“Are there to be any more parties?” The question escaped him in haste, a desperate effort to divert his thoughts before he laid his heart bare.
“Only one,” Elizabeth replied. “The Longs are hosting the gathering this year. Have I told you how the four-and-twenty families nearly came to blows over the vaunted Twelfth Night celebration?”
Darcy’s eyes lit with curiosity. “No, I do not believe you have.”
“You know, of course, that the festive season brings an unusual number of gatherings to our part of the country. Mr. Bingley once remarked it rather resembled town, in its own modest way. Many years ago, when Sir William was newly knighted and eager to display his consequence, he hosted the most extravagant Twelfth Night soiree Meryton had ever seen. The following year, the Gouldings, determined not to be outdone, planned a celebration to rival the Lucases’.
“Unfortunately, they were not alone in their ambition. No fewer than five families scheduled grand affairs for the very same evening, leaving the neighborhood in a quandary. How was one to choose? If Mrs. Long attended Lucas Lodge, shewould offend her dear friend Mrs. Goulding, and if she favored the Gouldings, then the Miss Searles would certainly take umbrage. It was a social dilemma of the highest order.”
Elizabeth paused, a spark of mischief lighting her eyes. “Naturally, no hostess could be prevailed upon to change her date. It was my father who proposed a solution. His voice, as I recall, was uncommonly grave when he said, ‘Why do we not take turns? There are eleven other days in the Christmas season upon which to entertain, are there not?’”
She adopted his dry tone to perfection, and Darcy grinned, already anticipating the jest.
“The suggestion was agreed upon, and the only remaining dispute was how to determine the order. My father, ever the generous man, offered that Longbourn should host last. Sir William, having already had his moment of glory the previous year, accepted the second-to-last place.”
She spoke dryly. “Though I suspect my father’s true motivation had less to do with neighborly consideration and more to do with reducing the number of times he must endure a drawing room full of guests in December.”
Darcy laughed, thoroughly entertained. “Your father’s wit astonishes me once more. Tell me, was your mother very disappointed?”
“Oh, indeed, she was.” Elizabeth grimaced. “We hear her complaints every year, except when it is Longbourn’s turn to entertain. It has not curbed her delight in the activity, however, and as you may have noticed, my father’s estate hosts a great many gatherings during the winter months. My mother claims there is nothing better to do, and so my father bears it as best he can.”
“My mother was fond of entertaining,” Darcy said, the words slipping out unbidden, carried on a breath of memory.
He rarely spoke of her. Even with Georgiana, the subject was broached with care and only in passing. The memories were too vivid, both beautiful and sharp-edged, and they had a way of carving into his heart before he could brace for it.
“I do not believe we have ever spoken of your mother.” Her look was open, curious, but not intrusive. “Will you tell me of her?”
Darcy hesitated. His first instinct was to retreat behind reserve, to tuck away the ache and redirect the conversation. But there was something in her ardent violet eyes—gentle, unyielding—that made him feel as though he could not lie. Not by omission, not to her.
“My mother was…” He paused, unsure where to begin. “There are no words that quite do her justice. Georgiana resembles her physically; so much so that there is a portrait hanging at Pemberley, painted shortly after my mother’s come out, which might as well be of my sister. But that is where their likeness ends.”
He shifted slightly on the log, wincing at its cold firmness. The discomfort was oddly grounding.
“Lady Anne Darcy thrived in society. She was not bold, not loud, but she possessed a vibrancy…a way of making others feel at ease. I have heard stories of the balls at Darcy House and the summer parties at Pemberley—rooms filled with music, light, and laughter. My father adored her. We all did.”
He paused, then spoke more softly, his voice shaded with pain. “Looking back, I believe she entertained in part to distract herself. From sorrow.” His eyes fixed on the horizon. “Georgiana is more than ten years my junior. At the time, I knew only that she came late—an unexpected blessing, we said. But later, I learned the truth. My mother lost several children between our births.”
Elizabeth’s hand entered his sight, resting gently on his arm.
“My mama lost a child,” she murmured. “A little boy. I was very young. I can scarcely remember more than a few hushed conversations. It was before Lydia was born.”
Darcy turned toward her, her touch warming him more than any hearth. “I can imagine the devastation,” he replied in a voice rough with empathy. He did not dare stir, lest she withdraw her hand. “A son to break the entail…”
She nodded, her fingers slipping away, and he felt the loss at once; his arm chilled not from the wind, but from the absence of her comfort.
“Yes. It was then she truly began to suffer her fits of nerves. Lydia’s birth brought some joy, but she never wholly recovered from the loss of her son.”
Darcy remained silent, absorbing the shared grief—the symmetry of their families’ private sorrows. It was a strange solace to speak without reserve, to be understood without the need for explanation.
“The Bennet family is filled with secrets.”
“That it is.”
Then, after a pause, her eyes glimmered with mischief. “But I can promise you, sir, our secrets are not of the scandalous sort. I have no relations who have run off to join a traveling theater.”
Darcy laughed, full and unguarded, and she joined him, their merriment mingling easily in the crisp winter air. There was comfort in laughter after sorrow—an unspoken acknowledgment that life, despite its losses, must go on.
They turned together to look across the fields, gilded by the sinking sun, the sky above brushed with strokes of amber and lavender. A tranquil silence settled between them.
