Page 22 of Mr. Darcy's Christmas Letters
As she walked the hallway, she glanced up at the portraits of some long-forgotten ancestors of the Langstons. It made her think of the gallery at Pemberley, and how she had been captivated by Mr. Darcy’s likeness. He had been a bit younger in his portrait—she thought it might be from his time at university. His visage had been softer and there had been mischief in his eyes, something entirely lacking in the man she had met in Hertfordshire.
She could not help but ponder what had caused the change. Mrs. Reynolds had sung Mr. Darcy’s praises, but it could not have been easy to become the master of such an enterprise without the mentorship of his father. As disappointed as she was in her own father, she could not imagine losing him and then having to run Longbourn as she grieved. Had Mr. Darcy ever been allowed time to mourn, or had he been thrust into taking care of everyone around him when he was in need of succour himself? How she wished she might be the one to offer him that comfort.
Christmas was on Friday, less than a week away. How she wished to invite him to Longbourn for it. Noisy, bustling Longbourn would do him a world of good, she was certain of it. Now that Lydia was gone to the north with her husband, only the actual children would put up any sort of fuss, and Mamma would make sure that the feast was spectacular.
Elizabeth found herself actually anticipating the day with her family. Perhaps it was possible to love her family more completely from a distance.
Her stomach grumbled. How could that be? She had eaten very well at dinner. Although perhaps she had been diverted by Miss Bingley’s continual objections to one thing or another, for she now recalled not quite finishing the soup. Or the duck. Or the fruit that came from the hothouse and was such a delicacy during the winter months.
Well, she had been known to raid the kitchen at Longbourn before, sometimes with her furry friends. Jane would not mind, and Charles would probably only laugh at her. She would just be certain not to take anything that Cook might require for their meals tomorrow.
She padded quietly down the servants’ stairs towards the kitchen holding her candle out before her, as the treads were rather narrow here. When she reached the door for the kitchen, however, she heard someone inside, and froze, her free hand hovering near the knob.
She heard a solid thump and pressed her ear against the wooden door. She glanced up the stairs, but if she hurried away, they would hear her.
Footsteps, light, like the wearer was in slippers rather than boots, but with a heavy tread—most likely a man—were moving away. Elizabeth released a breath and laughed shakily at herself. It might even have been Charles. But she waited for a time before cracking the door and holding out the candle.
A glass sat on the counter, water droplets clinging to the inside, a small plate with a few crumbs next to it. Elizabeth examined them with her meagre light and then opened the larder to search out something for herself.
Despite Darcy’s clandestine journey to the kitchens early in the morning, he woke at his normal time. The house was still quiet, though he could detect the familiar hum of industry. The servants were at their work even if the family was still asleep.
Scripps had him prepared for the day with great efficiency, and soon Darcy found himself hiding away in the library, staring curiously at a novel that had been left on the table near the settee. It wasSelf-Controlby Mary Brunton. He had read about its success last year, but it was rather gothic in nature, not something he believed Mrs. Bingley would find entertaining, though he supposed it might be Miss Bingley’s. He picked it up and returned it to the shelf, then straightened the spines so that they were perfectly aligned.
He heard a woman’s voice out in the hall that sent his heart racing, but by the time he opened the door to look, there was no one there. He shook his head.
“I must get out of this house,” he murmured. He gathered his greatcoat and gloves himself, much to Mr. Carstairs’s consternation. “Never mind,” Darcy said almost gruffly, and nearly walked into the door before the older man had a chance to open it. No doubt his strange behaviour would be the talk of the servants’ quarters this evening—or perhaps not. Carstairs did not seem the type to encourage gossip about the family he worked for or their eccentric guests.
He could hope.
Once outside, Darcy looked about him almost frantically, choosing a path that led over a small rise and down to and around a large pond. The turning of the path towards the water was marked by a small gardener’s shed where they kept some of their tools.
Darcy had seen Elizabeth on that path once. He had watched her from a distance as she had stopped in the shower of leaves that were falling, her arms raised over her head, the perfect portrait of happiness. She had dropped her arms when she saw him and hurried away. Then, he had thought her coy, but now he knew she had fled because she did not like him.
Darcy took a deep breath and forced himself to slow down. There was something calming about standing out of doors in the country. One’s feet might as well be the trunk of a tree with roots reaching into the earth. Though many of the birds had gone for the winter, there was still the chirrup of the sparrow and the whistle of the blackbird. The bare branches of the oaks rubbed one against the other, creaking in a wind that was becoming a little stronger than a breeze. He pulled his greatcoat about him more tightly, doing up the final buttons. As he walked, his boots made a crunching sound as they ground pebbles into the earth and snapped small twigs. It smelled like snow, but it had not been cold enough for that, surely? The pond had not iced over, and there had not even been slush or hail, only rain.
It was too bad he had sent his valet on ahead. If it snowed, it would not matter if the sickness turned out to be nothing, for the roads would not be passable. At this rate, he would be stuck in Hertfordshire until the season began. He patted his coat pocket, where the letter he had written Elizabeth resided, folded small and close to his heart. Perhaps he could leave it with Mrs. Bingley to give to her sister, and when they met again in London, he could have his answer.
A ride would be more to his liking, but after having been delayed nearly a week already, he dared not risk additional injury to any of his mounts just now. A few rounds about the pond and he would feel better. He smiled a little, recalling how Miss Bingley had taken Elizabeth for a turn about the room, hoping that he would compare them. He suspected Miss Bingley had believed that she would come out the winner in such a comparison, but even then, he had only had eyes for Elizabeth.
He was nearly to the turnoff where the path at the shore was reached through the trees. As he rounded the corner, he turned to the right and lifted his head.
A woman was standing at the end of a long, narrow pier, gazing out across the water. She was a spritely little thing in a golden-brown pelisse, dark brown curls escaping her bonnet.
Darcy could barely breathe. He had been sure he was hearing Elizabeth’s voice back at the house. He had smelt her perfume. The book in the library—had he imagined her there, reading it? And now he was seeing her image.
He walked closer, but the image did not disappear. Elizabeth was at Longbourn, surely. Was he truly in danger of losing his wits, or was that . . . “Elizabeth?” His question was spoken somewhat louder than he had intended, the sound of his voice breaking the silence into jagged pieces.
The woman jolted and turned quickly, sending herself a little off balance. When she stepped back to right herself, there was nothing for her back foot to rest upon, and she toppled backwards with waving arms and a little screech.
“Elizabeth!” Darcy cried and ran after her.
The water wasfrigid.Frigid, but fortunately not so very deep. Elizabeth sat up spluttering, the water coming to her chin, but her head above the surface. Her bonnet was soaked and limp, her hair half caught up in her pins and half trailing down her back.
And the wind had picked up, making every damp inch of her face feel caked over in ice.
“Elizabeth!”
The panic she felt rising in her chest had nothing to do with the fact that she was currently sitting in a pond, soaked to the skin and very likely to catch her death of cold. It had to do with the familiarity of that voice—the dearness of it—and that the man who belonged to it was currently charging towards her.
