Darcy gave the ribbons another sharp snap, causing the pair pulling the sleigh to surge forward. A fresh powdering of snow filtered down upon them as they sped through the sparkling countryside. He looked sideways at his sister, but her eyes were still straight ahead, and her delicate chin continued to resemble that of a marble statue. He turned back to the horses, the stony attitude of his own chin a match for hers.
They had quarreled! He could scarcely believe it! Try as he might, Darcy could not recall a time in which they had come to such a pass. Georgiana had always looked to him for wisdom and been guided by his wishes, but today…! The fact of their quarreling was only a little less shocking than what they had quarreled about, and their presence in the sleigh at this very moment was proof of whose will had prevailed. Darcy glanced at her again. She did not appear to be enjoying her victory. If truth be told, the moisture at the corner of her eye was probably due more to her disappointment with him than to the sting of cold air, as she had claimed.
It was the fault of that woman, Mrs. Annesley! Darcy’s lips twitched in anger as he laid the blame squarely upon that absent lady’s shoulders. Who else could have influenced Georgiana to engage in such odd behavior or encouraged her into such excessive sentimentality? Surely not the vicar at St. Lawrence’s, he reasoned. The Reverend Goodman he had known well for ten years at least, and never a word of such a business as this had been heard from that man’s pulpit. Darcy forcefully released a chestful of pent-up air. To be out in the cold, sharp air on “errands of mercy” when a perfectly good fire blazed cheerfully in the hearth at home was not a possibility he had considered in his bid to make amends. Fletcher’s troubles that morning should have warned him of what was to come.
Georgiana had joined him at breakfast with a smile and, scorning the chair at the other end of the table, had sat at his right to partake of her chocolate and toast. She had asked whether he had slept well. “Quite well, thank you,” he had assured her with a dampening look, but she had only smiled back before sipping her chocolate.
Deciding that there was no better time than the present, he set down his cup. “Georgiana, I have been negligent of you since I arrived home.” He shook his head at her gentle protest. “No, it is true, my dear. Not being here during the harvest set me back prodigiously in the execution of my affairs, but that is at an end. I am determined to make amends for my preoccupation and so place myself at your command. What should you like to do?” He laughed at the look of surprise on her face but sobered when her features took on a dubious air. “I assure you, I stand by my word. Whatever you like. You may call the tune.” He sat back into the chair then, an encouraging smile upon his face, awaiting her answer.
“I do not disbelieve you, Brother,” Georgiana hastened to inform him. “It is that…well, today is Sunday.”
“Yes,” he replied, picking up his cup again, “but the snow has made a journey to Lambton difficult. I believe we will have to forgo services this morning.”
“I am sure you are right, Fitzwilliam.” She looked down at her plate for a few moments before addressing him again. “There is something I should like to do…something I have been doing and wondered how I ever should be able in this snow. But you are here and could drive the sleigh.”
“Drive the sleigh!” He looked at her in amused disbelief. “You want to go out driving in the snow?”
“Not driving, precisely.” She looked up at him briefly but then turned her gaze away. “Remember, I wrote to you that I had begun visiting our tenants and the families of our laborers as Mother did?”
“Yes, I recall you did,” he protested. “But, Georgiana, our mother never actually ‘visited’ them. It was more a formal affair, held quarterly on the grounds of the largest tenants.” He looked disapprovingly at her. “You do not mean to say you pay calls?”
She quailed a little at his tone but returned, “Every Sunday afternoon. I have divided up the estate, you see, and visit them in turn on their respective Sundays. Well, not all, but the poorer ones and especially those with little children—”
“Georgiana!” Darcy choked out, aghast. “Good God, what can you be thinking?” He pushed back his chair and practically leapt from it while his sister’s countenance grew pale at his outburst. Running a hand through his hair, he looked down at her incredulously. “It is beyond all expectation that you should expose yourself so or behave so familiarly—a Darcy of Pemberley! You will cease these ‘visits’ at once!”
“But, Fitzwilliam—”
“And what of disease?” he interrupted, beginning to pace before her. “Although I pride myself on the good condition of Pemberley’s people, contagion is not unknown in the lower classes…even here.” The possibilities caused Darcy to shudder, but a new thought quickly gripped him. “You cannot have been alone in this. Who has aided you in this madness? I want—”
“Brother!” Georgiana’s voice was quiet but insistent. “Please, hear me.” The earnestness of her plea arrested Darcy’s pacing. “Please,” she repeated, indicating his chair. “It is distressing to me to have displeased you and more so when you tower over me.” Her words, echoing Bingley’s complaint of his ‘towering frown,’ served to check his temper but not assuage it. He curtly bowed his compliance and resumed his seat.
“Fitzwilliam, I can no longer live a life of shapeless idleness,” she began softly. “My music, my books, all that occupied my time were good things and served their purpose, but they are too weak to live upon.”
Darcy shifted back in his chair defensively. “You have had the finest education it was possible to secure for a female of your station. How can you say it is too weak? What can you know, young as you are, to determine such a thing?” he demanded.
“I know myself, Brother, and what I almost did, despite my education and the advantages of my station.” Darcy flinched as her words went home, and quickly looked away. “After Ramsgate,” she continued, “all my illusions were exposed. I saw my life for what it was, a listless, languid void filled with pretty toys. Nothing in it had prepared me against Wickham’s deceptions.”
“If you had had proper supervision—if I had not neglected—”
“Fitzwilliam,” she insisted, “my own wretched heart aided him, filling in words of love where he had left only dangling phrases. Do you see?” She leaned forward, her eyes intent upon him. “I had to know, had to determine the worst of my case and pray that what I discovered would, in the hands of Providence, be turned to my good.” She rose from her chair, only to kneel by him.
“Georgiana!” Alarmed at her posture, he grasped her hands and would have lifted her, but the look of her face deterred him.
“Dear Brother, whether you had been there or no, whether it was Wickham or another, the true danger to me was not from without. It was from within. If for no other reason than this discovery, for the remedy it brought, I thank God for what happened.” She stopped and looked up into his face, searching for his understanding, but he could not give it. He did, though, sense a connection upon which to vent his frustration.
“Is this the reason, then, for these ‘visits’ and that absurd letter to Hinchcliffe? You imagine you must atone for some sort of inner flaw with a surfeit of good deeds?”
“You told him not to disperse the funds?” she asked, withdrawing her hands from his.
“My dear girl, the Society for Returning Young Women to Their Friends in the Country?” He could not prevent the disgust from creeping into his voice and so rose and poured himself more coffee from the buffet. “Wherever did you hear about such females?” he continued over his shoulder. “It is highly improper for a girl of your age even to know of such things, let alone subscribe, and at a hundred pounds per annum! The twenty was more than generous, and that, I think, should be the total of your charity in that direction.” He looked over at her then as he lifted a spoon to stir in the cream, but immediately he put it down again. That look had returned to her face which neither he nor his cousin had been able to remedy.
“Dearest, what is it?” Silently cursing his incautious bluntness, he returned to her side, reaching out to take her into his arms. But she withdrew from his clasp and regarded him fixedly.
“A girl my age, Brother? The Society rescues girls my age and younger, Fitzwilliam.”
“Yes, that is true, Georgiana,” he replied carefully, his brow wrinkled in concern for her, “but it need not trouble you. There are other worthy causes that you—”
“I wish to subscribe to this one particularly.” Her chin had come up although her voice trembled, “because I…Because I might have become one of those girls.”
“Never!” Darcy’s outrage at the idea knew no bounds. “Whatever can you mean by suggesting such an idea!”
Georgiana shook her head. “I believed Wickham, Fitzwilliam! I believed just as those poor girls believe those who entice them into degradation. What if you had not come to Ramsgate? Would I have eloped with him?” Darcy stared at her wordlessly. “I have looked into my heart, Brother, and I confess that, despite your loving care for me, despite what it meant to be a Darcy of Pemberley, I would have gone with him. I was that besotted, that deceived.” She stopped momentarily to catch her breath.
“I would have searched for you, Georgiana”—Darcy leaned toward her, his voice choked with emotion—“and found you. Wickham wanted you both to be found so—”
“Yes, so he could hold my honor for ransom.”
“What do you mean?” Darcy asked sharply.
“When Wickham gave me up so easily, I made inquiries.” As she gathered herself to tell him, Darcy’s heart almost stilled within his chest. “The rector who was to marry us was a stage player. I would have come to him believing myself to be his wife, and then you would have been forced to buy him as my husband.”
A blind rage shook Darcy to his very core. Turning from her, he strode to the window, but the picturesque view did nothing to soothe his roiling emotions.
“Do you see, Fitzwilliam? My situation may have differed in some respects from those of the girls I wish to help, but I had you and they have no one! Let me do what I can!” She came to stand by him at the window. Laying a hand upon his coat sleeve, she continued softly, “And you are wrong about my reasons, dear Brother. I can atone for nothing, and it is for joy of that fact that I do these things and so please Providence.”
The gentleness of her words gripped him, but he could not accept their truth. “When do you wish to go on your ‘visits’?” he asked, his voice almost cracking under the strain of keeping his anger from frightening his sister.
“This afternoon, if it pleases you, Fitzwilliam.” Her smile, so like their mother’s, faded at his next words.
“It does not please me,” he replied ungraciously, “but I and only I shall conduct you on all such excursions in the future, should any more occur. And you will abide by my decisions concerning your safety?”
“Yes, Brother,” she answered in a small voice.
“Very well, then. One o’clock.” He gave her a curt bow and left the room with no thought as to where he was going. The aggressive sound of his stride warned all before him that the master was not best pleased, so the halls were vacant as he moved through them. After a few minutes, the sound of claws tapping against the polished oak floors made an impression upon him, and he looked down to see Trafalgar trotting alongside.
“Well, Monster, to what do I owe the pleasure? Have you enraged Cook again or made a fool of Joseph? Or is there some other deviltry against whose consequences you need my protection?” Trafalgar whined briefly, then pushed his muzzle against Darcy’s hand until he’d gotten it underneath. “Oh, you want to be stroked, is it? Well, come on then.” They seemed to have made their way to his study, so man and beast proceeded inside. Darcy collapsed on the sofa, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Trafalgar scrambled up beside him and laid his great head on his lap. Darcy stared across the room, feeling everything but seeing nothing. What should he do? About which catastrophe? his inner voice asked sarcastically.
“Oh Lord, what a muddle!” He sighed deeply. Trafalgar wormed his muzzle under his hand again, this time giving it a lick as he did so. “No, I have not forgotten you, you great ox!” Darcy began to stroke the hound’s soft head and shoulders. Trafalgar sighed in deep contentment and pushed himself even closer against his master. “Would that all my troubles could be so easily solved.” He looked down into eyes glazed over in ecstasy. “What would you say to a ride in the sleigh to pay calls on the local mongrels?” The hound raised his head and gave Darcy a quizzical stare before yawning wide and dropping his head again. “My thoughts exactly, but if I must go, so must you.”
Apart from the new regime of Georgiana’s “Sunday mercies,” to which he had most unwillingly committed, Darcy found the days before Christmas to be redolent with that season’s traditional good cheer and happy customs. Every servant, from the highest craftsman to the lowliest stable lad, seemed to go about his duties with a lightness to his step and a smile upon his face that testified to their rich anticipation of the Great Day. The news of Pemberley’s return to its customs of the past after observing five years of mourning for the late master had spread well beyond the borders of that estate to envelope those of its neighbors, Lambton village, and even on to Derby. Therefore, it was not uncommon for Darcy to look up from his book or papers to see Reynolds’s cheerful person announcing yet another neighbor waiting to be received in the drawing room or warning that another party had arrived to delight in the decorations of Pemberley’s public rooms.
Although they were still in silent disagreement upon the subject of her visits and charities, Darcy could not but be captured by his sister’s happy contentment as she made preparation for the holidays. Their days were now spent in fond accord as they prepared for their relatives’ visit. In the evenings, the warmly lit music room swelled with duets, Darcy joining his voice to Georgiana’s in song, or his violin to her pianoforte, in music filled with the joy of the season.
Darcy could have called himself well content if it were not for a peculiar disquiet that shadowed his days and haunted his nights. He found it difficult to walk through the rooms of his home, dressed as they were for the holidays and heavy with the scents of greenery and cinnamon, and not be reminded of Christmases past, when his parents were still living. Their shades would tease him at the most unexpected times, causing him to look sharply and, when they had faded, to shake his head in self-reproof. Georgiana did not seem so affected, her younger memories being, he supposed, not so strong or numerous as his own. But the poignant memories of the past were not the sum of his discontent. A persistent thread of restlessness, a feeling of incompleteness invaded most every hour.
In due course, all was made ready for the festivities, and the evening before the expected arrival of their aunt and uncle was upon them. Georgiana quietly practiced her part of a duet they would perform, but Darcy roamed the music room, unable to settle himself into the embrace of any of his usual activities while waiting for his sister to finish. Finally, the music stopped.
“Brother, is something troubling you?” Georgiana’s voice arrested his rambling.
“No, merely restless I suppose”—he sighed—“or anxious that all is well with our uncle’s journey.” He turned back to her and reached for his violin. “Are you ready for me to join you?”
“Restless, Fitzwilliam?” She frowned gently. “If that is so, then you have been ‘restless’ since your return.” Darcy tucked the instrument under his chin and drew the bow across the strings, checking the tuning.
“You are mistaken, I am sure.” He dismissed her concern. “Regardless, it will pass.” He took his position behind her at the pianoforte. “Shall we start at the beginning?”
“Shall we, indeed?” Georgiana replied, placing her hands in her lap and turning to him. “I wish you would start from the beginning, and tell me the truth. What is it, Fitzwilliam, that distracts you so?”
“I beg you to believe me when I say you are mistaken, Georgiana.” He would not meet her gaze but stared steadfastly at the sheet of music behind her. How could he tell her what he did not know?
“I believe that you are lonely and are missing someone,” Georgiana persisted in a soft voice.
“Lonely!” Darcy sputtered, putting away the violin from his chin.
“And I believe that the ‘someone’ is Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” she finished with certainty.
Silence lengthened between them as Darcy stared at his sister, his mind wholly engaged in testing her theory against his emotions. Patting his arm, Georgiana rose from the bench and went over to a table, retrieving a book from which dangled a rainbow of embroidery threads. Opening it carefully, she plucked the knot from between the pages and turned back to him, displaying it in the palm of her small hand.
“This is a rather unusual bookmark for a gentleman, Fitzwilliam.” A knowing smile played about her face. “Unless it is also a keepsake, a treasured token from a special lady.” She advanced upon him and took his hand. Upturning it gently, she laid the knot in his palm. “You gaze off into the air or study a room or look out upon the gardens, covered as they are with snow, and it is as if I am not there. Or rather, as if someone else were. The most interesting expressions cross your face then: sometimes wistful, sometimes stern, and sometimes your eyes speak of such loneliness that I cannot bear to behold it.”
He looked down at the bright threads coiled in his palm; then, hardening his heart, he closed his fingers upon them. “Perhaps you are correct, Georgiana, but you should join with me and pray it is not so, for the lady and her family are so decidedly beneath our own that an alliance is unthinkable. It would be an abasement of the Darcy name, whose honor I am forsworn to uphold in all respects, to make her my wife and the mother of the heir of Pemberley.” His voice choked at the image his own words conjured.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam, it cannot be thus!” Georgiana cried, clutching his arm. “Miss Bennet cannot be so lowborn that both your happinesses must be denied.”
“Not both.” Darcy laughed mirthlessly. “The lady does not look on me with much favor, and if she discovers what—” He stopped short. “She has little reason to change her opinion,” he finished. “Do not paint me into a tragic figure, my dear. I would wear the part quite ill.” He bent and kissed Georgiana’s sweet brow.
“But the token, surely that means something,” she exclaimed.
“Stolen, sweetling!” He tucked the knot into his waistcoat pocket. “She forgot it at Netherfield, and I appropriated it,” he confessed. “You see, it is more pathetic than tragic. Or, mayhap, a comedy; I know not which. I must consult Fletcher,” he mused. “He would know.”
Georgiana looked up into his face, her eyes still troubled. “Do you love her?”
“I hardly know,” he said quietly and paused. “I have little experience with that particular breed of emotion.” He drew her down to the divan. “I know what love is in many of its aspects: love of family, love of home, love of honor. But this tie between a man and a woman…” He paused. “I have seen it in its most sublime form in our parents and, occasionally, in other marriages; but it seems the exception. Men and women routinely profess themselves violently in love, only to disavow the same a month later. Was it love? I suspect not! Infatuation, an incitement to passion by a pretty face or a fashionable address, more like.”
“Then,” Georgiana drew the word out, “do you put down Miss Elizabeth merely as a pretty face who has incited—”
“Here now, my girl.” Darcy shifted uncomfortably, flushing at the import of what his very young sister was about to suggest. “I do no such thing, and anything more on the subject would be most indelicate!” He glanced at her and, noting her dissatisfaction with his forestalling of an answer to her question, continued, “At least, I do not think of her in that way ‘merely,’ as you put it.” He returned her triumphant smile. “I admire her wit, her grace, and her compassion as well. I like the manner in which she looks me in the eye and tells me exactly what she is thinking or wishes me to believe that she is thinking. It is difficult to distinguish the two at times.”
“And you miss her; that much I already knew. Yet, you are not ready to call it love?” Georgiana prodded him.
“I dare not and will not,” he replied firmly. “To what purpose?” he answered her small cry of dissent. “I have explained to you all the reasons why, for both Elizabeth and me, such a declaration would be profitless!”
“But would you,” Georgiana persisted, “before God, be well content to cleave only to her?”
Darcy’s eyes widened at her forthright question, but soon the sight of her earnest face was replaced by images of his own weaving, images that he’d tried to put aside but could not. Well content? His hand went to his waistcoat pocket and drew out the knotted silken threads. Fingering them, he counted them off: three green, two yellow, and one each of blue, rose, and lavender, bound in a most cunningly shaped knot.
If her beautiful eyes were to look at him, in truth, in the way he’d imagined…He almost allowed himself to drift with the thought but was brought back to reality when the image before him changed to a very different one.
“Bingley!” he groaned, startling his sister.
“Mr. Bingley?” repeated Georgiana, recalling him to his surroundings. “Does Mr. Bingley love Elizabeth too?”
“No, he does not,” Darcy returned adamantly. “But he does play a material part in this puzzle, which I am not free to divulge.” Anticipating her, he continued, “And no, Elizabeth does not fancy herself in love with him. With that you must be satisfied, and I, my dear, must find what contentment I may in another quarter, regardless of my inclinations.” He tucked the strands back into his pocket and rose from the divan. “Now, shall we practice this duet?” He held out his hand to her, and she gratefully took it. Guiding her to the pianoforte, he pushed the bench in closer for her and retrieved his violin.
“Fitzwilliam, would you object if I made this a matter of prayer?” Georgiana’s compassionate care for him touched him deeply, and although he could not understand this new turn in her life, he was not immune from the love with which it was expressed.
“No, dearest, no objection at all.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “Mortal men are notoriously ill equipped for managing affairs centered in the heart.” He straightened then and tucked the violin once more beneath his chin before adding, “But I would be remiss if I did not remind you that we do not live in the age of miracles, and it would take no less to sort out this tangle.”
“Richard, by Heaven, it is good to see you!” Darcy grasped his cousin’s hand and pulled him forward into Pemberley’s hall and out of the snow-laden air. “The journey, was it terrible? How is my aunt?”
“Well enough, Fitzwilliam, to answer for herself,” came the reply from behind the Colonel’s voluminous greatcoat. “Yes, it was terrible; journeys this time of year usually are.” Lady Matlock’s austere countenance finally appeared from behind her son’s shoulder. “But that does not mean we are sorry to have come. Christmas at Pemberley is worth whatever trouble the weather can conjure.” Darcy stepped to her, bowed over her hand, and then bestowed a salute upon his aunt’s upturned cheek. “There, my dear,” she returned warmly. “It is wonderful to see you again. Your uncle and I have not seen you this age.” His aunt pulled at the ribbons of her bonnet and gracefully deposited it in the waiting arms of one of the army of servants hurrying to unload the carriages and wagons that had transported the Earl’s family and servants.
“I was in the country, ma’am,” Darcy replied, “visiting the newly acquired estate of a friend.”
“And the hunting was good,” his aunt supplied for him as she pulled off her gloves. “Yes, yes, I have often heard that story.”
“Just so.” Darcy smiled back and turned to greet his uncle. “Welcome, my Lord.”
“Darcy!” The Earl of Matlock and the master of Pemberley exchanged proper bows before his uncle clasped his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Your aunt is correct.” He turned slightly in his wife’s direction. “As you usually are, my dear.” She curtsied in reply to this astonishing admission as His Lordship turned a keen eye back upon his sister’s son. “We have not had the pleasure of seeing you the greater part of this fall. Now, if it is true that good hunting has kept you from us, then as head of the family I shall insist upon the right to know the whereabouts of this paradise.”
“In due time, Pater,” interrupted his younger son. “Brrrr! It is as cold as a witch’s…ah, nose out there! Fitz! Anything inside to warm a fellow’s blood? My brother could use something bracing about now, eh, Alex?”
Lord Alexander Fitzwilliam, Viscount D’Arcy, cast his brother a withering look before making his bow to his cousin. “Pay no attention to him, Darcy. We sent the puppy into the Army, and he still has not learnt to behave as a gentleman.”
“And here I was only looking out for your best interests, Brother!”
“Richard, do not make me the excuse for your bad manners!” D’Arcy glowered back.
“As you can see, Fitzwilliam, your cousins still cannot be in the same carriage for above a half hour without quarreling as they did when they were children.” Lady Matlock turned a severe countenance upon sons who quite towered over her. “But where is Georgiana?”
Darcy offered his arm to his aunt. “She awaits us in the Yellow Salon, ma’am, among the multitude of dishes she deemed appropriate for your welcome.” He looked back over his shoulder to his cousins and uncle adding, “Including some ‘bracing’ teas and coffees, which, should it be desired, I shall be pleased to supplement with even stronger fare.”
Upon his hearing the last, the Colonel’s countenance underwent a glorious transformation. “Lead on then, Fitz! Must not keep my cousin waiting!” Darcy laughed and escorted his aunt and relatives up the stairs. They entered a room painted in the palest of lemon and edged with a creamy white plaster wainscoting artfully shaped in the form of twining ivy vines and roses. The hearth’s mantel was also faced in the same manner, the sides rising to enclose a magnificent mirror, which caught and reflected the airiness of the room and the delicate chandeliers of gold and crystal. Designed by the late Lady Ann, the Salon had the happy capacity to project warmth in cold seasons and refreshing coolness in summer and thus was one of the favorite gathering places in the house. Dressed as it was for Christmas, its effect on the visitors was immediate, and as Georgiana came forward to greet her family, she appeared an angel amid the festive reminders of the season.
“My dear, dear, child!” exclaimed Lady Matlock before Georgiana had even risen from her curtsy. “What magic is this! You have grown into a young woman while your brother has buried you in the country!” She dropped Darcy’s arm and went to her niece. Gathering her niece’s hands in her own, she turned to her nephew. “Fitzwilliam, why has your sister not been in London?”
“Ma’am!” Darcy protested. “She is but sixteen years old.”
“Sixteen! Only sixteen! Well, there it is; but it must not continue so. It is not good for a young lady to know nothing of London and Society before her first Season. Whatever can you have been thinking, Fitzwilliam?”
“Aunt, please…you must not be cross with my brother,” Georgiana hastily intervened. “It was my own desire to stay quietly at Pemberley.” She smiled into her aunt’s disapproving eyes. “But he has kindly insisted I accompany him back to London after Christmas.”
“As well he should, my dear.” Lady Matlock bestowed a rueful smile upon her nephew. “I should not wonder you have had little time or opportunity to chaperone a young girl at your age, Darcy, and keep after your cousin.”
“Mater!” objected Fitzwilliam.
Lady Matlock ignored her younger son. “You shall bring her to me when His Lordship and I return to Town. She must be introduced to D’Arcy’s fiancée as soon as possible.”
The response of brother and sister to her announcement was all the lady could have wished. “Fiancée?” Darcy and Georgiana exclaimed in unison as they rounded on their cousin, who received their congratulations with a stiff smile.
“Oh, Alex, how wonderful for you!” Georgiana continued.
“Yes, well…of course, you are right,” D’Arcy replied, then sent his sibling a warning look before adding, “Lady Felicia is all I could wish for in my viscountess.”
“The daughter of His Lordship, the Marquis of Chelmsford,” Lord Matlock interposed, “is unexceptional, a credit to her family and, soon, to ours as well. It is an excellent match.”
Darcy eyed his cousin intently as Alex accepted his hand at the news. Lady Felicia Lowden was, in his experience, all and more than his uncle had praised. She had been, in fact, the toast of the previous Season, celebrated for her beauty, conversation, ancestry, and fortune. Darcy had been one of the favored, escorting her to the opera and several balls, but he had soon apprehended that the lady required more admiration than one man could be expected to bestow. Not a man who aspired to make up one of a court, he had ceded his place to those who were so content, although not without some little regret. Lady Felicia was a prize by all of Society’s strict standards, yet Richard seemed ill at ease with his brother’s success. Mystified by what he saw, Darcy cocked a brow at Fitzwilliam, but he was answered with no more than a quick grimace.
Another time, then, he promised himself and joined his sister in performing the duties of a proper host. The burden of these duties, Darcy found, was light indeed, as before his eyes Georgiana undertook her role as hostess with a shy but determined smile. In truth, his only contributions consisted of offering the crystal decanter of brandy to his male relatives and enjoying their conversation. Occasionally he would sense her eyes upon him, a question expressed in their depths for which he would go to her side. But for the most part, a smile from him was all that she required to buoy her new confidence. Fitzwilliam, Darcy noted, glanced her way repeatedly until his curiosity finally overcame him. With admirable discretion, he worked his way over to the divan where she conversed with his mother and cautiously sat down in a neighboring chair. When at last he rejoined the other members of his sex, it was with the air of a man who had come upon an unexpected enigma.
Darcy’s desire for a private interview with his cousin was fulfilled sooner than he had expected when, the following morning during his usually solitary breakfast, Fitzwilliam’s face appeared over his newspaper. “Richard! Rather early for you, is it not?” Darcy lowered his paper and indicated the steaming dishes on the side-board, adding, “Pray, avail yourself,” before returning to his newspaper as Fitzwilliam shambled to the board. His cousin proceeded to pour himself a cup from Darcy’s strong personal blend and, snatching a sweet roll from a delicate basket of bone china, joined him, falling into the chair at his right with a yawn and a sigh.
“Rest is vouchsafed only to the just, I believe,” Darcy commented dryly after Fitzwilliam’s third yawn. He folded his paper and laid it aside as the Colonel shot him a killing look over his coffee cup.
“Which, I take you to mean, I am not,” he returned wryly. “In that you may be correct, at least when it comes to my brother. I ever did enjoy bedeviling him.” He leaned back into his chair in philosophic reflection. “It is his perpetual state of aggrieved affrontery, I believe, which excites that less worthy aspect of my character into loosing against him any dart I find at hand.”
“You blame your behavior upon his?” Darcy shook his head reprovingly as he lifted his own cup to his lips. “Richard!”
“Not at all, Fitz! I merely subscribe to the well-known universal that to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. And, as I am certainly Alex’s equal, save his being the elder…” He sat up then, squaring his shoulders in demonstration. “I hold myself justified if not just. It is all a simple matter of physics, Cousin!” The Colonel chewed on his sweet roll in complete satisfaction with his theory, seemingly oblivious to his cousin’s difficulty with his last sip of coffee.
Setting down his cup and reaching for his napkin, Darcy choked out, “Richard, that is sophistic nonsense and—”
“Tell me of Georgiana,” Fitzwilliam interrupted in a voice that was low but lacked nothing of command in its tenor.
Darcy pressed the napkin to his lips, his eyebrows furrowed in perplexity. “I am not sure where to begin, Richard, because I am still puzzled myself.”
“She appeared perfectly at ease yesterday, conversing with my family as gracefully as may be. I could hardly believe it was the same girl who, mere months ago, could not bear to look any higher than my waistcoat buttons.” Fitzwilliam sipped at his coffee meditatively. “What was she like when you arrived back?”
Darcy leaned forward. “At first there was some awkwardness between us, which I mistook as a continuation of her past melancholy, but it is as you say. She is not the same girl, Richard! Certainly not the same since Ramsgate and, I daresay, not the same girl she was before.”
“Did you speak to her about her charitable venture?”
“To be sure.” Darcy rolled his eyes. “She is adamant about it, and, you will be astonished to learn, she has added weekly Sunday visits to the poorer of my tenants.”
“Good God!”
“Precisely,” Darcy agreed. “Can you make any sense of it, Richard?”
His cousin shook his head slowly, “Seems a rather odd start. I have heard of something like, but that cannot be.” In silence, the two sipped at their coffee until finally Richard broke it. “Fitz, Georgiana is dear to me—you know that is true—and her happiness is an object with me scarcely less than it is with you.” He waited for Darcy’s nod of assent before continuing. “I cannot say why or how but I can tell you that from deep in my bones I am sure that Georgiana is truly happy, that the shadow cast by Wickham over her life is gone. My advice to you, old man, is not to question it!”
“Rather the opposite advice given me by her companion!” Darcy mused aloud.
“Companion?”
“Mrs. Annesley,” Darcy returned, “a clergyman’s widow who came to me last summer with impeccable references.” Fitzwilliam shrugged his ignorance. “She visits her sons in Weston-super-Mare for the holidays. It was she advised me to ask Georgiana, but I have not yet dared to do so directly.”
“Well, there you are, Fitz—that explains it! A clergyman’s widow!”
“Perhaps,” Darcy replied, “but she claims not!” He set down his cup, his cousin doing likewise, and both rose to their feet. “So here we are at point non-plus, with neither of us possessed of enough courage to do more about it.”
“Let it rest, Fitz.” Fitzwilliam clapped him on the shoulder. “Mother was entranced with her last night; His Lordship said it was like seeing his sister returned to him. It is Christmas—let it rest!”
“You will continue to observe her…watch over her?” Darcy demanded.
“Here’s my hand on it, Cousin.” Fitzwilliam took Darcy’s hand in a sure grip. “Now, I have a puzzle for you. My door, which I distinctly remember shutting last night, was found open by my man this morning and, Lord help me, but one of my boots has gone missing!”
The words of the collect for Christmas Eve day echoed from the old stone walls of St. Lawrence’s as all who were able of the farms and estates of the region crowded within its holy precinct. The ancient church glowed as the candlelight reflected off silver and gold plate and illuminated the shining woodwork of the rail and chancel, festooned now with holly. The beauty of the sanctuary did not deter most eyes from observing the Darcy pew, which was quite full this day, as His Lordship, the Earl of Matlock, and his family were come with the master of Pemberley and his sister. The presence of His Lordship’s family was the crowning proof to those without the intimacy of Pemberley that the traditional celebrations of Christmas were truly once more inaugurated at that great estate. The whispers and smiling nods of the knowledgeable assured even the humblest present that a gracious welcome, a full stomach, and a few hours of merriment on the eve of the Great Day awaited them.
Darcy stood tall and grave beside his sister as they recited from their prayer books, his gaze alternating between the page and the beauty of the stained-glass windows that flanked the chancel. How many hundreds of times had he been caught up by their drama and richness of color, he could only guess, for they had delighted him from childhood. How often had he sat beside his father, trying manfully not to swing his heels but to “conduct himself as a Darcy,” and the glorious windows had saved him.
Beside him, Georgiana’s voice sounded clearly, and it was this, as well as the peculiar earnestness of her reading, that sharply called Darcy’s attention back from the windows. He looked down at her, but her bonnet prevented him from observing her face.
“…to take our nature upon him, and at this time to be born of a pure virgin…”
Georgiana lifted shining eyes as she recited the collect. Able now to see her face, he followed her gaze to the same windows that were his own delight. He looked back down at her, and the sweetness of her face made him think better of his annoyance with her excess of zeal. It was good he did so, for in the next second, she turned those eyes upon him, a tremulous smile upon her face.
“…ever one God, world without end. Amen.”
“Amen,” they spoke together. Darcy’s smile in answer to his sister’s was of equal parts affection and question. With an almost imperceptible shake of her head, Georgiana composed her features and turned her attention back to her book and the reading from the Epistle for the day, but not before Darcy perceived a certain wistfulness in them. Puzzled anew, he returned to the morning’s text.
“Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice.”
The well-known command from Scripture struck him with sovereign force, and Darcy knew with sudden conviction that beside him stood a very tangible occasion for rejoicing. For, despite his momentary neglect, which had given opportunity for evil, and later his absolute failure to rescue Georgiana from her deep melancholy, she stood beside him now, fair and whole through no agency of his own.
“But in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
He had gotten no further than “the peace of God” before the words of the text rocked him again, this time so forcibly that he lapsed into silence. Renewing his hold upon the prayer book, he brought it closer and retraced the last line. “…the peace of God, which passeth all understanding…” Darcy looked down at Georgiana, but the blasted bonnet concealed her still. Was this what she had been trying to tell him?
The remainder of the service proceeded along familiar, comfortable lines, and soon it was time for the congregation to stand for the final hymn. The words being second nature to him, Darcy laid aside the hymnbook and sang with the rest of the congregants, but a flash of sunlight drew his attention once more to the glory and drama in the stained-glass panels. Their beauty assured him, comforted him that all was indeed well with the world. A small hand crept into the crook of his arm, its warmth and loving pressure more than welcome to him. He dropped his gaze from the windows to Georgiana’s dear face, but the reassuring smile faded from his lips as the realization bore down upon him that its rapt expression was not for him; for her attention, too, was directed upon the chancel windows. No, not upon them…beyond them! he corrected himself, examining the young woman beside him, whom he was no longer sure he knew.
“Ahem.” The sound of Richard pointedly clearing his throat brought Darcy back within the confines of time. “I believe her name is Georgiana Darcy. May I introduce you?”
“What?” Laughing, Georgiana looked up into her cousin’s face and then her brother’s.
“Your brother seems much struck with something,” drawled Fitzwilliam. “If it were I, I would say it is with that very fetching bonnet. But knowing Darcy, he was likely pondering some great question, and you, my dear, were merely in the way of his gaze.” Darcy rewarded his cousin with a brief, freezing glance from beneath lowered brows before stepping into the aisle.
“Oho! A weighty question it must be indeed!” Fitzwilliam persisted. “Now what could it be?”
“Richard, desist!” Darcy commanded him in an undertone.
“Not a question, I think! No, that thunderous frown bespeaks something more warm than philosophy.”
“Philosophy!” D’Arcy exclaimed, joining them in the aisle. “Did I just hear Richard say the words think and philosophy almost in the same breath? Darcy, you must call for the Bishop, for surely a miracle has occurred within these walls. Praise Heaven, my brother has thought!”
“A talent of mine, Alex,” Fitzwilliam retorted. “Surprised you didn’t know, but I am confident Lady Felicia will keep you better informed.” D’Arcy immediately stiffened at the sally, his eyes darting between Darcy and his brother, his jaw locked in an alarming manner.
“Go to the Devil!” D’Arcy hissed at him, and turning sharply from his relatives, he strode down the aisle and out of the church, ignoring the many gestures of respect that those gathered offered him.
Incensed, Darcy turned then upon his remaining cousin and addressed him in a frigid tone. “I will thank you to keep your quarreling private, Richard, and not display it for all the world to see or my sister to overhear.”
Bridling at Darcy’s tone, Fitzwilliam threw back his shoulders, preparing to meet the surprise attack to his flank by heretofore friendly forces, when Georgiana’s large, troubled eyes met his own. “Your pardon, Georgiana.” He flushed guiltily. “I forgot myself—under great provocation I might add.” He glanced at Darcy. Turning back to Georgiana, he added, “But I should not have succumbed so easily to Alex’s goading. I beg your forgiveness, Cousin.”
“You are forgiven freely, Cousin,” Georgiana returned softly, “but I fear Cousin Alex is very distressed, and perhaps it is he whose forgiveness you would do better to seek.”
A gentle smile replaced the scowl on Fitzwilliam’s face, and taking her hand lightly, he bestowed a kiss on her gloved fingertips, confessing, “You are perfectly right, my dear girl, and I will do as you bid. Darcy, you will excuse me, I trust.” He bowed to his cousin and turned his step down the swath his brother had cut to the door.
Brother and sister looked after him a moment and then turned to each other, Darcy offering his arm. Georgiana took it gratefully, and together they strolled to the ancient church doors. “I am astonished at the behavior of our cousins and cannot think how they could so grievously forget themselves in your presence, Georgiana. But I must say, you handled it wonderfully!” Darcy almost laughed. “I have rarely seen Richard brought to contrition in such a short span of time. That was the true miracle!”
“Miracle?” Georgiana dimpled at his praise. “I thank you for the compliment, but whether within these holy walls or without, I cannot take the credit with any degree of complacency.”
“It does you honor that you say so,” Darcy replied quietly. They had left the church and now reached their carriage. Darcy handed her in and climbed in after her. After seeing to his sister’s comfort and giving the coachman the signal to be off, he settled back into the squabs. The carriage pulled forward slowly as James maneuvered the team down Church Hill and through the narrow streets of Lambton. In moments they were crossing the ancient stone bridge over the Ere and tooling along for the gates of Pemberley.
Although Georgiana’s face was turned to the carriage window, Darcy could see the set of her delicate jaw beneath the brim of her bonnet. He watched silently as she worked her way through whatever was disturbing her. Now and then he caught small sighs that he was not meant to hear but that sorely tested his resolve to hold his peace until she should speak.
Finally, she turned back to him, her manner hesitant. “Fitzwilliam, do you recall the words of the collect this morning?”
“Which ones, sweetling?” He regarded her earnestly.
“The prayer for the grace and mercy of our Lord in the course He has given us to run.” Her voice quavered a little, and Darcy could see she was greatly affected.
“Yes, I remember,” he answered simply.
“When you said I had caused Cousin Richard’s contrition, it was not of my doing. It was that—mercy, I mean. The mercy of forgiveness, freely received as it is freely given, was, I am certain, the motivation for his contrition.” She trembled so by the finish of her speech that Darcy removed his carriage robe and added it to hers.
He took her hands then, chafing them between his own. “But, Georgiana, mercy has its own power. It is above the ‘sceptered sway,’ if we are to believe the Bard, and of more effect than a ‘throned monarch.’ It is—”
“—‘Twice blest,’” Georgiana quoted back to him. “‘It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.’ Fitzwilliam, I only gave to Richard what I have received, and even in that, I am as blessed as he.”
Darcy breathed out a heavy sigh and tucked her hands under the carriage robe much as he had done since she was quite a little girl. “I have a question, now, for you. The passage this morning that went, ‘And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding…’ Is that what you have been trying to tell me? That your recovery from…from everything is because…” He could go no further, for he did not have the words.
“Because of the mercy of God?” she supplied for him in tender tones. “Yes, my dear brother, exactly that.” The carriage slowed for the turn in to the lane that led to the gates, but the lessening of the noise of travel did not encourage the two within to further discourse. Instead, each regarded the other in a thoughtful silence that neither had the ability to break.
By the time they had gathered in the hall and Darcy had begged his aunt and uncle to be seated at table for the glorious repast his cook was so proud to offer Pemberley’s guests, it was clear that a repair in the breach between the Earl’s male issue had been effected. The conversation between them and the looks they exchanged bespoke a tolerance each of the other that caught the attention of all of those seated around the table and caused the eyebrow of their good father to hitch ever higher as the meal progressed.
“Darcy, please have the footman bring me a glass of soda and water, for I fear this surfeit of civility will put me quite out of digestion,” His Lordship requested finally, after yet another polite exchange between the brothers.
“Pater!” exclaimed Fitzwilliam. “I should think your digestion would be improved, now that Alex and I have cried ‘truce.’”
“Truce, is it?” His Lordship looked round the table to determine if anyone present believed his younger son’s explanation of this new accord. “D’Arcy, what do you say?”
“It is as Richard says, Your Lordship,” D’Arcy answered readily, taking a sip of wine. “At least for the present.” He set down his glass with a fine precision, a smirk playing upon his lips.
“Then may the present stretch into eternity”—Lady Matlock sighed—“for I have prayed for just such a thing. I sign my name as witness to your truce, Alex.” She regarded him piercingly and then, in a moment, transferred her gaze. “Richard, do you both uphold your terms at least until Epiphany, and I shall have my Christmas present!”
Both of her sons had the grace to flush, but it was Fitzwilliam who rose and took his mother’s hand into his own saying, “It shall be as you wish, Mater. The gentlemen of our family God will rest merry in honor of the season and of you.”
From under lowered lids, Darcy’s glance flitted to his sister for her reaction to the unprecedented scene playing out before them. Unshed tears brightening her eyes, she watched Richard bow over his mother’s hand and bestow a loving kiss upon it. When Alex joined the duo from the other side and leaned down to kiss the lady’s cheek, Georgiana’s eyes closed. Darcy watched as she mouthed silently what he took to be a small prayer of thanks, and the tear that had hovered on the brink of her lashes broke free to trace its solitary way down her cheek. He looked away before she might catch him at his observation.
The meal progressed in such merriment after, that the gentlemen eschewed their brandy and tobacco in favor of the ladies and the entertainment that had been promised. Georgiana rose and went to her aunt, who still much affected by the rapprochement of her sons, took her arm in such a gay manner that the younger lady let fall some of her hard-gained years and executed a skipping step as she led her aunt down the hall.
Darcy watched in some amusement and no little relief his sister’s reversion to girlhood as she and their aunt proceeded to the music room. But rather than follow them or D’Arcy out of the room, he elected to await the pleasure of his uncle. Turning then to inquire of His Lordship’s readiness, he found the peer and his younger son in earnest dialogue, their hands joined in a firm clasp. Quietly leaving the room, Darcy awaited them in the hall, a knot of longing tying up his vitals and leaving him gulping for air. It was still no good. The ache of his father’s loss, five years gone, still would catch him and deliver him such a blow that tears would follow if he did not take himself immediately and forcefully in hand.
Straightening his shoulders, Darcy started for the music room. Returning to Pemberley’s rich Christmas traditions had been both balm and woe to his equanimity. The few times he was not reminded in some way of his past sorrows and his present responsibilities were when the joy of the season caught him up or when he allowed himself to drift into the more immediate past of his disturbing verbal engagements with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He had relived the moments of their dance at the Netherfield ball dozens of times, pressing himself to recall her every word and nuance of manner. Of course, the feel of her hand clasped within his and the sweetness of her lithesome form passing back and forth around him in the patterns of the dance were not forgotten either. Nor was the inexplicable sensation of intimacy caused by a shared prayer book and voices joined in psalms.
These pleasurable and disturbing memories he had found insufficient. It was true, as his sister had surmised, that he had taken to imagining Elizabeth at his side here. Would she enjoy his uncle and aunt? The gardens and park of Pemberley were universally admired, but would Elizabeth find them pleasing? He had even found himself in minute examination of a piece of silverware, wondering if she would find its heavy ornamentation to her taste. And what would she think about this incomprehensible development in his sister? He was sore in need of another’s comfort, he admitted finally, as his fancy brought Elizabeth again beside him, her hand resting upon his arm. He looked down and saw her, her brow cocked at him, a teasing smile upon her lips. Yes, she could cozen him out of this heaviness of spirit. Where would he ever find her like again?
The sounds of feminine laughter and a masculine chuckle broke through his thoughts, and bidding fancy away for the moment, Darcy rounded the corner of the door and joined his relatives. D’Arcy was whispering something in Georgiana’s ear that sent her into renewed giggles, while Lady Matlock looked on in approbation.
“No! You cannot be telling the absolute truth, Alex!”
“Ask my father if you doubt me, Cousin,” D’Arcy replied with a knowing smile, “for your brother will never admit to it.”
“Admit to what, Alex?” Darcy poured himself a glass of wine.
“To running off one Christmas Eve to join the Derbyshire Mummers just before their performance in Lambton.” Darcy winced. “You were ten, I believe, and we were all at St. Lawrence’s for the service when you turned up missing.”
“Brother, it cannot be true!” Georgiana looked at him in wonder.
Darcy nodded slowly as the wine gently awoke his palate. “It is true, but I was only ten; and you may believe that our father impressed upon me the indecorum of such an adventure.”
“But our uncle…?”
“Oh, your father was forced to call upon mine to help extricate your brother from an altercation with some of the younger mummers in which he was rather outnumbered,” D’Arcy supplied happily.
“Alex!” Darcy frowned at his cousin. “This is hardly fit conversation…”
“But it is very interesting!” came Fitzwilliam’s voice from the doorway. “I remember the occasion quite well and cheering you on from the carriage window. Oh, it was a lovely brawl, sir, a lovely brawl!” He raised his glass to Darcy, D’Arcy and His Lordship following suit. “Never let it be said you were not pluck to the bone, Fitz! One against three, wasn’t it?”
Darcy inclined his head. “It was four—and I admit it only for the sake of accuracy.” He turned to Georgiana. “It was an exceedingly foolish thing to do, and I was proud of it only for a very few minutes before Father caused me to see reason.”
“Caused his backside to see reason!” crowed Fitzwilliam. “I distinctly remember you standing for Christmas dinner that year and being devoutly thankful I wasn’t you.”
“Shall we have some music?” Darcy took the opportunity of the lull in the conversation occasioned by all the young men present remembering similar exchanges with their own fathers to change the subject. For the next half hour Darcy and his sister delighted their relatives with the duets they had prepared. Lady Matlock then arranged herself behind the grand harp and played upon the harp strings as well as the heartstrings of her dear relations as she rendered compositions that reminded them of Christmases past and loved ones no longer with them.
When she was done, Fitzwilliam led her from the instrument to her seat and then turned to the rest of his family. “I do not claim any musical talent, nor to have practiced in preparation, but here it is…and join in if you remember the words.” He sat down at the pianoforte and struck a chord.
All hail to the days that merit more praise
Than all the rest of the year,
And welcome the nights that double delights
As well for the poor as the peer!
Good fortune attend each merry man’s friend
That doth but the best that he may,
Forgetting old wrongs with carols and songs
To drive the cold winter away.
Smiles all around attended Fitzwilliam’s contribution to the evening, and his brother, father, and cousin were drawn into it, joining him at the instrument.
‘Tis ill for a mind to anger inclined
To think of small injuries now,
If wrath be to seek, do not lend her your cheek
Nor let her inhabit thy brow.
Cross out of thy books malevolent looks,
Both beauty and youth’s decay,
And wholly consort with mirth and sport
To drive the cold winter away.
This time of the year is spent in good cheer
And neighbors together do meet,
To sit by the fire, with friendly desire,
Each other in love to greet.
Old grudges forgot are put in the pot,
All sorrows aside they lay;
The old and the young doth carol this song,
To drive the cold winter away.
When Christmas’s tide comes in like a bride,
With holly and ivy clad,
Twelve days in the year much mirth and good cheer
In every household is had.
The country guise is then to devise
Some gambols of Christmas play,
Whereat the young men do the best that they can
To drive the cold winter away.
The impromptu quartet bowed profusely to its audience with much laughter and congratulation among its members. But as Darcy looked up from another bow, he seemed to see that nuptial figure about whom he had just sung hovering at the music room door, resplendent in her bride clothes. And the lovely face beneath the twining holly and ivy was Elizabeth’s.
