Page 36 of The Winter of Our Discontent (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
Dear Jane,
Your letter came at a particularly wrenching moment and soothed me like an ointment. How I treasure each word!
You wished for a detailed account of our Christmas celebrations, and so I will use pages and pages of Mr Darcy’s fine pressed paper to tell you.
We breakfasted all together for once. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed determined to play court jester, causing us to break into laughter—even Mr Darcy!
—with his accounts of eating charred horse leather while ankle deep in mud last Christmas.
He had been in the Pyrenees with Wellington, nearly frozen and stuck in a valley, cowering under a hail of bullets from the French encamped in an Abbey on the ridge.
You would think such a harrowing story would be dreadful, but his telling was expertly farcical as he regaled us with his missteps, the irreverence of his troops, and the irascible wit of their commanding officer.
We adjourned to the music room, it being too icy to go to church.
Miss Darcy played several selections from the Cantus Diversi , and with that, we felt we had worshipped.
She and I then played duets on two pianofortes until infectious giggles defeated us.
Georgiana, still a girl in her heart, hinted we should open gifts.
In response, I pretended for half an hour not to understand her at all.
In this, Colonel Fitzwilliam was my accomplice, and we spoke nothing but nonsense until at last I said—as if no one before me had thought of presents—that we should exchange our gifts.
I received a luxurious fur muff and a brace of novels from Georgiana.
Mrs Annesley gave me a bottle of Gowland’s lotion with a little wink (we had spoken at length one morning about my freckles), and Colonel Fitzwilliam gave all of us ladies very fine Spanish mantillas, which Georgiana and I felt compelled to put on our heads for the remaining exchanges of gifts.
Mr Darcy had given his sister a new pianoforte earlier in the month, but he also gave her the complete works of Haydn and a new pair of riding gloves.
He gave Mrs Annesley a little envelope, presumably with money therein, and she blushed a fiery red, causing me to believe the Master of Pemberley was no miser.
To his cousin, he presented a bottle of brandy.
By the colonel’s look of reverence, we were given to understand it was a fine, rarely obtainable vintage and likely smuggled by private courier.
To me, Mr Darcy presented a gold chain necklace with a large pearl drop pendant.
It suited me perfectly, being simple and somewhat short.
Georgiana looked abashed, then Mr Darcy grew rather silent, none of which I understood.
Had he given me something she coveted? I am sure I will never know.
You are stifling your yawns by now, but I will press on with descriptions of my gifts.
To Colonel Fitzwilliam, I gave a box of cigarillos.
Mr Yardley, of whom I have written before, is a naval man, and he said he never met a ‘redcoat’ that was not delighted by these slim, foul-smelling Spanish cigars.
For Mrs Annesley, I chose an illustrated book of Italian embroidery because she is quite the needlewoman.
The success of my gifts to this point gave me confidence, but when it came time to give Mr Darcy his gift, I admit to being quite nervous.
I only got him a book, and a silly satire at that.
And after the beautiful pearl he gave me, I felt quite wrong in my choice.
I sat back and put down my pen, recalling the look on his face. “ Gulliver’s Travels ?” he had asked in the strangest, most bewildered tone.
“Well, y-yes,” I stammered. “I made a joke about Captain Pedro de Mendez and discovered your sister had never read it.” He stared at me and so I blathered on. “I was sure a library such as yours would have a copy, but after searching quite methodically, I never found it. So, I went to the nursery?—
“You went to the nursery?” he asked numbly.
“Well…yes, to find Gulliver ’ s Travels, and there it was, but with the entire voyage to Laputa cut out and many other pages shockingly vandalised. I found this, a printing of that same year, for your library…” My monologue dwindled into a feeling of dread.
The room fell silent. Mr Darcy looked down at his book and traced the embossing of the leather. “Thank you,” he eventually said.
“Have I done wrong, sir?” I asked. Really! I sometimes felt as though there was a story in that house that I did not know, and when I touched upon it, everyone’s eyes fell to the ground, and I was left stupidly ignorant of what I should or should not have said.
“What? Oh no. No, of course not.”
“George’s handiwork I take it?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked with a pointed look at the book in Mr Darcy’s hands. “He did enjoy cutting pages out of your favourite books, the toad.”
I did not know who this ‘George’ was, but he should have been taken to the woodshed for such a prank, and I said so with unbecoming frankness.
Colonel Fitzwilliam chuckled, and the colour returned to Georgiana’s cheeks.
Even Mr Darcy relaxed and asked if we were done with gift giving.
He was drily teasing his sister, who was in high expectation of her gift from me.
The memory made me smile, and I returned to my letter.
I suppose the book I gave Mr Darcy touched on a childhood memory, and in the end, I do not think he disliked it.
Georgiana, however, was on pins and needles.
She had tried to pry out of me what her gift was since I made no secret about certain comings and goings and generally behaved very mysteriously—much as I used to tease Kitty.
I was coy, telling her she was to get something very old, quite used, and perhaps sadly scarred.
She scoffed and pretended to be annoyed with me, resulting in a nearly painful eagerness to see her surprise.
At last I felt I had stretched her anticipation as far as I could and asked Mr Harrison to have a footman bring down her present.
We had been in the attics some weeks ago where, with squeals of delight, Georgiana discovered her childhood writing desk.
Being low on funds since quarter day falls after Christmas, I could think of nothing more elegant that I could afford, and so I had the poor old thing taken to the carpenter in Lambton to be refinished with new hinges and a good polish.
I filled it with exotic papers like those we used to send billet-doux to our imaginary beaus, and I even bought scented ink, which is truly vulgar but de rigueur for filigreed paper.
The result was magical. Georgiana fell into raptures, exclaiming and embracing me between lovingly examining every inch of the thing.
I began to wonder if losing her mother in childhood left her in a perpetual state of longing for those halcyon days before her loss, and perhaps an object from that time was a palpable remembrance.
“Aw Porge!” Colonel Fitzwilliam had exclaimed, watching her brush away tears.
Even Mr Darcy was surprised by her reaction, so much so, he rose and sat beside his sister to closely examine the desk and comfort her just a little.
Not for the first time did I wonder at how lonely this brother and sister seemed at times, how formal and stiff they were.
As much as I looked back on the undisciplined rough and tumble of Longbourn’s nursery with regret, I cannot say that a childhood at Pemberley was one I would envy .
In this reflective mood and at the end of an eventful few days, I finished my letter and rang for Wilson to dress for dinner. I had survived my first Christmas at Pemberley