Page 3 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

T he table at Darcy House, dressed in fine linens and gleaming silver, bore the remains of an elaborate Christmas feast. Darcy leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of port. Fitzwilliam, seated across from him, had just finished recounting a particularly amusing anecdote from his time abroad, earning a hearty laugh from the assembled company. Georgiana sat to Darcy’s left, her eyes bright as she dabbed delicately at one corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“The problem with Whitehall,” Fitzwilliam concluded, “is that they never consider that the other side might understand strategy too.”

Georgiana giggled behind her hand, and even Darcy allowed himself a faint smile.

For a moment, he allowed himself to relax. The warmth of the fire in the hearth, the cheer of the company. Everything was as it should be.

The moment was interrupted by a quiet knock at the door, and Mrs. Garrett, the long-serving housekeeper, entered. She curtsied slightly before addressing Darcy.

“Pardon the intrusion, sir, but Anders has returned. He asked if he might see you before retiring for the night.”

Darcy nodded, setting his glass down. “Of course. Show him in.”

Mrs. Garrett disappeared, and moments later, Anders entered, removing his cap as he stepped into the room. The coachman was a young man with dark features and a serious air.

“Good evening, sir,” Anders said with a respectful bow. “I hope you will forgive the interruption, but I wanted to wish you and your family a happy Christmas and to tell you the carriage and the horses have been thoroughly inspected and are prepared for your journey tomorrow.”

“Thank you, and a happy Christmas to you, Anders,” Darcy replied. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not at all, sir,” Anders said.

“Have Cook make you something hot to eat and drink. It is cold tonight, and we shall be off with the sun tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” Anders said gratefully, and with a bow, he was gone.

As the door closed quietly behind the coachman, a thoughtful silence settled over the room. Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, his usually jovial expression softened, as though even he could not hold back the weight of the days to come.

Darcy’s gaze lingered on the remnants of the feast—the half-empty decanter, the plates bearing traces of chestnut soup, roasted goose, and Christmas pudding, the beeswax candles brought out for the occasion. How many more such evenings would he and Georgiana have as the Darcys of Pemberley? How much longer would he be able to assist Fitzwilliam? The question had haunted him ever since he had discovered his grandfather’s journal, but tonight, with the prospect of their return to Hertfordshire looming, it pressed on him with particular force.

Georgiana, sensing the shift in the room, folded her napkin neatly and placed it beside her plate. She glanced at Darcy, her eyes soft with concern. “Brother,” she said quietly, “are you certain this journey is necessary?”

Darcy turned to her, the weight in her voice pulling him from his thoughts. “Yes, Georgiana,” he said, his tone steady but not unkind. “It is necessary. There are questions that must be answered.”

Fitzwilliam spoke next, his voice measured but carrying its usual note of pragmatism. “The truth cannot remain hidden forever, I suppose. If there is a claim to be made, better to control when and how we face it than to leave it to hang over our heads.”

Darcy inclined his head slightly, acknowledging his cousin’s point, though he would have followed this course regardless. He turned his gaze to the window, where frost traced delicate patterns on the glass. Beyond lay the city, quiet and muffled under the stillness of Christmas night. How different the world seemed in these moments, when time itself felt suspended.

“I have no desire to be other than what I am,” Darcy said at last. “To be the master of Pemberley, to uphold the name and legacy that my father entrusted to me—that has been my purpose since I was a boy. But if it is proven that my claim is not as rightful as I believed . . .” He trailed off, thinking of a certain lady’s fine dark eyes and sharp wit. Miss Elizabeth Bennet would certainly think him dishonourable if he did not pursue his suspicions. “I cannot be the man I was raised to be if I leave this alone.”

Fitzwilliam made to reply, but Darcy rose, his voice calm but resolute. “This has been a wonderful evening, Georgiana. Please thank Mrs. Garrett for us. But now we should all rest.”

Georgiana stood, wrapping the new cashmere shawl he had gifted her tightly around her shoulders. Fitzwilliam lingered briefly, his hand resting on the back of his chair. “Whatever happens, Darcy,” he said softly, “understand that you are more to me than a house and a fine meal.”

He knew that, of course he did. But it helped to hear it. Darcy nodded tightly, and all three of them retired to bed.

After they returned from church, Elizabeth gazed out the window at Longbourn’s gardens, each branch and bush tipped with clear ice that sparkled in the light, as if nature herself had paused in reverence for Christmas Day. Yet, as she turned her gaze toward her sister, her thoughts grew troubled. Jane sat at the small writing desk across the room, carefully rereading the letter she had received from Miss Bingley. Jane had sent two to London but had received no reply.

Elizabeth’s heart twisted in sympathy and in anger. She could hardly bear to see Jane’s quiet grief, the hope she struggled to keep alive despite Mr. Bingley’s failure to return when he had said he would. And she knew precisely who to blame. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley’s sisters were no doubt working some scheme to keep Mr. Bingley separated from Jane. They had deceived him, whispered things in his ear to poison his mind, she was sure of it.

Jane glanced up at her, her face a study of composed sorrow. “Lizzy,” she said gently, “do not be sad on my account. It is Christmas, after all.”

Elizabeth crossed the room and sat beside her, taking Jane’s hand in her own. “I cannot understand why Mr. Bingley has not returned after showing you such attention.”

“I am certain he had his reasons,” Jane murmured, though the wistful regret in her eyes betrayed her. “We must not forget that he is a young man with many demands on his time. Perhaps he discovered, upon returning to town, that there was more to accomplish than he expected.”

“Jane, you are too good. Can you not see that Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley’s sisters have been scheming against you from the very beginning?”

Jane’s gentle smile did not waver, but she looked down, her fingers smoothing the paper. “I cannot believe that Mr. Darcy would encourage Mr. Bingley to act so unfeelingly. I do not believe either is capable of such cruelty.”

Elizabeth noted that Jane had not said the same about Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. It was progress, of a sort. Still, she would not have Mr. Darcy absolved. “And yet, he is the same man who denied Mr. Wickham his inheritance. A man capable of such a betrayal would surely think nothing of influencing his friend against you.”

Jane frowned slightly as she considered this. “But Lizzy,” she said firmly, “have you not wondered why Mr. Wickham has not taken his grievances to court? If he truly believed he had been wronged, would he not seek justice in the proper way?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but Jane’s question lingered. She had inquired the same of Mr. Wickham, and he had excused his inaction by stating that it was an informal bequest. The thought made her hesitate, but her frustration quickly returned. “He told me there was a vagueness in the will that would make it difficult to pursue. Perhaps he fears the influence of Mr. Darcy, who could use his wealth and power to ruin him.”

“Perhaps,” Jane allowed, her gaze steady. “Or perhaps Mr. Wickham simply wished to impress a beautiful young lady.” Her smile grew a little as she looked at her sister, a hint of mischief in her otherwise serene expression.

Elizabeth blinked, taken aback. “You think that he would lie to me to earn my favour? That is precisely the wrong way to win it.”

Jane laughed softly. “Oh, Lizzy, not a lie, though I think he might embellish. A gentleman’s desire to affect a lady often leads him to present himself in the best light possible. It is only natural.” The laughter disappeared when she said, “But Mr. Bingley did say he was not a respectable young man.”

Elizabeth fell silent, feeling her cheeks warm. Was it possible she had been mistaken? Had she been so eager to believe ill of Mr. Darcy that she had overlooked Mr. Wickham’s motives? Just as she began to ponder Jane’s gentle admonition, a voice called out from the hallway.

“Girls! My dears, where are you?”

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a quick, surprised look before rising to their feet as their aunt, Mrs. Phillips, bustled into the room, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her arms laden with several small parcels. “Happy Christmas, my dear nieces!” she cried, setting down her parcels and taking each of their hands in turn.

Elizabeth forced a cheerful smile, her mind still turning over what Jane had said to her. “Happy Christmas, Aunt Phillips! Do sit down and have some tea.”

“Oh, I shall, I shall,” Mrs. Phillips replied, settling into a chair and accepting the cup Jane offered her. “But where is your mother? I come with news, such marvellous news!”

They were alone in the room. “Mamma has gone to her chambers to rest.”

“Mary is reading her Bible, and Kitty and Lydia are upstairs,” Jane added.

“Well, I simply cannot wait to tell you, Jane, so you two shall have to tell your mother.” Indeed, Aunt Phillips appeared as though she was about to burst with her news. “Mr. Bingley is returning to Netherfield!”

Elizabeth’s heart leapt, and she glanced at Jane, whose face had turned pale with sudden emotion. “Mr. Bingley?” Jane whispered.

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Phillips continued with a nod, as if she were delivering the most joyous tidings in all of England. And for once, she was.

“And soon, too.” Her aunt nearly danced with excitement. “He is expected tomorrow!”

Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hand, her earlier doubts momentarily forgotten. Whatever had kept him away, Mr. Bingley was returning, and that was all that mattered.

“Oh, but there is more to tell!” Mrs. Phillips exclaimed, leaning forward with excitement. “Mr. Bingley will not be alone. Mr. Darcy is to join him at Netherfield, along with his sister, and some cousin of his as well, the second son of an earl!”

At the mention of Mr. Darcy’s name, Elizabeth felt her elation dampen, the familiar resentment stirring within her. Mr. Darcy was coming back in Hertfordshire, here to disdain their lives yet again. Mr. Wickham’s stories might not be entirely true, but she had experienced Mr. Darcy’s hauteur herself. She could almost feel the weight of his disapproval, his piercing gaze ready to find fault with everything and everyone around him.

But then Elizabeth caught sight of Jane’s hands trembling ever so slightly. This was a second chance for Jane and Mr. Bingley, and she would not be the one to jeopardize it. Her jaw tightened in determination as she resolved to be civil to Mr. Darcy. As long as he did not intend to interfere, she would bear his company without complaint, engage in polite conversation, and treat him as a friendly acquaintance. If a little kindness could help Jane find happiness with Mr. Bingley, she would find a way to endure.

“Then we shall anticipate a lively start to the new year,” she said with forced cheer, casting a reassuring smile at Jane, who, despite her calm exterior, could not entirely hide her returning glow. “It is Christmas, after all.”

Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hand and allowed herself a rare surge of hope.

The door opened, and their father entered with Uncle and Aunt Gardiner. His hands were clasped behind his back, and a faint smile played about his lips. “Ah, I see my daughters are delighting in family gossip,” he said, casting an amused glance at Mrs. Phillips. “And to what do we owe such joy on this fine Christmas day?”

Jane, her cheeks now flushed, murmured, “Mr. Bingley is returning to Netherfield, Papa.”

Aunt Gardiner’s brows lifted, and Uncle Gardiner appeared stern.

Aunt Phillips, on the other hand, clasped her hands with delight. “Why, I imagine he will be at your door before you can catch your breath, Jane! This is most promising indeed!”

“Is that so?” Mr. Bennet raised his brows in a show of mild surprise. “I hope, Jane, that you will not let yourself be overcome by this. A bit of youthful admiration is only natural, but it hardly need be taken to heart.”

This admonition only made Aunt Phillips shake her head. “Oh, but it is true, Mr. Bennet! And our dear Jane is in no danger of disappointment, surely. If Mr. Bingley has returned, I would wager my best bonnet it is for no other reason than to secure her hand.”

Elizabeth’s frown deepened as she met her father’s amused gaze, and she spoke in a low voice. “Mr. Bingley’s attentions were genuine, Papa, as you must have noticed. His sudden departure was a great disappointment to Jane, and his return can only bring her happiness.”

“Come now, Lizzy,” he replied, his tone light and dismissive. “A little romance is well enough for any young lady, but a sensible girl should know not to let her happiness depend upon a gentleman who leaves the neighbourhood without so much as a polite farewell. Young men are fickle creatures by nature.”

“This Mr. Bingley did not return when he said he would,” Uncle Gardiner added. Aunt Gardiner placed a hand on her husband’s arm.

“I think you do Mr. Bingley an injustice,” Elizabeth said, struggling to keep her voice calm. “He is returning, and it has not been so very long. We should be happy for Jane. Her attachment to Mr. Bingley is neither trivial nor easily dismissed.”

Jane, ever patient, lowered her eyes, though Elizabeth could see the faint shadow of hurt behind her sister’s quiet composure. Their father’s dismissiveness was surely a disappointment. “Papa and Uncle Gardiner mean no harm, Lizzy,” she said quietly. “They only wish to see me content.”

Elizabeth thought there was a great difference between not meaning any harm and not causing any. On Papa’s part, at least. Uncle Gardiner had always been of a more protective nature.

Papa gave Jane a small, indulgent smile. “Precisely, my dear. It is only that I would not have you place your happiness at the mercy of a gentleman’s caprices.” With that he took his leave, Uncle Gardiner following behind.

“Jane,” Aunt Gardiner said quietly. “I had come to say that we will be leaving in a few days instead of the thirtieth and to have you begin to pack your trunks. But now I think you will wish to remain here rather than accompany us?”

“Well, of course she will!” Aunt Phillips exclaimed before she bustled out of the room, no doubt to climb the stairs to Mamma’s chamber.

“I think . . .” Jane began haltingly, “I would like to remain, Aunt Gardiner. I hope you will not think me ungrateful.”

“I do not think I should ever believe such a thing of you, Jane,” Aunt Gardiner said with a gentle smile. She took a seat beside them and reached for their hands, her gaze kind but intent. “Now, my dears,” she said, her voice low and warm, “we must speak plainly.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, curious. “About what, precisely?”

“About honesty,” Aunt Gardiner replied. “And fairness. Jane, my love, if Mr. Bingley returns with the same affection he left with, you must not hide your heart from him.”

Jane looked down at her lap, her cheeks pinking. “I would not wish to assume his feelings.”

“And I would not wish you to play the martyr, my dear,” Aunt Gardiner said gently. “Love is a rare and precious thing, but it is also fragile. It thrives on clarity. If Mr. Bingley has returned for you, then you must give him the truth of your heart, not leave him to guess. In this way, gentlemen and ladies are the same—neither can be expected to endure endless uncertainty.”

Jane nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I shall try, Aunt.”

“Good.” Aunt Gardiner turned to Elizabeth, her sharp eyes softening. “And as for you, Lizzy, I would advise fairness.”

Elizabeth blinked, surprised by the criticism. “Fairness?”

“To Mr. Darcy.” Aunt Gardiner’s tone was calm but firm. “Whatever you think of him, and however justified you feel in your conclusions, you owe him the same fairness you would expect for yourself. Mr. Wickham charmed me as well, but upon reflection I am determined to put you on your guard. We truly do not know anything about Mr. Wickham that he has not told us himself. Remember, if you carry resentment in your heart, it will only cloud that judgment you are so justly proud of.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest but paused. Her aunt had a way of striking at truths Elizabeth was not ready to face. And she had already determined to be kind for Jane’s sake. “I shall endeavour to treat him civilly, Aunt.”

“Civility is a start,” Aunt Gardiner said firmly. “But fairness, Lizzy, that is where understanding begins.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, unable to hold her aunt’s gaze for long. Fairness. Could she truly look at Mr. Darcy anew? The very idea unsettled her. And yet, there was wisdom in her aunt’s words that she could not ignore.

Aunt Gardiner squeezed their hands once more before rising. “You are both clever and good-hearted young women, and I have every confidence in you. Now, I must go and see about your uncle’s packing, or he will leave half his things behind.”

As she left the room, Jane turned to Elizabeth, her expression thoughtful. “Do you think Aunt Gardiner is right?”

Elizabeth sighed, leaning back in her chair. “She is rarely wrong. But that does not make her advice any easier to follow.”

Jane gave her a small, wistful smile. “No, it does not.”

“Oh, Jane,” she murmured, determinedly clasping her sister’s hand. She hoped that Mr. Bingley was returning for the right reasons. If he was not . . .

If he was not, there was nothing she could do. She was not Jane’s father or brother, and though Uncle Gardiner would be only too happy to have a word with Mr. Bingley, he would be leaving soon. In any case, he could do nothing without Papa’s permission, which she doubted would ever be given. He would say that a young man who would give Jane up had never deserved her in the first place. She supposed there was truth in that, but it was still so difficult.

“It is nothing, Lizzy.” With a brave smile, Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. “No, that is not true. Mr. Bingley’s return means I shall at least have the chance to know his heart—and perhaps to reveal my own.”