Page 1 of Mr. Darcy's Christmas Letters
Chapter One
Darcygrippedtheblottedletter in his hand and stared out the window of his study into the dark London night.
It was the twenty-sixth of November.
A year ago this very evening—nearly this very moment—Darcy had danced with Elizabeth Bennet. They had spoken around one another as they joined hands, but he still recalled that dance with a sort of reverence that only deepened the longing in his heart.
Elizabeth had been wearing a pale-yellow frock that fluttered gracefully as she moved confidently through the steps. They had quarrelled a bit as they waited their turn to lead, though all he could recall now was how her hair shone in the candlelight and how her dark, luminous eyes had met his own in challenge.
After her stinging rejection of his marriage proposal in Kent last spring, Darcy had never believed he would have another chance with her. But he had done what he could to attend to her reproofs, to become the kind of man she would esteem, even if she could never love him.
And then in August she had appeared at Pemberley with her aunt and uncle, and while Darcy could not determine precisely what it was, or why, something between them had changed.
Perhaps she had changed. Or he had. Whatever the case, he had foolishly allowed himself to hope. Until Wickham once again threw Darcy’s life into turmoil.
Darcy had been in high spirits when he rode to see Elizabeth at the inn in Lambton that bright, warm summer morning. Darcy had intended to speak with her, to inquire whether her sentiments towards him had undergone any material alteration, whether he might, despite all that he had done wrong, hope to one day secure her hand in marriage. It had all suddenly seemed possible, that they might yet be happy.
He had been announced and stepped into the antechamber to find Elizabeth in acute distress. Between tears, she had told him everything, how Wickham had run off with her careless youngest sister and the consequences she feared for herself and all her family. It was the most private, the most painful of admissions, and yet she had trusted him with it. That moment would forever live in his memory, joy blended with pain, knowing how he loved her but unable to reveal it, for how could he ask for a return of that love when she was so distraught and when his prideful unwillingness to lay open his business to the world was the cause?
Darcy had made it right, as far as was possible. Lydia Bennet had not wanted any help of his. She had wanted Wickham, and though Darcy urged her otherwise, she had chosen to bind herself to the villain for the rest of their lives. Elizabeth and her other sisters, though, were safe.
After the Wickhams had left for the north, Darcy had returned with Bingley to Netherfield, but when they called at Longbourn, Elizabeth would not even look at him. His disappointment was extreme, but he could not be surprised. How could any woman forgive the man who had seen Wickham among her friends and family and not warned them? That he had kept quiet to protect his own sister was no excuse, for it had cost Elizabeth hers. In that terrible letter he had written after he had proposed, he had told Elizabeth all about Ramsgate, yet not given her leave to tell anyone. It had not even occurred to him to do so.
He had returned to London, alone, and here he remained. The page he held in his hand offered him the relief that at least one thing had gone as it should: Bingley and Miss Jane Bennet were to be wed.
I am to be married on December 9th, Darcy. You must stand up as my witness. Do say you will come to Netherfield.
Elizabeth was certain to be her sister’s witness. Could he bear to stand at the altar and pretend that he did not want to speak his own vows to her? Had he not already paid enough for his arrogance, his conceit, and his selfish disdain of the feelings of others? How much must he endure?
Apparently, more.
Bingley had generously forgiven Darcy for separating him from the eldest Miss Bennet, and Darcy was relieved not to have lost a good friend. To stand up with Bingley would be a trial, but it would also be an honour.
He would go to Netherfield.
Elizabeth sat on the deep sill of her chamber window with her knees pulled up to her chest. She wrapped her blanket tightly around her and leaned her head against the glass, watching as the stars winked at her.
It was the twenty-sixth of November.
A year ago on this very night—indeed nearly this very moment—she had danced with Mr. Darcy. Argued with him, more like. What a fool she had been, taking the word of a scoundrel when she ought to have been taking the measure of the man before her. Not that Mr. Darcy would have stayed in Hertfordshire after the ball. He had still been too proud for that. Even so, she now recalled that night with a deep, aching sort of yearning.
No one would expect that she ever thought about Mr. Darcy at all, and yet Elizabeth longed for him every day. Was that not the worst of ironies?
The night of the ball, Mr. Darcy had been in evening dress, more impressive and handsome than she had wished to admit. When they had met again at Pemberley, months after she had rejected his offer of marriage so forcefully, Elizabeth had allowed herself to imagine seeing him so formally attired again. Perhaps they might dance once more, or he might escort her to a dinner party. But in the end, they had only been in company for three days before Lydia’s folly had required that she and the Gardiners return home in haste. Three days and her entire world had changed.
She had dreamed of Mr. Darcy the night before Jane’s letters had arrived in Lambton. The two of them were in the same drawing room at Pemberley where she and her aunt had visited with Miss Darcy, but they were quite alone. She had been sitting on the settee with a book. Mr. Darcy had taken the seat beside her and kissed her temple before opening a book of his own.
It had been the perfect portrait of domesticity. Never before had she wanted anything so much.
Then the letters had arrived and put an end to all such illusions. Lydia had ruined everything, and worse, she had not the faintest hint of remorse for having done it. As Mr. Darcy had left her at the inn in Lambton that terrible day, Elizabeth had felt two things. One, that she might actually be in love with Mr. Darcy, and two, that Lydia’s wild behaviour had made any future with him impossible.
“Can you bear it, Lizzy?” Jane had asked this morning, taking Elizabeth’s hand. Apparently Mr. Bingley had written to ask Mr. Darcy if he would come to Netherfield and stand witness to his marriage.
Jane was the only one who knew that Mr. Darcy had proposed to her in Kent. However, even Jane did not know that she would welcome his addresses, and Elizabeth had never bothered to correct her sister’s understanding. What would be the point of confessing that she loved Mr. Darcy when it could come to nothing?
“Of course” had been her reply.
Mr. Darcy would not wish to come, she was sure. But he would. For he was a gentleman in every way that mattered, and he would see this as his duty. If nothing else, perhaps she might at least be allowed to thank him for saving Lydia and rescuing her family’s reputation.
