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Netherfield Park – Morning Room - Elizabeth

T he quiet after the ball did not last long.

By Thursday morning, Longbourn was again in motion - Charlotte’s wedding had drawn off half the neighbourhood, and preparations for the coming holiday were well underway.

But for Elizabeth, that day held something far more personal: the first meeting with Georgiana Darcy.

She arrived at Netherfield just past eleven, accompanied by Jane and Mr Bingley, whose enthusiasm for the occasion was matched only by his inability to sit still.

“Georgiana is very shy,” he told Elizabeth for the third time.

“But she has been asking about you ever since Darcy told her - well, everything.”

Elizabeth, seated beside her sister, only smiled.

For all her usual composure, Elizabeth now found herself unusually quiet.

Georgiana Darcy was no adversary, no rival; and yet Elizabeth’s heart beat faster than it had before any ballroom entrance.

She wanted this girl to like her. Perhaps more than she had expected.

They were ushered into the morning room, bright with winter light. Mr Darcy stood as they entered, and beside him rose a girl of sixteen - tall, fair, and visibly nervous.

“Georgiana,” Mr Darcy said gently, “may I present Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Bennet?”

Georgiana dipped a curtsy. “I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth stepped forward and offered her hand. “And I you, Miss Darcy. I have heard so much of you - and if I may say so, all of it kind.”

Georgiana’s smile was uncertain, but warm. “My brother said you were clever. I did not know clever people could be so, so kind.”

Elizabeth’s heart softened at once. “Then we must be friends, must we not? And if we are to be sisters, you must call me Elizabeth; or Lizzy, if you like, as my sisters do.”

Georgiana’s eyes brightened. “Lizzy,” she said, as if testing the sound. “I should like that very much.”

“I am working on teaching Fitzwilliam to laugh at himself,” Elizabeth added, eyes dancing. “It’s slow work, but I am determined. You must help me - as sisters ought.”

Georgiana giggled, casting a surprised glance at her brother. “I do think the world of him - but I suppose he can be rather serious. He has always seemed more like a father than a brother to me.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Then you must show me how it’s done. I need your help, Georgiana - you have known him longer than I, and understand him far better.”

Georgiana’s smile turned sheepish. “I do-” She stopped, blushing. “I mean, I used to. He’s always been so steady, so proper. It always felt too serious to tease him.”

Elizabeth grinned. “Well, I have made it my mission. And with your help, he will not stand a chance. ”

Georgiana laughed with delight, casting a surprised glance at her brother. “Then I think I should like to help. Though I suspect I will be learning just as much from you.”

A smile rose unbidden; the earnestness in Georgiana’s voice was impossible to resist.

“Would you like to walk?” Mr Darcy asked. “The frost has lifted from the garden path.”

The five of them moved outside, cloaked and gloved, into the still hush of the December day. Georgiana walked between the sisters, while Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy trailed just behind, deep in their own conversation. With each step, Georgiana’s voice grew steadier.

“I thought you would be frightening,” she admitted once, to Elizabeth’s great amusement. “But you are not.”

“I am told I am quite terrifying after my second cup of tea,” Elizabeth said gravely.

They laughed, and even Mr Darcy smiled.

As the others turned back toward the house, Elizabeth hesitated, letting her steps slow.

Mr Darcy noticed at once. “Shall we wait a moment?”

She nodded. “It’s peaceful.”

They stood together, watching a blackbird flick its wings along the hedge.

“I was not sure what Georgiana would think of me,” Elizabeth said softly.

Mr Darcy glanced down at her. “She will love you. She already does.”

Elizabeth looked up at him then, a smile curving despite the chill. “Then perhaps she is wiser than either of us gave her credit for.”

He laughed quietly - that quiet, rare sound she was learning to treasure. “I have always known she was.”

“She’s lovely,” Elizabeth said. “I like her very much. ”

“And she admires you,” he said quietly. “I could not have wished for more.”

Elizabeth turned to him, her voice softer. “She said I was not frightening.”

Darcy’s brow lifted, his mouth twitching with amusement. “Perhaps only just enough to keep me on my toes.”

She laughed. “I knew it.”

They stopped beneath the bough of an old hawthorn, the world hushed around them. Mr Darcy looked at her, and there was something in his expression that made her breath still.

She reached for his hand - gloved, warm, familiar - and he brought it gently to his lips.

“You undo me,” he said.

Elizabeth leaned closer, her forehead resting briefly against his chest. “I am merely making sure you stay that way.”

They remained like that for a moment longer, hearts steady in the cold. They said nothing more for a moment, just stood in the stillness of frost and pale sunlight, until the muffled sound of voices from the house stirred them to motion again.

As they turned back toward the house, Elizabeth felt a quiet contentment settle over her; Georgiana’s kindness, Darcy’s steadiness, the hush of the frost; all of it easing her into something that felt very much like belonging.

* * *

Friday, 13th December 1811

Longbourn – Drawing Room - Elizabeth

The next morning, Elizabeth returned to Longbourn from Meryton to find Mr and Mrs Gardiner comfortably settled in the drawing room.

She and her mother had hoped to be back in time to greet them on their arrival, but their outing to the dressmaker’s in Meryton had taken longer than expected - and if Elizabeth never saw another piece of lace in the next six months, it would be too soon.

The sight of her aunt and uncle, calm and cheerful by the fire - with Pudding the cat curled up on a nearby chair, blinking in feline contentment - was a most welcome reprieve.

Her aunt stood to embrace her at once, and Mr Gardiner reached for her hand with a fond smile. “You look well, Lizzy. And happy.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Only because I have escaped the tyranny of muslin samples.”

“Then you’re in luck,” Mrs Gardiner said wryly, gesturing to the tea tray. “We have brought no lace, only questions and conversation.”

“Much more civilised,” Elizabeth agreed, settling beside her aunt with a sigh of real contentment.

Mr Darcy, accompanied by Mr Bingley and Georgiana, arrived not long after.

Elizabeth had just finished pouring tea when they were announced, and she rose at once to greet them.

Georgiana’s eyes lit up at the sight of her, and Darcy’s expression softened, the careful composure of a formal visit eased by the warmth of familiar faces.

Elizabeth made the introductions. “My aunt and uncle, Mr and Mrs Gardiner.”

Mrs Gardiner, elegant and composed, curtsied with warmth. “We are most delighted, Mr Darcy.”

Mr Gardiner offered his hand. “We have heard much of you from Lizzy - and I must say, you have already made quite an impression.”

Mr Darcy accepted the compliment with a slight bow. “That is very kind of you to say.”

Conversation turned easily - to town, to travel, to the merits of Derbyshire weather - and Georgiana, encouraged by Jane, offered a shy but thoughtful observation about the countryside near Pemberley and when more tea and a fruit cake were brought in, Elizabeth could see the moment her aunt’s opinion shifted from cautious assessment to quiet approval.

Later, as Mr Gardiner and Mr Darcy stepped to the window to discuss fishing prospects in the north, and Mr Bingley, Jane and Georgiana were engaged in conversation, Mrs Gardiner drew Elizabeth assise for a private word.

“I see what you meant,” she said simply. “I think you will be very happy.”

Elizabeth only smiled.

Across the room, Mr Darcy glanced back over his shoulder.

Their eyes met - just for a moment - and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, as if remembering frost-tipped hedges and a quiet promise beneath bare branches.

Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm and returned his look with one of her own: steady, sure, and laced with mischief.

And as the light faded from the sky beyond the tall windows, and the fire crackled gently in the grate, she felt the truth settle around her like a shawl - warming, certain, and wholly her own.

These were her people. This was her place. And the life ahead no longer seemed daunting, but deeply, blessedly real.

* * *

Tuesday, 24th December 1811

Netherfield Park – Drawing Room - Darcy

Darcy stood at the window, watching the last flakes of snow drift down across the lawn. The drawing room was warm with firelight and the scent of evergreens, but he felt something else entirely - a quiet expectancy he had never associated with the holiday before.

Across the room, Georgiana played softly at the pianoforte.

Bingley and Jane were arranging boughs of holly above the mantel.

It was domestic, calm – the sort of scene he might once have admired from a distance but never expected to enter.

Jane laughed as she pinned holly above the mantel; Bingley hummed tunelessly beside her.

Georgiana played something soft and aimless at the pianoforte.

And Darcy, despite the fire’s warmth, stood as though uncertain where to place his hands.

He had always found such scenes… delicate.

Too easily broken by a wrong word, too foreign to touch without fear of being found wanting.

But now, as Elizabeth stepped into the room and caught his eye with a smile, something in him shifted.

This, he realised, was not a tableau to be observed.

It was his life. And he had been invited in.

With a soft rustle of skirts, Elizabeth stepped to his side.

“They have put Jane in charge of the mistletoe,” she said dryly. “Heaven help us all.”

Darcy smiled. “Bingley seems content with her rulings.”

They stood in silence for a moment, close but not touching. He was about to speak - to offer her his gift - when she reached into her reticule.

“I have something for you.”

She held out a slim book, tied with a ribbon. A lock of chestnut hair slipped free from the pages as he took it. Darcy opened it slowly - a book of poetry, its margins filled with Elizabeth’s script: curious, wry, insightful.

“I thought it fitting,” she said, voice soft. “Since it was your writing and thoughts in the margins that first let me see the man you truly are.”

His heart stopped. Of all the things he had expected - this was not among them.

His breath caught as he opened the book further, seeing her script winding through its pages like a secret only he was meant to find.

Each word was a glimpse into her mind, her humour, her depth - her trust in him.

“You have given me your thoughts,” he said hoarsely.

“Your heart. Your soul. I cannot deserve this, but I will cherish it for the rest of my life.”

He swallowed, then reached into his coat. “Then I have something for you as well.”

He handed her the small volume - Cowper’s The Task , finely bound, with a blue leather cover. She opened it carefully, and he watched the moment of recognition dawn across her face.

Her fingers hovered over the flyleaf. “Oh - this is what I was reading at Netherfield. Jane must have told you.”

He nodded.

She turned the page, and read what he had written inside: For the woman who taught me to observe with both clarity and compassion.

Elizabeth pressed the book to her chest. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

She looked up at him, her eyes glinting. “Would you write in these margins for me?”

He met her gaze evenly. “If you ask it - I will. Every thought, for you.”

She stepped closer. “Then I will hold you to that.”

Her kiss was quiet, sure. He caught her waist in his hand, steadying her as he deepened it gently. The room, the fire, the music - all of it faded. There was only the warmth of her lips and the steady beat of her heart against his.

When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers.

“I will never look at the margin of a page the same way again.”

“You had better not,” she whispered.

He smiled. “And you will reply?”

“If I have anything clever to say.”

“You always do.”

He kissed her again - slower this time, deeper, his hand lifting to cradle her jaw with reverence.

Some part of him still feared that his passion might drive her away, that loving her too much might be a kind of ruin.

But she did not flinch. Instead, she leaned in, her fingers curling into the front of his coat, her lips meeting his with a certainty that stole his breath.

When they finally drew apart, her eyes were bright, cheeks flushed not just from the fire.

“Well,” she said softly, “that settles it. I shall have to outdo your margin notes, or die trying.”

They stood like that for a long time, fingers entwined, the fire crackling low beside them.

It was, he thought, the best Christmas he had ever known. And thank God the wedding was only days away - the 27th could not come soon enough. Another week of this quiet, burning joy and he might well come undone entirely.