"Yes," Richard chimed in, sensing the intensity. "A tune with a chorus. I have a surprisingly good baritone that I feel is being underutilized."
The tension broke. Elizabeth launched into "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen," and soon the whole room was singing. Darcy stood next to Elizabeth, turning the pages for her, adding his own deepvoice to the mix.
At one point, her hand brushed his as she turned a page. She didn't pull away. She leaned into him slightly, her shoulder pressing against his arm.
It was a small gesture. But in the language of the evening, it was a shout.I am here. I am with you.
As the evening wound down, the group fragmented again. Robert and Miss Bennet were engaged in low conversation near the window. Richard was teaching Mr Gardiner a card trick.
Georgiana, flushed with her musical success, hesitated, then walked over to the armchair where Mrs Gardiner was resting.
"Mrs Gardiner?" she asked softly.
"Miss Darcy," Mrs Gardiner smiled, moving her skirts to make room on the ottoman beside her. "Sit with me, my dear. You played beautifully."
"Thank you." Georgiana sat, twisting her fingers in her lap. "You mentioned that you knew my mother. Lady Anne."
"I did. Though I was very young, and she was already the great lady of Pemberley."
"William tells me stories," Georgiana said. "But he is a man. He remembers different things. He remembers her dignity. Her management of the estate." She looked up, her eyes hungry. "Do you remember... was she happy? Was she kind?"
Mrs Gardiner's face softened. She reached out and covered Georgiana's hand. "She was very kind, Miss Darcy. I remember her laugh. It was surprisingly loud for a lady of her station. I remember once, at the village assembly in Lambton, it began raining during the outdoor fête. Everyone ran for cover, but Lady Anne just stood there and laughed and let the rain ruinher bonnet. She said flowers needed rain to grow, and so did women."
Georgiana's eyes filled with tears. "I never heard that story."
"She loved your father very much," Mrs Gardiner continued. "And she loved her son. She used to walk him into the village, holding his hand, explaining the names of the birds to him. She was... maternal. In a way that many women of her rank are not."
"I wish I remembered her better," Georgiana whispered. "I was so small when she died."
"She is in you," Mrs Gardiner said firmly. "I see her in your eyes. And in your music. She played, you know. There were rumours that Mozart was her favourite."
"He is mine too," Georgiana gasped.
From across the room, Darcy watched them. He saw his sister, who had no mother to guide her, leaning towards Mrs Gardiner like a flower to the sun. He saw the gentle way Mrs Gardiner spoke to her, the way she offered comfort without condescension.
"She is happy," Elizabeth said softly, settling beside him.
"She needs this," Darcy murmured. "She needs female guidance. Of the right sort. Not Caroline Bingley's sort. Not Lady Catherine's sort. Not even Lady Matlock's sort."
"My aunt is the best sort," Elizabeth said proudly.
"She is." Darcy turned to her and squeezed her hand. "Your family, Elizabeth... they are extraordinary."
"They are loud. And occasionally embarrassing. And my uncle sells rum."
"They are warm," Darcy corrected. "And honest. They have made my sister smile more in two hours than she has insix months." He looked deep into her eyes. "I do not care about the rum. I do not care about Cheapside. I care that they are yours."
Elizabeth's breath caught. "Fitzwilliam..."
The clock on the mantle chimed ten. The Christmas Day was ending. But as the carriages were called and the farewells were said, there was no sadness in the departure.
There was only the solid, unshakeable knowledge that the lines had been drawn, the alliances forged, and the hearts pledged.
Chapter Twelve: The St Stephen's Day Dash
St Stephen's Day dawned over London with a sky the colour of a bruised plum and a temperature that suggested the sun had simply given up and gone to the Mediterranean.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, however, was awake, dressed, and possessed of a clarity that was almost frightening. He stood on the doorstep of Matlock House at seven o'clock in the morning, banging the brass knocker with a rhythmic violence that startled the pigeons in the square.
