The Darcys' First Christmas

by Maria Grace

  “I cannot plan anything, not with her here. She will give me no rest until I capitulate to her will and give her control of everything. Pray do not ask me to.”

  “What are you not telling me? You are far too troubled for it to be about a mere picnic.”

  Georgiana pressed her fist to her mouth. “She has not forgiven me. She will never forgive me for … for … Ramsgate. She thinks I am entirely ruined … she wants to send me away. She said so in her last letter.”

  “Your brother will not permit it.”

  She peeked through her fingers. “I know … I know … that is why I am here in my rooms. He said I might stay up here whilst they are visiting. He … he said I do not have to plan—”

  “I see. Then your situation is well in hand.” Elizabeth rose and turned away, fists clenched at her side.

  “You are angry with me.”

  “Not at all. I simply better understand the workings of Pemberley and my place in them.”

  “Pray do not be angry with me, too.”

  “Your brother will see you are well taken care of.” Elizabeth’s voice broke, and she fled the room.

  Mrs. Annesley follower her out. “Pray, Mrs. Darcy.”

  Elizabeth forced her feet to stop.

  “What are your instructions, madam?” Mrs. Annesley peered up at her.

  Hunched over just a bit, and short-sighted, her face wrinkled up as she stared. Her mouth, though, suggested much stronger feelings than her tone implied.

  “My instructions?”

  “Regarding Miss Darcy.”

  “It seems Mr. Darcy has given all the direction necessary.”

  “He has never spoken them to me, madam.” She cocked her head just so, like one of the sitting hens at Longbourn used to do.

  “Nor to me, either. Miss Darcy seems to understand his wishes quite clearly, though.”

  “And you wish me to—”

  “Follow his instruction.” Elizabeth’s voice wavered on the final word.

  “Very good, madam.” Mrs. Annesley curtsied and trundled away.

  Thank Providence; her own chambers were not far. Elizabeth ducked inside and locked the door.

  Darcy had cancelled the plans for the picnic. He said he supported the notion, even sounded pleased that they were to try something new. Why had he said something he clearly did not mean?

  Moreover, he saw fit to direct his sister’s behavior. Having four sisters of her own was not enough to make her sufficiently knowledgeable to manage even that.

  She was Mistress of Pemberley in name only.

  Heavens above!

  She pressed her back against the wall and slid to the floor. Lady Catherine prophesied this would be the result if she became Darcy’s wife. The shades of Pemberley were being polluted by Elizabeth’s presence. She was a stain, an embarrassment to him. What else could he do but cover for her failings and create the illusion of a competent mistress to those who might observe.

  She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and clung tightly to the little composure she retained. Lydia, Kitty, even Mary at times, they were the silly girls who brought blushes and mortification to the family. Not her, she had always been a credit to her father, to her mother.

  Now all that was gone.

  All she had left was to play the role of hostess and allow Darcy to manage things as he saw fit.

  ∞∞∞

  Two steps down the hall, Fitzwilliam intercepted Darcy. “We need to talk.”

  Darcy grunted and waved him toward the study. Conversation held little appeal

  Brandy.

  That was his only chance at civility.

  “A bit early in the day for this, is it not?” Fitzwilliam lifted the glass toward him.

  Darcy swallowed a large gulp and chased it with a deep breath. “Your arrival warrants celebration.”

  “I argued against an unannounced visit.”

  “I will keep that in mind.”

  “I am on your side.” Fitzwilliam fell into a chair near the fireplace and balanced his glass on his knee. “You are aware my mother has an agenda.”

  “Georgiana mentioned something about that last night.”

  “I cannot fathom why she is so bent upon managing Pemberley’s ball. One would think she would be happy for a respite from all that work.”

  “She doubts Elizabeth’s abilities.”

  “The patched up business with Wickham and her sister has rather poisoned Mother’s opinion of her family.”

  Darcy growled under his breath and refilled their glasses.

  “Wickham was taking revenge on me.”

  “Be that as it may, you are now brother to him.” Fitzwilliam stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles.

  “Do not remind me.”

  “Mother will, unceasingly.”

  “She would not dare.”

  Fitzwilliam sipped his drink and lifted his glass as if to toast.

  “I will not permit it.”

  “You cannot stop it. You know she speaks her mind.”

  “A Fitzwilliam family trait.” Darcy set his glass down hard on his desk. “I think her unexpected arrival has already upset my wife.”

  “You think so? You only think that the case? Truly, you amaze me.”

  “What do you want of me? Have you a suggestion how to manage this campaign, oh colonel of His Majesty’s army.”

  “That is the problem. My mother is an expert in managing the wars of society. She specializes in subterfuge, not something to your or my tastes. Elizabeth is a new recruit in this conflict, one who may easily become a casualty.”

  “I will not permit it.”

  “I know you mean well, but that might be more difficult than you expect.”

  Dinner was served at the fashionable hour of eight.

  Darcy’s stomach grumbled and his temper matched. Dash it all, what a foolish time to eat. Why had he insisted they change plans to meet the Matlock’s expectations? This was his home after all.

  Was it not what a proper host did? Surely it is what Elizabeth would have done. She would approve of his order. Surely she would.

  Why then had she only appeared in the drawing room to announce dinner, and not a moment before? She murmured something about a head ache, but refused to explain any further. Hopefully they would be able to talk tonight, in the privacy of their own chambers.

  “I am surprised Georgiana is not with us.” Aunt Matlock flipped open the napkin and tucked it in her lap.

  “She is feeling poorly tonight,” Elizabeth said softly, eyes cast down on her plate.

  “Do you not worry about being too indulgent with her? She is becoming demanding and petulant. She declined to admit me when I tried to see her earlier this evening.”

  Darcy shrugged and glanced at Elizabeth, but she would not meet his gaze.

  “She is a young girl. I see little harm in her not attending dinner one night,” Darcy said.

  “Forgive me, Darcy, but what know you of the management of young women?”

  Aunt Matlock smiled at him so condescendingly, he nearly dropped his glass.

  “I should think by now you would have turned over her management to someone who would know better. Do you not employ a companion for her?”

  “We do, but Elizabeth—”

  “The mistress of the house should not be burdened with such a task.”

  “She has four sisters. I should think she knows a great deal about the management of young ladies,” Fitzwilliam raised his glass toward Elizabeth.

  Lady Matlock laughed bitterly, “I suppose that experience would count for something. Still, Georgiana should have some sort of proper finishing.”

  “She does not desire to be sent off, anywhere,” Darcy said. “I see no need to oppose her.”

  “Any other accomplishments she requires, Elizabeth can teach her or a tutor may be hired,” Fitzwilliam said.

  “One cannot hire a tutor for every accomplishment.”

  Elizabeth dropped her fork on her pla
te. The clink resounded through the room like the chime of a gong.

  “Pray forgive me,” she muttered into her plate.

  Ordinarily she would have laughed and made fun at such a misstep.

  Darcy called upon every ounce of self-control not to ask what the matter was.

  “The carrot soup was excellent tonight,” Fitzwilliam sipped the last of the soup from his spoon. “Pray is it a receipt you brought from Longbourn?”

  No, the Longbourn soup was far superior to this sweet orange mess.

  “Mr. Darcy specifically requested it tonight, from Pemberley’s receipt books.” Elizabeth glanced at him only briefly.

  Pray that she not do so again! Her gaze was as sharp as a poacher’s arrow.

  “Do you not recognize it? It is an old Fitzwilliam recipe,” Aunt Matlock dabbed her lips with her napkin. “It is quite delightful, is it not? The best carrot soup I have known.”

  Darcy would rather not have indulged in so many Fitzwilliam family recipes, but at least it kept Aunt Matlock’s dinnertime complaints at bay.

  “Be that as it may, I need more wine.” Uncle Matlock tapped his glass with his fork.

  A footman hopped into action and filled his glass.

  Elizabeth rang the bell for the second course.

  He tried to catch her gaze, but she turned aside. Was she intentionally ignoring him?

  Small talk, tense and painful, made an unwelcome garnish for what should have otherwise been a pleasant meal. Throughout, he could not pry more than single word answers from Elizabeth, and she never looked at him.

  The sweet course came, and with it the opportunity for the ladies to withdraw alone.

  Elizabeth and Aunt Matlock alone together in the drawing room? Heaven forfend!

  He rose. “Shall we proceed to the drawing room?”

  Elizabeth turned very pale and trembled. Had Aunt Matlock disconcerted her so badly?

  He had been right not to chance leaving her to his Aunt’s predations.

  Fitzwilliam offered Elizabeth his arm and escorted her to the drawing room, every inch a proper, somber officer. How did she manage to draw such correct behavior from him when no one else could?

  “Will you play for us, Mrs. Darcy?” Aunt Matlock asked.

  Darcy cringed and glanced at Elizabeth, but she stiffened and turned aside. He drew a breath to protest.

  Aunt Matlock would be no kinder to Elizabeth than Aunt Catherine. Insisting the lady must practice more—indeed! The back of his neck twitched.

  Elizabeth arranged some music and the first notes rang from the keyboard.

  She gazed off into the distance. Usually when she sang, she looked at him. It was a special intimacy they shared; one others should not be privy to.

  They must share the same mind.

  Had she any idea of how beautiful she was?

  From the corner of his eye, he caught Aunt Matlock’s censorious glare. He was staring.

  He averted his eyes, grumbling under his breath. Should not a man be able to look at what he pleased in the privacy of his own home?

  Uncle called for a hand of cards, but insisted on whist. Aunt and Fitzwilliam immediately attended him.

  “Here, Darcy, we need a fourth.” Uncle Matlock waved him toward the table. His best commanding peer voice booming over Elizabeth’s music.

  Elizabeth did not particularly like whist, but still, it was rude of them to select something that would necessarily leave one and only one of the company out. He stood in the middle of the room, wavering between the pianoforte and the whist table.

  “Pray excuse me. I have taken a headache.” Elizabeth removed herself from the room.

  Darcy took a step toward the door.

  “Leave her go.” Aunt flicked her fan open and fluttered it before her face. “She does not need you to nursemaid her. She has her maid for that.”

  He should go to her. This was utterly unlike her.

  Yet, more than once he had been told that he was too protective, too controlling. Perhaps that was what was troubling her, and going after her would only make things worse.

  He turned to the whist table and sat down, clenching his hand beneath the table.

  ∞∞∞

  Elizabeth ran upstairs, stumbling as she went. The unforgiving marble bruised her shin.

  Somehow it fit. Even the house itself had turned against her.

  She slowed and grasped the banister. How many times had Mama admonished her to walk like a lady? Apparently she had been correct.

  The throbbing in her shin eased by the time she reached the dressing room she and Darcy shared. Her maid was there, waiting.

  How did she know? Pemberley’s walls must have eyes and ears, for she was always available when Elizabeth needed her.

  She helped Elizabeth undress, and then slipped out of the servants’ door, leaving Elizabeth alone.

  Very, very alone.

  For a few short weeks, Pemberley had seemed bright and welcoming to her.

  How wrong she had been.

  All those nagging voices in the back of her mind; the ones warning her she might not be up to the task; the ones she had silenced in her arrogance—they were entirely correct.

  He did not even trust her to conduct drawing room conversation without his supervision. His relations effectively declared her too inferior to share a card table with them.

  She threw open her chamber door, and stared into the bedroom they did not use.

  From their first day at Pemberley, they had shared his bed chamber. But she could not go in there, not tonight.

  She locked the door behind her and fell headlong onto the bed. The room was cold. The servants had stopped lighting the fire when it was clear it would not be used.

  Fitting.

  She could call a girl to light the fire easily enough, but to what point? Fire would do nothing to chase the chill lodged deep within.

  Nothing would.

  She would become accustomed to it, somehow. With study, and application, and effort she would master her role as Mrs. Darcy, just as she had chess when her father had insisted she learn. That had been challenging, but now she regularly bested him. She would do the same here.

  At the very least, she would no longer be a source of embarrassment to him. Regardless, she would not permit Lady Catherine’s pronouncements over her to be prophetic.

  For tonight though, nothing remained to do. She climbed under the counterpane and one of the feather mattresses. Tomorrow she would instruct the maids to light the fire in this room.

  ∞∞∞

  Darcy dragged himself upstairs. What a stupid way to pass time. One rubber of whist was acceptable, but … how many? He had lost count. Whatever the number, it was utter foolishness and would not be repeated.

  He had lost the last several few hands. His distracted play irritated even Fitzwilliam. How could he concentrate on something as trivial as cards when worrying for Elizabeth? At least now, he could see her, speak to her, and lay all that to rest.

  The dressing room was empty.

  Of course, she would have gone to bed by now. It was foolishly late.

  He undressed without his valet. His state of mind would not tolerate the man’s presence, no matter how quick and efficient he was.

  His bedchamber door stood barely ajar. All the better, the sound of the door handle would not disturb her. He slipped in and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust.

  The bed … it was empty, the bedclothes undisturbed.

  Ice flowed through his veins.

  Where was she?

  He dashed back into the dressing room. The crystal knob to the mistress’ chambers glinted in the moonlight.

  Why would she be there?

  He tried the door.

  Locked.

  The door was locked.

  He staggered to a stool near his dressing table.

  Why?

  Perhaps it was a mistake.

  In her weariness, had she locked this door instead of the one to the hall?
She was not accustomed to that room, so she could have become confused, especially with a headache.

  Why sleep there? Did she worry about keeping him awake if she could not sleep? It was like her to be so considerate, but unnecessary. If she was unwell, he wanted to be with her.

  He paced the narrow moonbeam painting the floor.

  Perhaps his aunt had distressed her more than he realized. Certainly that could cause her to retreat.

  When he was upset, sometimes, at least before he had been married, he preferred to retreat in solitude.

  Certainly, she needed time and a little solitude to work it all out. Tomorrow, no doubt, she would be to rights again.

  Tomorrow.

  He shuffled back to his bedchamber. A low fire glowed in the fireplace, filling the room with gentle warmth.

  He pulled the cold sheets and counterpane around him, shivering without a warm companion to fill his arms. He closed his eyes, but did not sleep.

  ∞∞∞

  She rose before dawn the next day and rang for her maid.

  “I will dress in this room today. I do not wish the master disturbed.” Shivering, Elizabeth tied her dressing robe around her. “And have a fire lit here going forward.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  To her credit, the maid offered no expression whatsoever. She went about her job with perfect efficiency, preparing her mistress for another day.

  A day filled with further opportunity for failure.

  Elizabeth went downstairs. She pulled her shawl around her more tightly and ducked into the kitchen. How much warmer it was near the hearth fires.

  Cook and her minions bustled about.

  “Mrs. Darcy?” Mrs. Reynolds appeared at her elbow, eyes wide.

  Elizabeth jumped. Longbourn’s kitchen had never been surprised to see her.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, no, not at all.”

  Surely the woman was perceptive enough to know Elizabeth was lying.

  “Perhaps, you would like some tea, madam?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Mrs. Reynolds waved her hand. The footmen sitting at the table near the fireplace jumped up and offered her their chairs. They beat a hasty retreat.

  She sat in the nearest one.