Page 8 of Mr. Darcy's Christmas Letters
Not to Darcy. But that was neither here nor there. He stood about awkwardly once Mrs. Bennet had taken her leave, wondering where Elizabeth had gone, for he no longer saw her.
“Mr. Darcy!” exclaimed Sir William Lucas, still as bluff and cheerful as Darcy remembered him. He had to admit that it was something of a relief when the man approached him, and Darcy offered a polite bow.
“It may have taken the long way around,” Sir William said genially, “but they made it right in the end, eh?”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied, quite conscious of why it had taken so long for Bingley to return and make his offer.
“And it will be Miss Bennet’s turn next,” Sir William said.
Darcy’s heart plummeted. There was another suitor for Elizabeth’s hand? Of course there was; why would there not be? “Oh?” he asked weakly.
Sir William nodded decidedly. “She and Mrs. Bingley are very close. I do not doubt that Miss Bennet will spend the season in town with them, and with such a variety of new people to meet, she will soon have an attachment to some fortunate young man. While Mrs. Bingley is a rare beauty, her sister is also a very handsome young woman.”
Elizabeth grew lovelier every time Darcy saw her. She would be one of those women who was quite pretty as a girl but would grow ever more beautiful with age. His breath returned to him in a rush. “I quite agree, Sir William.”
“Capital, capital,” his companion said, rocking back on his heels. “I say, this is an excellent meal. Mrs. Bennet always has a fine table, and chocolate is a favourite of mine. Will you excuse me?”
“Of course.” Darcy watched him go and then looked about the room for Elizabeth. Bingley came in through the doorway and hied off to his bride’s side. Where had he been? Darcy had thought the man could not be separated from his wife for anything this day.
Miss Mary was standing in a group of young women about her age, listening but not speaking. Her eyes frequently strayed to the window seat, where a small leather-bound book sat awaiting its owner.
On the other side of the room, Miss Kitty was smiling and speaking with a group of the younger men and women, her cheeks delightfully pink and her demeanour almost modest. Was this what she was like without the influence of her wild youngest sister? He hardly recognised her. For the first time, Darcy thought that Miss Kitty might have some promise.
One of the Lucas boys backed into a table, tipping a china vase holding a bouquet of roses precariously to one side. Miss Kitty deftly steadied it without losing her place in the conversation.
Mrs. Bennet left a group that included Lady Lucas to join her husband where he stood speaking with Mr. Robinson and Mr. Goulding, two men Darcy had met the year before. Mr. Bennet offered his wife his arm, and she took it. They were more in charity with one another than Darcy could recall them being at the Netherfield ball.
“How do you like your breakfast, Jane?” Darcy heard a familiar voice asking from the corner to his left and just behind him. He turned his head, and there she was, smiling, but not as brightly as her wont. His thought returned to her appearance at church, and he worried anew.
“I am well pleased, as you must know, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bingley said quietly. “Thank you so much for the flowers. You must have raided every hothouse in the neighbourhood. You know how much I love them, and they are beautiful.”
“I could not allow you to go without flowers on your wedding day.”
Mrs. Bingley smiled at her sister, squeezed her hands, and moved away, taking Bingley’s arm as they spoke with the other guests.
Darcy made his way over, stopping when someone spoke to him, returning their greetings politely if not warmly, and exerting himself in general to be a different sort of man than the one Elizabeth had rightly accused him of being last April.
As he approached, he noted her touch her temple with two fingers.
“Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?” he inquired softly as he finally gained the position he had wished.
“A headache,” she replied in the same low tone. “That is all.”
She had been plagued by the headache at the parsonage, too. “Perhaps you ought to retire. My cousin the colonel suffers from megrims, and tending to them before they worsen seems to be the best medicine.”
Her eyes widened. “And miss my sister’s wedding breakfast? No, it will pass. I am not given to megrims.” She stared straight ahead. “And how do you like our little party, Mr. Darcy?”
“It is splendid, as I informed your mother.”
A little line appeared in her forehead. “You did?”
“I did.”
Her lips turned upward. “So you no longer find us tedious?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I suppose ‘confined and unvarying’ were your exact words.”
