“It is a perfect gift,” she murmured to Jane, who was about to return to her own chamber. “Who do you suppose left it in my room? I am certain that is what woke me so early.”
“We shall have to be on alert so we can discover the identity of whomever left it.” With that, Jane departed to dress for the day.
Darcy
Darcy stood before the mirror in his bedchamber, fastening the final button of a waistcoat he rarely wore. The deep gold fabric shimmered in the candlelight, its sheen catching the red embroidery that curled delicately along the edge of the lapels and framed the small brass buttons. It was festive, almost ostentatiously so, by his standards, and certainly not something he would have chosen for himself. But it had been a gift from Georgiana, her eyes full of apprehension when she had first presented it to him two Christmases past. He had thanked her warmly, expressing his affection with a gentle embrace. He had worn it only once before tucking it away, hidden deep within his wardrobe like some artifact too bright for daily life.
Tonight was…deliberate; like the waistcoat, he would no longer remain hidden.
He pulled the lapels taut and adjusted them slowly, brushing away invisible dust. The mirror reflected a man less austere than he normally appeared; still solemn, yes, but touched with something warmer. Christmas warmth, perhaps. Anticipation most likely. Tonight he would see Elizabeth again.
Elizabeth, who had unwittingly upended his ordered world and charmed him without design. Elizabeth, whose laughter danced on the air like sleigh bells. Elizabeth, who would, he hoped, wear his gift this evening.
The locket, a family heirloom once worn by his grandmother and then by his mother, was oval-shaped, etched with an elegant leaf motif, and inset with a diamond surrounded by garnets the color of pomegranate seeds. It was steeped in meaning, timeless in design. Like Elizabeth herself.
He had retrieved it from the safe at Darcy House just days before returning to Netherfield, having resolved, though not without some trepidation, that he would give it to her during the holiday season. The decision had not been made lightly. Nothing about her stirred frivolity in him. He had only needed the opportunity to present it, and fate—or Providence—had provided one. As he composed his new “Twelve Days of Christmas” poem, each verse a token, a gesture, a whisper of courtship, he determined that the locket must be the first gift. Not merely for its value or beauty, but for its meaning. It was an offering of legacy, of inclusion, of remembrance and promise. A lock of his hair, coiled and bound within, was a token of him she could carry next to her heart.
His fingers lingered at the cravat tied neatly beneath his chin. Was it too much? Did the gold fabric of his waistcoat suggest something too foppish? Would Elizabeth think he was trying too hard to impress? Would she even notice his efforts to please her? He sighed.
Brisby, ever-attentive and unruffled by his master’s moments of doubt, stepped forward with unhurried assurance. “You are dressed to advantage, sir,” he said, smoothing the sleeve of Darcy’s coat.
“Thank you,” Darcy replied, his gaze fixed still upon his reflection. “I begin to fear I resemble a gilded peacock,” he added dryly, but Brisby only chuckled and handed him the coat.
“You will outshine the greenery and decorations at Longbourn,” Brisby quipped.
Darcy allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward. “Let us pray not.”
And yet he wished Elizabeth would notice—if not the waistcoat, then the sentiment behind the locket. He had written a short verse to accompany it, unsigned but unmistakably personal, delivered with the rest of the small gifts that had been dispatched in secrecy the night before. He imagined her reading it, her look intent, head tilted just slightly, her lips pursed in that way she did when she was puzzled—or perhaps when she was amused. Would she know? Would she guess?
Given her…uncertain feelings toward him, Darcy suspected she might be slow to connect the verses to their author. But that was well. He would have patience in his pursuit. The usual superficial flirtations of society had never held his attention, and any previous courtship he had considered had been perfunctory. But not this. Elizabeth was not a passing fancy. She was a flame that demanded steady tending.
He would woo her as best he could. Thoughtfully. Subtly. Honestly. Conversation would be his opening. He longed to engage her in one of their spirited discussions, to let their minds meet and twine and clash as they had before. And if fortune smiled upon him, perhaps that connection could deepen into something more intimate, more enduring.
“Mr. Bingley will be waiting in the library,” Brisby said, stepping back after a final adjustment to Darcy’s collar.
Darcy nodded and retrieved his gloves. As he paused at the door, he turned once more to Brisby. “Do not wait up. You haveearned an evening’s rest. I shall manage well enough on my own upon our return.”
The valet blinked, surprised but grateful, and bowed low. “Thank you, sir. Happy Christmas.”
Darcy stepped out into the hall, heart steadying with every step he took toward the evening ahead. Let the soiree begin. Let the music play. Let Elizabeth wear her garnet cross—and may she place the locket beside it, not merely for its beauty, but for what it represented.
A beginning.
Chapter Six
December 25, 1811
Longbourn
Darcy
ThejourneytoLongbournwas a short one. Darcy knew every turn in the dark, every bump and rut in the road. Bingley, animated with excitement, had proposed to Miss Bennet the previous evening, and now rambled on about his intention to speak to Mr. Bennet before they would be called to dine. Darcy listened with only half an ear, his thoughts fretting over how Elizabeth might receive him.
Upon their arrival, they were shown into the drawing room. Darcy’s gaze found Elizabeth at once. She sat beside Miss Bennet on the settee, the muted glow of gold muslin lending a festive air to her attire. She was breathtaking. He looked for the locket, but saw only the chain, and realized the jeweled piece lay concealedbeneath the modest neckline of her gown.Why is she hiding it?A quick glance around the room offered the answer. Surely, she wished to avoid questions from the other guests. He did not recognizethe fashionably dressed lady and gentleman who completed the party.
“Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy! Welcome!” cried Mrs. Bennet as she bustled forward.
“Good evening, ma’am,” Bingley replied.
