He stood, crossed to his writing desk, and reached for a fresh sheet of paper. Dipping his pen, he began his reply.
My dearest Georgiana,
Your letter has brought more joy than you could imagine. I am proud of your progress—and your resilience. Mrs Annesley’s praise is praise indeed, and I am glad to know you are treating her with the affection and trust she so deserves. You sound more like yourself than you have in a long while, and for that I am deeply thankful.
Yes, Richard arrived safely and has been his usual impertinent self, though he is a welcome addition to our household. He mentioned he has yet to write to you, and promises a letter posthaste to avoid your “personal scolding.”
You ask about Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I shall speak plainly: I am officially courting her.
She is unlike any lady I have ever met—clever, warm-hearted, and brimming with wit. I confess, Georgie, that I think often of what you might say to her, and how you two would get along. I believe you would become fast friends. She has a way of seeing directly into one’s character with surprising clarity, and yet she is full of compassion.
As to Christmas—yes. You are most welcome. I would not have the holiday without you. Richard has agreed to travel to Pemberley a few days after the ball—on December second—to collect you and Mrs Annesley. You will be amongst friends and family, and I believe the change of scenery shall do you good.
Until then, continue your music, your reading, and most importantly, your laughter. You are always in my thoughts.
Your devoted brother, F. Darcy
Darcy let the ink dry, folded the letter with care, and sealed it. As he stood to leave the library, he found Richard walking in with a newspaper tucked under one arm.
“You have a letter, I take it?” Richard asked.
Darcy held up the sealed envelope. “From Georgiana.”
“Good news?”
“The best. She is thriving—and she wishes to come to Netherfield for Christmas.”
Richard’s face lit up. “Excellent. It will do her good. Did you tell her about Elizabeth?”
“I did. And about our courtship.”
Richard grinned and clapped a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “About time. You have my approval—not that you need it.”
Darcy offered a quiet chuckle. “She asks if you have written. I told her you would collect her after the ball.”
“I suppose I’d best prepare for that letter, then,” Richard said, shaking his head in mock resignation. “Miss Darcy will not be denied.”
As the cousins settled into the evening, the grey skies outside began to clear at last—mirroring the hope Darcy felt blooming in his heart.
The dining room at Netherfield was warm and well-lit, a comforting contrast to the stormy evening outside. Silver glinted in the candlelight, and the scent of roasted meats, fresh rolls, and spice-laced pudding lingered inthe air. Seated at the head of the table, Bingley wore his usual open, cheerful expression as he engaged his guests in pleasant conversation.
Darcy sat midway down the table between Richard and Miss Bingley, the latter of whom was doing her utmost to pull his attention away from his own thoughts. Her fan fluttered intermittently, and her posture—too straight, too studied—revealed the effort she spent arranging herself for admiration.
Richard had just finished a jest about country gentlemen’s obsession with their estates when Darcy took the opportunity to broach a topic he had held in reserve all day.
“Bingley,” Darcy said, resting his hand lightly against the table, “I have a request, if I may.”
“Of course, old man,” Bingley said, his brows lifting. “What do you need?”
“I would like my sister, Georgiana, to join us here for the Christmas season.”
There was a moment of quiet.
Then Miss Bingley spoke—too quickly.
“Oh, Mr Darcy,” she said with affected warmth, “what a delightful idea. Miss Darcy would be most welcome. Indeed, it would be an honour to receive her here.”
She turned her eyes towards the others, smiling graciously, though her fingers tensed around her wineglass.
