The uncommon line of thought drew him up short, and Darcy shook his head. Fitzwilliam was in the right. Whatever had got into him of late, to make him pay such untoward attention to other people’s matrimonial prospects? Perhaps it was a sign that he was ready to contemplate his own.
‘Nay, not that,’ he inwardly rebelled. Not quite ready yet. Just mindful that the issue had to be considered sometime. Sometime soon. He was nearing thirty.
He suppressed an exasperated huff. He had not met her yet, that picture of perfection who would entice him heedlessly into matrimony. Perhaps the time had come to seriously weigh his options and become a trifle more reasonable in his expectations. Lineage, fortune, beauty, accomplishments, affection, kindness and a sense of duty were perhaps too much to ask of one’s life companion.
A wise man would not wait forever for a chimerical paragon. Not if he did not wish to be the last one of his line.
* * * *
The morning before Christmas dawned bright and jolly over a fresh layer of snow. It must have fallen heavily overnight, clothing the land in pristine white, covering old tracks and smoothing every surface, but now the wintry sun shone from a clear sky, with nothing but a host of fleecy clouds hazily drifting over the expanse of blue.
It was very early still, but as he made his way into the garden Darcy could tell that he was not the only one who had ventured out, drawn by the brightness of the day. Several sets of footprints, some very small, had left a winding trail towards the shrubbery. Yet he could have guessed the small group’s location even without the trail. The sound of chirping voices punctuated by the odd peal of laughter gave it away, and Darcy’s lips curled into a smile as he walked to meet them, his much larger footprints joining the others on the path.
He only got as far as rounding the tall yew hedge, now crowned with a mound a good four inches thick, when the sudden collision stopped him in his tracks. His hands instinctively shot up to steady the trim form clad in a long pelisse splattered with white patches – a clear evidence of a snowball fight.
“Miss Bennet! Forgive me, I did not– ”
“The fault is mine, Sir. I did not look where I was going”, she replied, the merry glow in her countenance not yet dimmed by unease at the unorthodox encounter.
Her eyes sparkled under wispy curls in charming disarray and the cold morning air had put fresh colour in her cheeks. The hue deepened and dark-fringed eyelids came to screen the brightness of the glance, as she regained her balance and backed away from the tight clasp. His hands dropped from her shoulders and he offered:
“I hope you are not– ”
He did not get to finish. The last words were a garbled mutter, as a snowball flew right above her shoulder to spatter over his chin and mouth. A small cry of dismay rang from somewhere ahead and a childish voice piped up with a prompt apology:
“Cousin, I did not mean to– ”
“Oh, dear,” Miss Bennet exclaimed with a swift glance behind her to ascertain the perpetrator, before reaching up to repair the damage and brush the snow away. Her fingers were ice-cold, colder than the snow, and Darcy started at their fleeting touch. Her hand fell away as swiftly as it had come up, and she bit her lip.
“I beg your pardon, I should not– ”
“Your hands are freezing cold,” Darcy spoke up at the same time. She did not continue, so he resumed his thought and removed his gloves. “Here. Pray take these.”
“But– ”
“Fear not, I have no need of them for what I plan to do,” he laughed and rounded past her to grin widely at Hetty. “So, young lady, this is your game now, is it?” he growled playfully as he bent down for a handful of snow in retaliation.
Her earlier mortification quite forgotten in the face of his jocular manner, Hetty gave a little shriek of half panic, half delight, and ran to hide behind Georgiana’s skirts, her little face peeking from under her cousin’s elbow.
“Oh, no, that will not do at all. Come out and face the trouble you have started,” Darcy called, swiftly lunging sideways to shoot his projectile with great accuracy at her back, unwilling to meanly return measure for measure.
With another shriek Hetty ran away, scooping up fresh snow as she went and casting it haphazardly behind her, while Georgiana stepped away from the line of fire. She smiled widely, delighting in a game she remembered fondly from the time when she was Hetty’s age. It was the greatest joy to see her brother as carefree as he had been then, when it was her he had chased through the gardens, just as he was now rushing after Hetty, not to pelt her with more snowballs, but scoop her up under one arm and twirl her around, little booted feet kicking in the air.
Encouraged by the cheerful madness, Margaret came to her sister’s aid to hang onto his other arm and hop about, vainly seeking to reach up to his face with the remainder of a crushed projectile.
Unlike her, Georgiana was not moved to show any such sibling solidarity. Instead, she sided with the children to take his broad back as a target until he willingly collapsed to his knees under the three-pronged attack, his hat forgotten in the snow and at great risk of being flattened under the heap of flailing limbs and wriggling little bodies vanquished by laughter.
Georgiana joined them in their merriment, fondly envisaging a time when such cheerful gambols would once more be commonplace at Pemberley and, instead of young cousins, there would be her unborn nieces and nephews frolicking around her brother in the snow, everyone’s dignity abandoned.
Miss Bennet did not laugh, but her countenance spoke volumes as she watched them from her spot. She was still standing by the hedge, clasping to her chest hands encased in gloves too large for her. She did not think of hiding the heartfelt smile and the glow in her eyes, yet no one saw it. Not Georgiana. Not the merry group of three. Not even Fitzwilliam, from his vantage point at his bedchamber’s window, where he stood catching none of the undercurrents, just the heart-warming picture of carefree joy. Unknowingly, his thoughts mirrored Georgiana’s: it would be very good for Darcy to have children of his own.
* * * *
A change of apparel was rigorously necessary after the rambunctious disport and although she shook her head in solemn disapproval of such antics, the strict Miss Harding saw fit to honour the day by relaxing her stern rules a little, and allowed her charges to rejoin their cousins and Miss Bennet for further Christmas cheer.
When a nursery maid escorted the girls down, the three could be found in the small parlour. Their own wet apparel replaced and their dignity somewhat restored, they stood around the table covered in fresh mounds of greenery, going about the festive business of the season. Or rather, the young ladies were, while Darcy left them to it, content to watch and only assist if needed.
In the earliest hours of the morning a large number of Pemberley’s people had walked out to gather ivy, mistletoe, bay, rosemary and red-berried holly. Georgiana and Miss Bennet had joined them for a while, before their amusements in the shrubbery, and were now assisting the maids and footmen in the joyful task of adorning the house.
Bright garlands were already festooned around the columns in the ballroom and the entrance hall, as well as the banister of the great staircase. Several maids had been at work for hours to fashion them, on the vast table in the servants’ dining hall, and then the footmen had skilfully fixed them into place.
Nothing like their usual quiet and unobtrusive selves – and uncensored for it at this time of year – the maids were now scurrying hither and thither with basketfuls of greenery to decorate the mantelpieces and the picture frames, while in the parlour Georgiana and Miss Bennet were putting the finishing touches to the Christmas Bough.
In time-honoured fashion, ivy and holly were entwined around its hoops and, as a result of the young ladies’ efforts, it now stood resplendent, ornamented with red ribbons, gilded nuts, fire-red apples and the customary sprig of mistletoe.
When Peter was summoned to take it to the entrance hall and suspend it in the designated spot from a hook never u
sed for another purpose, Hetty and Margaret skipped after him, clapping and chanting “The Kissing Bough! The Kissing Bough!”, while the other three followed at a more leisurely pace, exchanging warm glances at their childish glee.
Once they gained the hall the girls stood aside to let Peter go about his task, but as soon as it was done and the ladder removed, they rushed to be the first to embrace under the bough and follow a custom they both loved, little as they understood it.
They were too young to know that for hundreds of years the bough had reigned supreme over Christmas celebrations as a sign of goodwill and new beginnings. With an embrace beneath it, all the ills and wrongs of the previous year were set aside and instantly forgotten, as relations, neighbours, friends or mere acquaintances silently undertook to go forth with gratitude, benevolence and a light heart.
Margaret and Hetty might have lacked this insight, but did not lack lightness of heart as they resumed their chanting and linked arms to dance under the bough. They only stopped when a voice called from the foot of the stairs:
“I have never heard such a racket on this side of the Channel. What strange and fearsome tribe has come to invade?”
Supremely undaunted, the girls ran to their uncle.
“The Kissing Bough is up, Uncle Richard,” Hetty piped up and both girls reached to clasp his hands and tug him forward, until he was standing underneath it.
He willingly obliged, the corner of his mouth curled into a mock grimace:
“Oh, is it now? Well, if needs must,” he said, and bent down to kiss Margaret’s upturned cheek, then Hetty’s.
He scooped the youngest up, while she squirmed and declared that his whiskers were awfully ticklish and, with his giggling niece in his arms, he turned to drop a kiss on Georgiana’s cheek – and likewise Miss Bennet’s.
The latter blushed becomingly, yet took it in good cheer. It was Darcy who frowned and, as soon as Fitzwilliam had straightened from setting down his wriggling burden, he stepped closer and lowered his voice to sternly deliver:
“Was that really necessary, Cousin?”
But the other grinned in the most provoking manner.
“Oh, quite. ‘Tis a time-honoured tradition. In fact, seeing as you are so mindful of old customs, I wonder at your scorning this one,” he added, to Darcy’s growing irritation.
Miss Bennet’s heightened colour showed she overheard the flippant comment, and Darcy silently cursed his cousin for it – only to curse himself a fraction of a second later, when he discovered to his acute mortification that, of their own volition, his eyes were fixed on her full, perfect lips. His neckcloth suddenly too tight, he swiftly glanced away, while she turned to her former charges to ask if they wished to help decorate the music room. They eagerly agreed and the trio hastened on their way, followed by Georgiana, thus leaving Darcy with his cousin – and his roiling vexation. He could not stop from scathingly observing:
“Since you are such an authority on ancient customs, are you not forgetting something?”
“What is that?”
“Such licence is permitted only if you can pluck a berry from the mistletoe.”
Fitzwilliam glanced up with a grin.
“Either by accident or by design, you had it hung up too high. Besides, you know as well as I do that pecks on the cheek were not what they had in mind with that proviso. But fear not, when the time comes I will find a way to reach those berries,” he laughed, the aggravating show of confidence making Darcy wish he had instructed Peter to hang the troublesome thing a great deal higher. There was still time to do so. And he would, by Jove, if Fitzwilliam persisted in this infuriating manner!
“You will excuse me,” he abruptly took his leave.
CHAPTER 10
“Hannah, pray seek Miss Bennet in her chambers and ask her to join me, if it is convenient,” Georgiana instructed the maid and, as the girl left, she exchanged a wide smile with her brother who was still standing by the window and resumed her seat at the table, barely containing her anticipation.
They were not kept waiting long but even so, by the time a light tap came to announce Elizabeth’s arrival, Georgiana had become too impatient to remain seated and was already close enough to open the door herself.
“Lizzy! Merry Christmas! Do come. I trust this is not too early for you. But I was hoping for a private moment before we join the commotion below stairs – we both were,” she turned to include Darcy in the sentiment. “In fact, it was my brother’s suggestion that we meet here. You see, we have something for you,” she smilingly added with a gesture towards the little oval table, where two parcels stood neatly wrapped in thin brown paper.
Elizabeth glanced warmly from the sister to the brother.
“I thank you both. You are so very kind, too kind. But firstly, pray excuse me for a moment.”
Without waiting for them to speak, she turned on her heel and vanished from the room, only to return a few minutes later holding two small parcels of her own. She handed one to Georgiana with fond wishes and a tight embrace, then walked to offer the second to Darcy.
“Merry Christmas, Sir.”
It was plain to see that he had expected nothing of the sort, and neither had Georgiana, who exclaimed:
“Oh, Lizzy, you should not have!”
“I can say the same,” he friend replied with a smile and Georgiana cheerfully returned it as she clasped her hand and led her to the table.
“Let us sit,” she urged and the other two were only too happy to comply. She slid Elizabeth’s presents closer to her and smiled again. “You first.” But at her brother’s nearly imperceptible shake of his head she reconsidered, quick to understand his meaning. It would not do to discomfit her dear friend by staring, so she instantly retracted, “Unless you do not mind if I open mine at the same time? I find I am not quite as patient as I thought.”
“Not at all. But I should not wish to excite your anticipation. ‘Tis but a small gift.”
“And I shall treasure it,” Georgiana replied warmly, lifting the little parcel to fiddle with the string, still unable to resist the temptation of surreptitiously watching her friend’s progress with hers, impatient for her reaction.
When it became apparent that they were all doing the same, Miss Bennet laughed lightly and tore at the brown paper, only to gasp when the parting folds revealed the beautiful garment within.
“Oh, Georgiana! This is exquisite,” she whispered, finally finding her voice.
“You like it? I am so very glad!”
“How could I not? What a delightful shade! And this beautiful lace. You are much too generous. Too generous by far.”
“Nonsense,” the other protested. “‘Tis all Mrs Moore’s work. I merely–… Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed, having finally opened Elizabeth’s gift to her. It was an ivory silk reticule, painstakingly embroidered with countless sweet violets, perfectly shaped and very tiny, covering the entire surface in an intricate pattern. “I have done nothing for your dress other than choosing the colour, but you! This must have taken you hours upon hours.”
“It was a pleasure, and lovingly done.”
“Dearest Lizzy! I can see that, it shows in every stitch. But I have never seen you work on it. When did you find the time?”
“Oh, here and there,” Elizabeth said airily, with a little wave. “I could not let you see it, that would have defied the object. Although you very nearly caught me once. But since you did not ask why I was moved to caper about the room so early in the morning I assumed you did not see me hide it.”
“I certainly did not,” Georgiana laughed and said something further, but Darcy was no longer listening.
Throughout their time together in Georgiana’s private sitting room he had contributed nothing to their interactions, content to witness them in silence as he often did these days and take pleasure in their warm affection for each other, as well as in one of the rare occasions when Miss Bennet had cast her cautious reserve aside.
She was the very
picture of Christmas cheer this morning as she laughed with Georgiana and it was gratifying to know she enjoyed her present. The thoughtful and painstaking effort she had put in her own gift to his sister moved him deeply, as did the notion that she must have indeed spent many hours in her chambers labouring over it. Moreover, her choice to adorn the reticule with Georgiana’s favourite flowers showed that she knew her well and knew precisely what would please her.
And now he was given proof that she knew him too. While the young ladies were merrily chatting, plain curiosity and a strange sense of anticipation had prompted him to quietly unwrap Miss Bennet’s Christmas gift to him. It was thin and narrow, its shape no indication of its contents, and he was still none the wiser after the first glimpse within. It was only when the paper fully came apart that it was revealed to be a bookmark. Nay, not a bookmark, but a work of art. The long strip was covered in the minutest cross-stitch, almost too tiny to be discerned with the naked eye, depicting a view of Pemberley as faithfully as a watercolour, or rather an oil painting. Pemberley in the autumn, as the reddish tinge of the maples showed, and the golden shapes of the beeches. Every detail of the house was captured to perfection, and its reflection undulated over the waters of the lake as they formed ripples in the breeze.
Awed and speechless, Darcy lifted the exquisite creation from its wrappings, running his thumb over it, and it was only then that his fingertips sensed the cross-stitch on the underside. He turned the bookmark over and his eyes widened to discover that it was made of not one but two pieces of skilful embroidery sewn together back to back. The second showed Pemberley in the spring. She had never seen it thus, so how did she know there would be daffodils on that very patch beneath the lime tree? Or bluebells by the orangery, or that the magnolias would bloom with rosy tints?
Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 11
