The plans for Christmas were described with quiet enthusiasm rather than command: greenery from the estate, pudding prepared under her own supervision, fine teas and wines for long evenings by the fire. There would be a modest assembly so that Georgiana might enjoy suitable company, and a charity dinner for the tenants on St. Stephen’s Day, as Lady Catherine believed firmly that festivity and responsibility must go hand in hand.
Even Mr Collins’s absence was framed kindly. She had granted him leave to visit family in Hertfordshire, approving his desire to strengthen familial bonds. Darcy suspected she was genuinely pleased for him.
When he finished the letter, Darcy folded it carefully and set it aside, his expression thoughtful. He had no immediate answer to give—not from reluctance, but from uncertainty. He had intended to return to Pemberley for Christmas, and Bingley had pressed him to remain as long as he wished at Netherfield. Lady Catherine’s invitation was sincere, generous, and clearly offered in affection. He would not dismiss it lightly.
He reached next for Georgiana’s letter.
Her hand was neat, familiar, but the tone unsettled him almost at once. She assured him—earnestly—that all was well at Pemberley, though she admitted the house felt very quiet now, the absence of familiar movement keenly felt. Mrs Annesley, she wrote, was kind and attentive, diligent inher lessons and careful of her health. Georgiana insisted she had no cause for complaint, repeating the sentiment with a firmness that suggested she feared being doubted.
She asked after Netherfield with gentle curiosity—whether he was comfortable, whether the house suited him—and then, faltering, inquired after Miss Bingley’s behaviour. The apology followed immediately, anxious and heartfelt, as though Georgiana feared she had spoken out of turn. Darcy’s brow furrowed. His sister had never before written to him with such hesitation.
She mentioned Richard next, hopeful that he might soon arrive, remarking how pleasant that would be. Then came the pianoforte. Georgiana had learned a new piece, her best yet, according to Mrs Annesley. She tried very hard, she wrote, though her hands sometimes trembled before she began. She hoped to play it for him and promised to practise daily so she might perform it without error.
The letter ended with quiet uncertainty—concern that she had written too much or too little, and a gentle plea that he need not reply at once if he was busy.
Darcy lowered the page slowly.
The affection was there, unmistakably so, but beneath it lay unease. Georgiana’s cheer felt deliberate, her apologies too frequent. Richard had observed as much, and Mrs Annesley had gently confirmed it: Georgiana feared she had disappointed him. That she believed his good opinion so fragile—that it might be lost through some small, imagined failing—troubled him deeply.
He set her letter aside with care.
The final note, from Richard, was brief and practical, giving only his expected arrival. Darcy allowed himself a faint smile. His cousin’s easy manners and sociable nature might yet draw Miss Bingley’s attention.Richard’s estate was modest compared to Pemberley, but he was the son of an earl—and for a lady inclined toward ambition, that distinction alone might prove persuasive.
Darcy gathered the letters together, his thoughts unsettled but steady. Lady Catherine’s kindness, Georgiana’s quiet anxiety, and the delicate balance at Netherfield pressed upon him all at once. Christmas, it seemed, would require more consideration than he had anticipated—but not without hope.
The letters from his family made his thoughts turn back to Tommy.Thomas Bennet.Darcy’s cousin was left-handed, and he suspected from watching him at play that the boy shared that trait. Richard’s writing slanted a different direction. Seeing it on paper brought everything back to his thoughts, and try as he might, he could not banish it.
Suddenly determined, he pulled a fresh piece of paper from the stack and wrote a brief message. He copied the same on a different sheet, and then sanded, sealed, and addressed them. One would go to Rosings Park, the other to Darcy House. Both were requests for every bit of information concerning Anne’s disappearance.
His correspondence complete, Darcy made the decision to join the others.
Darcy descended the stairs just as Mr Hurst’s booming voice carried from the breakfast room.
“It is a fine idea, you must admit,” he was saying, leaning back in his chair with a glass of port in hand though it was barely past eleven. “Ashooting party will make good use of your grounds, Bingley. You could invite all the gentlemen of the neighbourhood.”
Bingley, cheerful as ever, clapped his hands together. “Yes, capital idea, Hurst! I see no reason why we cannot arrange it. Perhaps Thursday or Friday? I am sure our neighbours will enjoy the sport.”
Darcy moved to pour himself a cup of coffee, taking a seat by the window. He did not particularly care for Hurst’s enthusiasm, but it would at least keep Bingley occupied.
“And what next, Charles?” Caroline’s sharp voice sliced through the air as she set down her fork. “Perhaps you will next host a village fair, or—oh, a tenant dance, perhaps?” She gave a brittle laugh, glancing at Louisa for support, but her sister merely picked at her toast with disinterest.
Bingley, undeterred, leaned forwards with bright eyes. “I was actually thinking a ball would be delightful. A grand affair, you know—music, supper, dancing until dawn. It would be the perfect way to show goodwill to our neighbours.”
Caroline nearly choked. “A ball? Charles, surely you jest. The preparation alone—and the expense—and what for? So a crowd of rustics can trample our carpets and leave muddy footprints through the halls? They would not even appreciate the effort!”
Louisa looked up, blinking slowly, and shrugged. “It sounds… tolerable, I suppose.”
“The point, Caroline,” Bingley said firmly, “is that I intend to marry Miss Bennet.”
The room fell into stunned silence. Louisa’s fork clattered against her plate. Miss Bingley’s eyes widened, her mouth opening and closing without a word emerging for several moments.
“What?” she finally hissed, clutching the arm of her chair. “Charles, you have known the girl for—for what? Six weeks? I did not imagine you were serious in your courtship.”
Bingley’s jaw tightened, though his pleasant demeanor remained. “I have never been more serious. She is everything a gentleman could wish for in a wife—kind, beautiful, modest, accomplished, and her family—”
“Herfamily,” Miss Bingley snapped, “is precisely the problem. They are nobodies, Charles. Do you expect me to welcome them into our lives, to have to entertainthemwhenever they call? Have you completely taken leave of your senses?”
Darcy took a slow sip of his coffee, keeping his expression neutral as the siblings quarreled. His mind, however, wandered elsewhere—to the previous day’s conversation with Elizabeth, on the wary way she spoke of her brother, on the uncertainty flickering in her eyes. The words in the room faded, replaced by the echo of her hesitant voice and the guarded tilt of her head when he pressed too far.
