She draped one of the shawls across her shoulders, a gentle silver-gray that would enhance the blue of a gown she much favored. The fabric slipped like water over her skin, light yet comforting, a shield against winter’s bite.
She stepped before the looking glass, the shawl cascading in graceful folds, framing her figure with refined elegance. The thought of Darcy—of the man she suspected had chosen each gift so thoughtfully—filled her with a strange warmth that had little to do with wool.
“What a quiz,” she murmured, “to send such treasures and yet remain so hidden.” He had implied the night before that it was he. Why did he not speak? Surely he must know his efforts had borne fruit.
For a moment, she allowed herself to picture the shawls at the social gatherings to come—the rustle of silk, the murmur of admiration, the inevitable whisper of envy that attends a lady well-dressed. But more than vanity, the gifts made her feel seen, not merely as a gentlewoman, but as one worth cherishing.
I love him,Elizabeth realized, standing beside the table with a shawl gathered in her hands. As she folded them back into the bandbox, a tender hope took root within her. Perhaps this Christmastide promised more than just gifts and rhymes. Perhaps the dream with which she had awakened was a pledge, and the gentleman behind these tokens was prepared to reveal himself in the waking world.
She lifted the box and carried it to the window, where the frost-lined drive without echoed the imagery of the verse. A wistful smile played about her lips as she whispered, “Thank you, whoever you are.” In her heart she saw Darcy’s face, wreathed in gentle affection. Some sly-boots indeed, to hide himself thus, and yet contrive to be so generous.
It must be you…it simply must be you. No other will do, for my heart is now irrevocably tied to you.
Outside, the first pale rays of morning touched the rooftops of Hertfordshire, promising a day of new possibilities, and perhaps the beginning of a new chapter in her story. She had never been in love. This day was as fitting a beginning as she could desire.
The scent of tea and fresh bread lured Elizabeth below, her thoughts still fluttering like snowflakes from the dream she had left behind. Darcy’s voice—so tender, so unguarded—had remained with her as she stirred from slumber. Even now, shecould almost hear the whispered confession:I love you. I am your secret admirer.
She gave a small shake of her head and pressed her hand to her lips as she entered the breakfast room. The air held a crisp chill, the fire not yet having fully warmed the space. A hush lay upon the house, broken only by the occasional clink of crockery. Elizabeth took her chair and buttered a warm scone.
Moments later, Jane entered, her cheeks warmed by sleep and her eyes alight with curiosity.
“I overslept.” She leaned near. “What did he leave you today?”
Elizabeth bit her lip to contain a smile. “A bandbox,” she whispered. “But no hats. Nine shawls. Exquisite ones.”
Jane gave a warm and easy laugh. “He grows ever more extravagant.”
Mrs. Bennet’s sudden exclamation broke their tempered merriment. “What are you two whispering about? Wedding details, I presume! Jane, my dear, you must set a date soon. It is not seemly to keep a gentleman waiting.”
Jane demurred, mild as ever. “I shall speak to Charles this afternoon, Mama.”
Before her mother could press further, Mr. Bennet lowered his paper. “Leave the girl be, Mrs. Bennet. You only experience the blush of first love once. Let her revel in it.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a girlish giggle and colored, casting a coy glance at her husband. Elizabeth observed their exchange with wry amusement, recognizing beneath the playful sparring the deep—if at times bewildering—affection they bore each other.
The peace was soon broken by the boisterous arrival of Lydia and Kitty, who swept into the room like a pair of windblown leaves.
“Have we received any invitations for Twelfth Night?” Lydia demanded, her bonnet askew and her countenance bright with anticipation.
Mrs. Bennet answered briskly, “The Longs are to host a dinner party this evening. It is their turn, after all.”
Elizabeth, sipping her tea, let her mind drift. She recalled a time, years before, when Sir William Lucas, newly knighted, had taken to holding such splendid Twelfth Night assemblies that others in the neighborhood felt compelled to compete. The divisions that followed had caused no small measure of ill-will. At last, in an effort to preserve civility, the families agreed to rotate the duty of host. It restored peace—though Kitty still lamented.
“I wish it were Longbourn’s turn,” Kitty said wistfully.
“I, for one,” said Mr. Bennet dryly, “am grateful we have a few years yet to wait. Longbourn crammed with merrymakers is a trial I shall gladly defer.”
Breakfast concluded, the sisters withdrew upstairs. Elizabeth led Jane to her chamber, and with a conspiratorial smile, opened her wardrobe.
“Look,” she said, drawing forth the shawl she had chosen; the soft weave from Kashmir, pale silver threaded with lavender, shimmered in the morning light.
Jane’s eyes widened. “How beautiful! And so fine—he must have spent a fortune.”
Mary entered then, shutting the door behind her before joining her sisters. Her gaze lit upon the shawl, and even she could not restrain an exclamation, “Oh!”
“There are nine. Each lovelier than the last.” Wonder threaded through her words, as though the gifts were less fabric than tokens of an affection she scarcely dared confess.
Mary ran her hand over the delicate fabric. “The embroidery is exquisite.”
