The gloves, of course, he did not expect to see. That particular gift was meant for the evening; it suited an elegant affair, a ball or concert perhaps. She would not display them now, and so he must content himself with the knowledge that they were hers.
Darcy had orchestrated their delivery with care. Brisby had engaged a local lad from Meryton to carry the parcels—one entirely unknown to the staff at Longbourn. The boy, it turned out, had formed an attachment to one of the upstairs maids, and had persuaded her to assist him. Between the two of them, they had devised a reliable scheme. A shilling each per delivery was a princely sum to them, and Darcy had no doubt they would maintain the secrecy required for continued payment. Still, he remained ever mindful of discovery, and though he found the intrigue invigorating, he was not unburdened by it.
Upon entering the drawing room, his eyes found Elizabeth at once. She stood near the pianoforte, speaking with Mrs. Gardiner, and her smile—easy, bright—struck him with renewed force. His gaze, ever drawn to her, slipped to her throat. There, against her skin, lay the familiar garnet cross. Yet something else caught his notice—a second, finer chain nestled just beneath it, partly obscured by the modest neckline of her gown. She wore the locket.
Relief washed over him, mingled with something far warmer. She had deemed it worthy of wear—perhaps more than worthy. He observed how her fingers strayed to the chain now and again as she conversed, brushing it with unconscious familiarity. He longed to see the locket in full view—to admire how it rested against her skin, to witness her wearing it not as a trinket, but as a token of sentiment.
Darcy busied himself as best he could. He conversed with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, estimable people whose intelligence and manners would set them apart in nearly any company. He had come to admire them greatly over their short acquaintance, finding their gentle warmth a balm against the harsher tones of country society. Mr. Bennet, too, claimed his attention. They engaged in a lively game of chess before the fire, and to Darcy’s surprise, the older gentleman proved a formidable opponent.
Darcy won by a narrow margin, but it was by no means an easy victory.
“I shall demand a rematch next time you come, sir,” Mr. Bennet declared, a twinkle in his eye and the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. His tone was a curious mix of solemnity and teasing: a blend Darcy had come to recognize as the elder Bennet’s particular form of approval.
“You have my word,” Darcy replied with sincerity. “It has been some time since I was made to concentrate so thoroughly on a game. Thank you.”
“Then there is chance of my victory yet!” Mr. Bennet chuckled, pleased with himself, and shuffled off to his study in search of a particular volume he claimed wouldsettle an argument with himself.
With Mr. Bennet gone and the room’s energy mellowing, Darcy allowed himself to wish for a moment with Elizabeth. He turned, meaning to seek her out, but she was gone. Miss Lucas had drawn her aside, it seemed, to discuss somethingdomestic, and before she could return, Mrs. Bennet intercepted her to inquire after the household linens. When that matter was settled, the Gardiners had questions about a letter from London, and then Miss Kitty experienced a small mishap with her embroidery that required Elizabeth’s patient hands.
Each time Darcy believed he might speak to her alone, another diversion arose.
It was maddening. He had imagined, foolishly, that their recent improvement in understanding might yield further opportunity for conversation. Instead, he was forced to admire her from afar, his expectations diminishing with each missed chance.
By the time he and Bingley made their farewells, Darcy’s mood had darkened considerably. He masked it well, of course—his expression ever calm, his words measured—but inwardly, he simmered with frustration. Elizabeth had been gracious, kind, even attentive when they exchanged pleasantries; yet the moments were fleeting, the glances brief. He had offered her a piece of his family, of his heart, and though she wore it close, she did not yet know it had come from him, or that it carried the weight of his heart.
There will be another chance, he told himself as they stepped into the waiting carriage. He had not come this far to be disheartened by a single unremarkable afternoon.
And with little else to occupy his mind once they returned to Netherfield, he set to work composing the third day of Christmas for Elizabeth, determined that the next gift would speak louder than the last.
Chapter Eight
December 27, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Elizabethhadbarelysleptthe night before, tossing and turning into the early hours. Throughout the evening, she had drifted about the room, speaking with her aunt and uncle, turning pages for Mary on the pianoforte, and singing carols with Jane and Mr. Bingley. Mr. Darcy had occupied himself with others, a fact that left her unaccountably frustrated.Why do I care?she mused, annoyed with herself.He is nothing to me. He canbenothing to me.Still, her gaze sought him often, and she observed his manner with a critical eye.
At every moment, she expected him to revert to the proud, haughty gentleman he had been in the autumn; yet instead, he continued to improve. Even Mrs. Bennet no longer sniffedin disdain whenever he entered the room. Gone was the distant, arrogant Mr. Darcy, and in his place stood an affable, gentlemanly—if reserved—man whom Elizabeth could almost admire. More and more, she found herself contemplating him, wondering if her conflicted feelings might ever be untangled into something comprehensible.
Mr. Bingley called often upon his betrothed, affording Elizabeth many opportunities to sketch Mr. Darcy’s true character. Yet the question remained unanswered: which version of that unfathomable gentleman was his genuine self?No matter,she told herself as she stretched that morning, the conundrum the first conscious thought in her mind.I shall continue my assessment and know the answer soon enough.
Blinking sleepily, she repeated the same ritual she had followed each morning of late, reaching for her dressing gown and tying the sash at her waist. Elizabeth slipped her feet into a pair of slippers and shivered as she crept to her chair. There, upon the small table, lay the expected package. She untied the twine and removed the brown paper, tossing it into the fire. A familiar velvet box lay within. She opened it and found another scrap of paper, a single stanza written upon it.
On the third day of Christmas,
Wisdom and beauty combine,
Three pearl combs
To grace thy locks so fine.
Nestled within the box were three pearl combs. Two matched in size, suited for evenings out; the third was smaller, perfect for wear at home. The pearls were set in silver, each piece polished so finely that Elizabeth could see her reflection upon its surface.They were as lovely as the previous gifts, and she touched them reverently, wondering who could admire her so deeply.
It iscertainlynot Mr. Wickham,she stubbornly had to admit once more. To her surprise, she felt relief rather than disappointment. A sudden restlessness came over her, and she snapped the jewel box shut before rising to hide it in her wardrobe.
With the gift safely tucked away, she quickly dressed in a walking gown and donned her pelisse and gloves. Though she fetched her bonnet, she did not wear it; she only looped the ribbons around her fingers as she stepped out of the house toward the path that led to Oakham Mount. The day promised to be bitter, but she craved the clarity of mind that walking often afforded. Flattered as she was to be the object of such attentions, she disliked not knowing who attempted to woo her.
