Elizabeth looked at him curiously, wondering. Mr Darcy’s words were perfectly calm and pleasant, but there was something in his air that made her think him worried, or perhaps displeased. Had he thought it unsuitable for her to walk alone with Mr Wickham, even in the house? Surely not, for that would be carrying delicacy beyond all reason.
They stopped in front of the window, and Elizabeth sighed in delight. “How lovely the snow is!”
“Do you enjoy the snow?” Mr Darcy inquired curiously.
“I do,” she replied. “Or perhaps I ought to say, I enjoy the snow at the beginning of winter, before it grows dirty, and before one grows tired of the inconvenience. I always waited for the first snow when I was a girl. There was always a sense of magic about it. Do you not agree?”
He smiled down at her, making Elizabeth shiver with some strange, unaccountable feeling. “Yes, I do.” He offered her his arm, and he led her to the other end of the portrait gallery. Once there, they sat together on a narrow window seat, turned towards each other to watch the snow as it silently fell like a blanket over the ground.
“Tell me something about your childhood. I do not think I have ever heard you speak of it,” Elizabeth asked him.
He chuckled softly. “I do not speak of it very often. I suppose it seems like a whole other lifetime.”
“And that pleases you? To leave it in the past?”
“No, I suppose not. This was a very pleasant place to grow up. It is only that I find myself thinking of the sorrow, as well as the joy. My mother died when I was twelve.” He sighed heavily. “I had to grow up rather quickly after that.”
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth replied, resting her hand on his arm. “It must have been very lonely.”
“Sometimes. But then there was Georgiana. She was such a sweet baby, and she quickly had my heart wrapped around her little finger.” He laughed. “She still does.”
“She is very lucky to have you.” Elizabeth was at the point of removing her hand when Mr Darcy captured it and entwined her fingers with his own.
He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I have never told anyone this,” he began again after a long pause. Her heart thundered, both at the closeness they shared and at the way his voice rumbled in his chest.
“The last Christmas we had with my mother, she was expecting Georgiana, but had not yet begun to show. I remember she was glad that they need not cancel Pemberley’s winter ball, as they must have had her delicate condition been evident. And so the last Christmas ball went on. I was only eleven at the time and wasn’t allowed to attend. But I remember sneaking downstairs and watching my parents open the first dance.” Mr Darcy’s eyes clouded as he remembered, but he did not turn away from her to hide his emotions. “I will never forget how beautiful my mother looked, and how elated my father was to have her by his side.”
“That is beautiful,” Elizabeth murmured, squeezing his hand. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“Thank you for listening,” Darcy replied. He did not let go of her hand, but continued gently holding it in his. “Perhaps we ought to bring back the tradition of holding a Christmas party here in the years to come. The house has been too quiet in the years since my mother’s passing.”
“Then your father did not continue the custom after she died?”
“No. There was hardly any joy or light or music in the house after my mother’s death. Until Georgiana started playing the pianoforte. I think it pained my father to hear the music, as if allowing it would be an affront to my mother’s memory.”
“I can understand how difficult it would have been at first. But surely, she would have wanted to be remembered for her love of music and how she brought others together?”
“Yes, I believe she would,” he agreed. He stopped suddenly, looking deeply into her eyes. “But you, Elizabeth — you have picked up where she left off. I think you would have got on well with my mother.”
Elizabeth’s heart soared. “I am glad to hear it. If only I could have known her!”
“I have no doubt you would have been friends. Tell me a story of your childhood,” he added suddenly. “Something happy.”
Elizabeth did not comment on the abrupt change of subject, for it was clear Mr Darcy was remembering his mother and the time that had been cut short, and wished for time to collect himself. She took a moment to think, then smiled.
“One Christmas, when I was very young, I decided to write a story for my sister, Jane,” Elizabeth began slowly. “I have always loved reading, but that year, I tried my hand at creating my own story. I worked for months on it and even tried to make some sketches to go with the tale.”
He was looking at her in surprise, seeming rather impressed. “I had no idea you had such talent.”
“Indeed, I do not.” Elizabeth laughed at her own expense. “I can tell you with certainty that a more haphazard book has never been created, but I was proud of it.”
“And what was this book about?” he asked.
“I wrote a story with Jane as the heroine, and I made her a princess who saved the kingdom with her kindness and wisdom. No doubt I copied half of it from the Brothers Grimm, but I did my very best to make the Jane in my book as good and kind as the real one. My mother helped me sew the pages together, and my father paid the tanner to make me a proper leather cover. I will never forget the look on Jane’s face when she opened it on Christmas morning. Messy as it no doubt was, she thought it a treasure beyond price.”
“As I am sure it was,” he agreed. “If your sister still has it, perhaps she would allow me to read it someday.”
“You will be very disappointed,” Elizabeth said with a surprised laugh. “I believe Jane does still have it, but that is much more due to her sentimental nature than to the quality of the work.”
