Her arch behavior seemed to discompose Mr. Darcy that evening. Elizabeth had observed him from the moment he hadarrived with Mr. Bingley. His attire differed markedly from anything she had previously seen him wear, and she could not help but feel pleased by the change. His gold waistcoat bore red embroidery.—and to her surprise, she realized they were perfectly matched in their attire that evening. Even the gold chain and hidden locket complemented both ensembles.
Mr. Darcy had spoken kindly with the Gardiners, another point in his favor. In truth, she had expected him to look down his nose at her relations, as though they were dirt beneath his boots. Instead, he had smiled charmingly and conversed as though they were equals and friends.
If he continues this metamorphosis, I shall not be able to detest him any longer.She no longer disliked him, of that she was certain. But did she like him? That remained unclear. His manner had improved, and nearly every objection she had once held against him was resolved. He no longer appeared proud and above his company, and he spoke with greater ease than ever before.
But that does not excuse his treatment of Mr. Wickham.And he has never apologized tome.The last stung more than she cared to admit, even to herself.
And then he had approached her, and she had responded as she always had, and he had seemed wounded. Guilt pricked her conscience, and she resolved to behave civilly. When Mr. Darcy offered to lead her in to dine, she accepted with grace.
Mama had arranged the seating in her usual, predictable fashion. Jane and Mr. Bingley were placed on either side of Mr. Bennet; Kitty, Lydia, Mary, Mr. Darcy, and she herself occupied the middle of the table; her aunt and uncle Gardiner were situated to the left and right of the mistress’s seat. As the highest-ranking gentleman present, Mr. Darcy ought to have been seated at her mother’s right hand. That place, however, had gone to her uncle. Mrs. Bennet’s deliberate breach in proprietywas obvious, though Elizabeth could not bring herself to object—she did not mind having Mr. Darcy seated beside her in the least.
“I am sorry for my mother,” Elizabeth felt compelled to say as they sat.
“I prefer this seat to the alternative.” His eyes widened in sudden alarm. “That is to say, I am pleased I shall have the opportunity to speak with you. I meant no insult to your mother.” He looked positively panicked, and Elizabeth chuckled.
“I take no offense, sir. My mother is difficult even in the best of situations. If I am a pleasant enough companion and you are satisfied, then I have no complaint and rescind my apologies for her behavior.”
He smiled gratefully and helped her in serving the first course. Everything was done to perfection, and Elizabeth hummed in satisfaction as she partook. “Do you have a favorite dish for Christmas, Mr. Darcy?” she asked.
“Pemberley’s cook makes excellent mince-pies,” he replied. “Plum pudding is another favorite, and I have yet to taste one that surpasses Pemberley’s recipe.”
“Is that a challenge, sir?” Elizabeth affected a look of mock seriousness, hoping he did not mistake her light manner. “Well, you will have to tell me how Longbourn’s dish compares! I will have you know, it is several generations old and has undergone many adjustments to make it what it is.”
“I shall look forward to tasting it.”
The rest of the meal was enjoyed in good cheer, until at last the plum pudding was brought out. Cook set it aflame, and the room erupted in applause. Servings were passed around the table, and once everyone had a plate before them, Mr. Bennet tapped his glass to gain their attention.
“Before we lose ourselves in Longbourn’s greatest delight, I have an announcement. Mr. Bingley has asked for our Jane’s hand in marriage and she has accepted. I have given my blessingto the happy couple. And so, I propose a toast to Mr. Bingley, my first son, and to my dearest Jane, my firstborn treasure. May you have many years of happiness together! And may the rest of us survive the wedding preparations with our sanity intact.”
Everyone laughed and raised a glass, and Elizabeth saw a wistful look cross Mr. Darcy’s features before he drank. He set his glass down and picked up his fork, turning to her with a cheeky grin.
“The test begins, Miss Elizabeth.”
He took a generous forkful of pudding and chewed thoughtfully for a moment before his eyes widened. “Why, this is marvelous! I have never tasted anything so delightful!”
Elizabeth laughed, shaking her head as he took another bite. “I warned you, sir. You must ask Mama for the receipt.”
“I shall do just that. Had I consumed too much wine, I might have called down the table. But alas, I am quite sober, and shall therefore wait until after the meal to compliment your mother and beg for her secret.”
“She may refuse, sir. Fortunately for you, I have it recorded in my commonplace book and can make you a copy should she prove stubborn.” Elizabeth had offered the receipt without thought, knowing full well her mother would not approve. Something within her desired Mr. Darcy’s regard, and he granted her a warm, contented smile in return for her generous offer.
“I shall accept your aid, Miss Elizabeth. I thank you.”
After dinner, they played parlor games. It was late when the gentlemen took their leave and departed for Netherfield. Jane and Elizabeth stood at the window, watching the carriage pull away just as snow began to fall once more. “Happy Christmas, Jane,” she murmured, leaning her head on her sister’s shoulder.
Chapter Seven
December 26, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Elizabethhadretiredtheprevious evening with an unshakable sense of delight blooming in her chest. The events of Christmas Day—the laughter, the warmth, the surprising poetry nestled among traditional festivities—had left her with a curious, pleasant flutter that lingered long after the candle had been snuffed.
Her fingers had lingered upon the delicate gold locket for a time before she had returned it to the velvet-covered jewel case, then carefully wrapped it in a square of linen, and placed it in a small wooden box on the uppermost shelf at the back of her wardrobe. There, it would be safe from prying eyes, from idlecuriosity, and perhaps even from her own impulse to take it out repeatedly.
The accompanying verse—mysterious, clever, and undeniably charming—she had tucked into her journal, concealed beneath the lining of a drawer. She had read it thrice ere sleep claimed her, each time wondering anew the identity of its unknown author.
