was too late for such explanations. She had already accepted him.”

  Richard made an impatient noise. “I am certain that any woman who could secure your regard would have listened to your explanations.”

  Yes, Darcy thought miserably, staring into his empty glass. She probably would have listened.

  Georgiana threw her hands in the air. “It is not as if Mr. Wickham would have married her that instant. You would have had time to convince her of the truth! She could have broken off the engagement later.”

  “I-I—” Darcy sputtered.

  “You panicked,” Richard supplied.

  Darcy tipped his head back, resting it on the back of his chair. “I suppose I did. All I could think was that I could not allow Wickham to steal her away and ruin her life.” He stared at the ceiling. “I also believed she would be happy—or at least content—to marry me. I thought she at least…” His voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

  Richard stood and strolled to the window, gazing out even though there was nothing to see in the darkness. “So you are engaged to a woman who does not like you.”

  Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “Worse. I do not know if I am engaged to her at all.” Richard gave him a quizzical look. “She did not agree to the engagement. Nor did she break off her promise to Wickham.”

  Richard shook his head slowly. “Good Lord, it just keeps getting worse.”

  Darcy continued, “I went to Gracechurch Street with the purpose of telling her the whole story, but I never had the opportunity.”

  Georgiana’s hand flew to her mouth. “Might he convince her to elope with him?”

  Darcy experienced a jolt of panic but then shook his head. “I do not know what his purpose was in offering marriage, but I cannot imagine he intended to follow through. Most likely he was only attempting to thwart me.”

  Richard leaned his shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed as he frowned in thought. “It seems to me the first object is to convince Miss Bennet of Wickham’s perfidy. At the very least that would insulate her from the danger of marrying him. Have you considered writing her a letter? You could hardly do worse expressing yourself in writing.”

  “I thank you for that endorsement, Cuz,” Darcy sneered at him. “But I did have a note sent round to the Gardiners’.”

  “And?” Georgiana asked breathlessly.

  Darcy sighed heavily. “Her uncle returned the letter unopened with a note saying she would not accept a letter from a man to whom she is not related.”

  “Oh.” Georgiana winced.

  Darcy sighed. “What am I to do?”

  “You could write to her uncle with the story about Wickham. Gardiner could hardly refuse to read your letter, and he is not likely to dismiss it out of hand.” Richard straightened to his full height. “Allow me to deliver the letter. I can vouch for the veracity.”

  Georgiana lifted her head. “I have an even better idea.” Darcy’s eyebrows rose. His sister was usually reserved when discussing Wickham; he was surprised she had not already fled the room.

  “I will go to visit Elizabeth Bennet,” she announced.

  “That is an excellent idea!” Richard cried.

  They both sought Darcy’s approbation. He had doubts about the wisdom of stirring up old memories for his sister, but she would rebel if he treated her like a child. “A happy thought, Georgiana. I thank you.”

  His sense of relief mingled with uncertainty. Speaking with Georgiana should extinguish whatever feelings Elizabeth had for Wickham, but it would not solve the larger problem: Elizabeth did not love Darcy.

  Chapter Eight

  “Would you like another cup of tea, Lizzy?” Aunt Gardiner asked.

  Elizabeth shook her head mutely as she stared unseeing out of the window. Her aunt had insisted that she stay in bed to recover from the shock of the previous day’s events, although Elizabeth would much rather be pacing, or perhaps taking a long walk.

  “I put extra sugar in it,” her aunt said enticingly.

  Elizabeth sighed and took the cup, placing it on the table beside her bed. Her aunt was of the opinion that enough tea could solve anything, including nervous conditions, a broken heart, a fever, the plague—and, most likely, the Peninsular War. Elizabeth had already consumed so much tea that morning she felt as if she would float away.

  Despite all the tea, she remained mired in an odd state of anger mixed with sadness, a dollop of guilt, and a pinch of shame: a recipe for a particularly awful stew. The anger was directed at Mr. Darcy for his high-handed behavior and arrogant assumption that naturally she would prefer him over Mr. Wickham because of his fortune.

  The sadness had been provoked by a realization during her long, sleepless night that she could not marry Mr. Wickham; any future relationship between them would forever be tainted by Mr. Darcy’s actions. If Elizabeth loved Mr. Wickham, perhaps they could overcome that obstacle, but her amiable feelings toward him were not enough to surmount the scandal which could erupt if she defied Mr. Darcy.

  She had sent him a note that morning breaking off the engagement. Hopefully her mother would not be angry that she had declined another eligible offer of marriage. Of course, if her mother knew Elizabeth intended to refuse Mr. Darcy…

  The guilt sprang from that intended refusal. Mr. Darcy could provide even more security to her mother and sisters, but Elizabeth could not imagine accepting his offer. She was too angry, and he was too selfish and disdainful of others.

  And the shame stemmed from that small (very small, Elizabeth insisted to herself) part of her soul which seemed content—even delighted—at the prospect of marrying Mr. Darcy. Feeling like a traitor to her own values and identity, she had at first attempted to deny such sentiments. How could the thought of a future with that man provoke anything other than revulsion?

  But in the stillness of the nighttime, Elizabeth had admitted to herself that even before the incident in the garden, she had caught herself admiring his fine figure and serious manner. And then the kiss…well, the kiss…

  Elizabeth always found herself distracted when she recalled the kiss. It had been very… Extremely…

  Surely she would not have responded so…passionately if she had been prepared for the kiss. And it was her first real kiss; any previous kisses had been mere meetings of the lips by comparison. Of course, she had a strong reaction.

  Perhaps all real kisses were like that. Did all wives feel like their husband’s kisses were a drug that they craved every minute of every day? Elizabeth somehow doubted it. Her mother certainly seemed more preoccupied by her nerves than her husband’s lips. And her aunt did not appear to crave her uncle’s touch.

  If a simple kiss could engender such sensations, what would happen in the marital bed? Elizabeth shivered, goosebumps erupting along her arms. How would it feel if Mr. Darcy touched her?

  Nor was the
effect limited to his kisses. Conversation with the man always had a vivacity and energy she experienced with nobody else. Although he was proud and difficult, she always enjoyed matching wits with him. Unfortunately, her conversations with Mr. Wickham could not compare; he was amiable and pleasant, but he never made her feel quite so alive.

  And, thus, the shame.

  “You are thinking about Mr. Darcy again?” Aunt Gardiner asked, sitting on the side of Elizabeth’s bed.

  “How did you know?”

  Her aunt smiled gently, sadly. “You develop a small crease here whenever you are worrying the subject.” She indicated with a finger to her own forehead.

  Elizabeth sat up straighter in bed. “I do not know if I can reconcile myself to becoming his wife.”

  “It is despicable the way he took advantage of you, but too often that is the way of the world. Wealthy men believe they are entitled to…privileges,” Aunt Gardiner spat out the words, leaving no doubt of her disapproval.

  “He simply assumed I would be happy to be his wife!”

  “It is not an unreasonable assumption. Most women would be thrilled to become the mistress of Pemberley.”

  “They may have him.”

  Aunt Gardiner leaned forward and took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. “Being Mrs. Darcy would have many compensations. Once you had an heir and a spare, you need not be intimate—”Elizabeth did not allow her aunt to finish. Pulling her hand from her aunt’s grasp, she clutched the bed covers instead. “Why does everyone assume I will simply marry him? There are always choices….

  The other woman’s brows drew together. “What else would you do?”

  “I-I could refuse to marry anyone. I could become a nun!”

  Her aunt’s lips twitched. “That is a possibility I had not considered….You are not known for your…piety.” Elizabeth could not refute that accusation. “Would that be truly preferable to marrying Mr. Darcy? After all, he is very wealthy. He could help your family tremendously.”

  “I know.” Elizabeth forced herself to release her grip on the covers.