Page 19

24th December 1812, Tuesday

Elizabeth favoured dark greens, soft yellows, deep reds, light browns and burnt pinks.

All earth tones that one would find in nature.

It was fitting, for Darcy knew now that she was no mere mortal but a forest nymph.

She wandered in the woods for hours, brought bread for the geese that swam at lake Rawhurst and sang along softly with birds as they chirped in the mornings.

Oft times in a quest to find her so as to join her on her morning rambles, he had come upon her quietly sitting under a tree ostensibly reading a book, but really feeding pine nuts and acorns to squirrels as they gathered around her as if she were their queen.

Once when she had come out of Longbourn with a basket to forage for berries and mushrooms, a small ragdoll cat had followed her around for almost a half hour while Darcy watched at a distance, not wanting to disturb the picturistically quaint scene of natural beauty before him, wishing he were a painter so that he might capture it with oils and a canvas and hang it up in his bedchamber.

Elizabeth was always beautiful, always joyful, but never more so as when she was outside in the gardens or surrounded by flora.

Darcy contemplated this as he held the book in his hand.

Le langage des fleurs was a book in french, recently published by a Madame Charlotte de la Tour and it detailed the variety of flowers and their meanings .

It was the cover that had first captured his attention- leather bound, with an intricate and elegant design of floral motifs and vines gilted and embossed both in the front and the back.

The bookmark inside was hand painted with light water colours and the illustrations of the flowers too were very pretty.

Considering the book’s pristine condition and that it was only recently published, the purchase was an expensive one, but seeing as he had spent almost the entire afternoon looking for a holiday gift for Elizabeth without any luck, he bought it in a heartbeat, assenting eagerly with a ‘yes, of course’ when the bookkeeper asked him if he would like to add an inscription on the flyleaf.

Darcy thought for a moment, quill on paper, then quickly added a quote from Volataire that has always reminded him of his Elizabeth,

La beauté pla?t aux yeux, la douceur charme l'ame.

Thanking the man, Darcy purchased the book and had it, along with a copy of A Sicilian Romance for Georgiana sent over to the Matlock house. He was just getting out of the shop when he saw Lady Matlock with his sister coming out of the Milliners in the bookshop’s direction with big smiles on their faces and three boxes being carried by a footman behind them.

“I hope I’m not getting a new bonnet for Christmas, Georgie.” Darcy smiled, teasing her as she came closer. Georgiana’s eyes widened for a second before realising he was speaking in jest, and then she giggled,

“No, nothing quite so fancy. I’ve only bought you a couple lengths of ribbon. What think you of orange, brother?”

Darcy made a face, “It would not be my first choice, but I suppose with my looks, I shall be able to pull it off well enough.”

Georgiana giggled again. In the last few days, ever since he had come to Matlock, she had seen a new light in her brother’s eyes and a particular ease in his manners that she had never remembered him having before. Indeed, she had thought he had always been solemn and fastidious until she had heard her aunt and uncle comment on his behaviour, speaking to each other in not low enough voices as Georgiana played the pianoforte for them, about how pleasant it was to see Darcy finally reverting back to the more happier man he was before his father had passed away.

She could not say that she did not remember how life was when her father was alive. Georgiana was a little younger than eleven when a horse riding accident took George Darcy away from his family. He was a strict but loving father, and Fitzwilliam a doting and affectionate brother. Beyond those vague memories, she could not say anything about either man without any certainty. If her brother was easier then than he was now, and if he was once again learning to become easy, at least in intimate company, she could only be thankful for it.

“What about you, Darcy?” Lady Matlock asked her nephew, “Are you done with all your shopping?”

“Yes, quite.” He had bought a Hennessy Cognac for his cousin Richard, Cuban cigars for his uncle and his eldest son Carlson and a shawl made of Indian silk for his aunt. Elizabeth and Georgiana’s gifts had been his last purchases, two of the closest women in his life taking up the most consideration before he could make a purchase.

“Come then, let’s return to the house. The days are shorter now. It will be dark soon.”

─── ※ ·?· ※ ───

When the Darcys and their aunt reached home, there was a small package awaiting Darcy, accompanied with a letter. Aunt Elinor very clearly saw the feminine hand this time around and the very pretty seal that enclosed both the letter and the package. Her eyes narrowed but before she could ask about either, Darcy made his excuses and quickly climbed upstairs to his sitting room .

My dearest, darling Fitzwilliam,

Is this a better salutation, my love, than the last? Forgive me if I injured you with my formality, Sir, but this is my first billet-doux, and I suppose like with everything else, I will only get better with practice. (Although, I do not think I would like to write to you so much as to become proficient. I would much prefer it if we could talk face to face.)

‘Tis the twenty-first today, though by the time this letter reaches you, it would be the twenty-fourth. May I wish you an early Happy Christmas, Fitzwilliam! and a happy new year! I hope your cousin and the rest of your family are in good health. I have been spending the past few days with my sisters preparing for boxing day. Mary and Jane are sewing gowns and gloves and scarves for the tenants' children and Kitty and I have been embroidering them industriously. Forgive me if my handwriting is a little poor, for my fingers are now constantly cramped and pin pricked and shall remain so till the twenty-sixth.

I do not think I got the chance to tell you when you were here, how happy I was that you came to Meryton to dance with me even though you knew you could not stay. When Netherfield had closed and the rest of your party had departed with naught but a brief farewell, I had despaired and was ready to release you from your promise even as I hoped that you would keep your word and claim your set. Perhaps, our behaviour was not quite proper, all things considered, and the both of us should have socialised with more people than just each other, but you will not find me censoring it, for I have grown accustomed to your attentions, sir, and I find myself now quite bereft without them.

Would we really be able to go to Italy, Fitzwilliam? Because I would dearly love to go. I do often prefer Italian culture over the french. I do not think, however, that I have ever expressed that opinion of mine to you. I suppose all those times I caught you looking at me, you were simply observing me, instead of trying to find fault. I confess, I got very cross with you in the beginning when I caught you staring, but I think I’ve adapted to it well, and now I only smile when I catch your eyes .

In any case, even beyond the Italian music, opera, art, and literature which, to me, is in all manners superior, I have always been fascinated by the country’s architecture. I have seen pictures of the Tower of Pisa, the Colosseum, and the Roman Forum in books and pamphlets my father has collected over the years, but I have never imagined I would be able to see them all with my own two eyes. The gondola rides too sound marvellous! Imagine travelling through a city on a boat! How singular! and then still there are the ruins of Pompeii! I’ve read about them extensively, but I do not think any amount of reading would do them justice.

I asked Mary what she thought about coming to Pemberley to stay with us and she was surprisingly very amenable. You must understand, Mary doesn’t like travelling, or meeting new people, or seeing new places. She is a very quiet sort of a girl and aside from her books and sermons and the pianoforte, has shown little interest in anything else. When I mentioned to her it was you who had extended the invite, she blushed and smiled and then very quietly told me that she thought you would make a fine brother! Whatever have you done to my poor little sister, Fitzwilliam? And will you, pray, continue doing it for I have rarely seen her get so excited about anything as she was about visiting Pemberley.

As for Lady Catherine, your letter came at a very serendipitous time, for it was not long before I read it that your aunt’s carriage stopped in front of Longbourn. I will not go into details of the affair for you know your aunt better than I and can probably guess how she behaved and what she said. I can only say that I am glad she did not meet my family, for while my father and I would’ve found the entire exchange no more than amusing, I’m afraid my mother and sisters would’ve been quite confused and distressed.

Oh, I can very clearly imagine your brows furrowing as you read this, Fitzwilliam, and I wager you are looking very severe. I did not relate to you this incident to make you angry, but rather because Lady Catherine left very displeased and was very adamant about being heard. I doubt she would journey north to Matlock in this cold weather, but in any case, I would not have you caught off guard if she did make an appearance.

My darling, will you not open your christmas present? Perhaps, my gift to you will lift your spirits which I have dampened with my letter. Do not brood over the incident for another second, Fitzwilliam. Instead simply, think fondly of me.

Your impatient betrothed,

Elizabeth Bennet

P.S. What about seasons, Fitzwilliam? Is there a particular season you prefer? And do not answer the question as Mr Darcy, Master of the grand estate of Pemberley who must take into consideration climates and temperatures so as to improve his harvests and yields. I simply want to know what my husband likes.

Darcy refolded the letter, then placed it inside his writing desk where the previous one was kept for safekeeping before he started pacing. The idea that his aunt had gone all the way to Hertfordshire to confront Elizabeth made his blood boil. That she hadn’t even condescended to meet the family of his betrothed both relieved him and made him want to rage. He was glad she hadn’t insulted Elizabeth’s parents and sisters with her callous insolence but that she had insulted Elizabeth. Elizabeth, who was better than a thousand Lady Catherines combined! It was insupportable! Who did she think she was, meddling in his affairs? Disparaging people that he loved?

Darcy huffed, then moved to his desk to pen a very angry, very rude letter when his eyes landed on the small package he had momentarily forgotten about. His christmas gift from his future wife.

He grinned like an idiot .

Taking a seat behind the desk, he eyed the small box. It was a little smaller than the palm of his hand and wrapped in red paper wrap with a green ribbon and a twine and sealed with Elizabeth’s burnt pink seal. He unwrapped it carefully, of a mind to save the paper and the ribbons like a child and took out the wooden box inside, opening it gingerly as if inside sat the holy grail itself.

The box opened to a pocket watch sitting on cushioned red velvet with a work as detailed as Darcy had ever seen. It only took him a moment to realise he was looking at the view from Oakham Mount painted with bright enamel colours over the otherwise gold case. It was beautiful and intricate and he turned it around to see the back only to read the inscription,

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I did till we loved?

Darcy blushed. Less because of the quote, lovely though it was, and more because of the poet. He hadn’t known Elizabeth read John Donne . What father allowed his gently bred daughter to read John Donne ? But even as Darcy asked himself the question, he knew. Mr Bennet was a very lackadaisical parent. And Elizabeth was a singular lady. Even if her father had censored her reading, he could well imagine a younger Elizabeth defying him, secretly of course, in her thirst for knowledge and wisdom. How much of what she read, she understood, Darcy did not know. His beloved was perhaps, sometimes a little too curious for her own good. But Elizabeth’s inquisitiveness and her bright mind, which was always hungry to learn, were some of the multitude of reasons he had fallen in love with her.

Clearing his throat, he popped open the watch, and was once again left discomposed when he saw the lock of glossy brown hair braided and twisted and encased in a small compartment inside. Almost reverently his thumb stroked the clear, crystal covering, and he let out a shuddering sigh.

He was carrying a part of her in his hand. He would carry it with him for the rest of his life .

His previous pocket watch, the one attached to his waistcoat even now, was passed on to him from his grandfather. Ironically, that watch had also originally been a love token from his grandmother to her husband. He would travel to Pemberley tomorrow and place it back in his vault. He now had his own love to carry on his person.

Darcy cleaned up his desk. The gift wrapper, the letter, and the first letter were all stacked together and then tied with the green ribbon that had come with the gift. He once again placed them inside the desk drawer, and then ideally wondered how many more letters would join the collection over the years. The pocket watch, he swapped for the one on his waistcoat immediately and then, going over to the looking glass, admired it like a dandy. Even beyond its sentimental value, which was priceless, it was a beautiful piece of work. The watch face was made of porcelain, the hands of the watch were a very delicate copper, the numbers were engraved in a strong roman numerical and an intricate, gilted arabian-esque design surrounded the watch dial. If Darcy had chosen it for himself, he could not have chosen better.

The watch was synced and told him it was almost time for supper. Richard had felt well enough yesterday to join the family for the meal though his left hand was still giving him trouble and Aunt Elenor was planning menus that would not necessarily require the use of a knife. Right after new years Darcy would take leave for Hertfordshire, and hopefully along with Georgiana, he would be able to take Richard with him too. There was no one else in the world Darcy would want to stand up with him on his wedding day than his cousin .Chapter 20

22th December 1812, Sunday

“ Lydia !”

One moment Lydia Bennet was suspended in the air, about to go crashing down thirty steps of stairs, the next, there was an arm around her waist, another around her shoulders, and she was being pulled back with such force that she crashed into her saviour, and together, the both of them fell down on their butts at the top of the staircase.

Lydia kept her eyes closed tightly and sought comfort in that familiar lavender and camomile scent that she had never quite noticed before was so pleasing.

Tears pricked beneath her eyelids and her throat hurt in an effort to stop a sob but she was determined not to cry.

This was not a very serious matter after all.

It was nothing to fret over.

All she had to do was fall down the stairs and it would all get better.

“Lyddie, look at me.” A warm hand on her face, soft except for the callouses on the tips of her fingers from playing too much piano, turned her face and Lydia opened her eyes to an identical pair staring into them, only this pair was set behind a pair clear spectacles, looking at her in a mixture of confusion, and anger, and worry, but most of all, fear, “What in the world were you thinking, Lydia?!”

Mary Bennet, as long as Lydia can remember, has always been a pedantic and pontificating woman.

She judged and rebuked and lectured and was the very antithesis of everything that Lydia was.

If she was not her sister by birth, Lydia was sure she would’ve never looked at Mary twice .

But she was her sister, and despite their differing characters and personalities, the Bennet sisters had a very innate, very fundamental sense of loyalty and love for eachother.

The kind that comes from growing up in a household with a mother too silly to mother the right way and a father too disinterested to father any better.

One look at her older sister’s petrified face had Lydia losing all her composure, her face crumbling like a waded handkerchief as she broke down into noisy sobs and fat, hot tears, lamenting the unfairness of life and the loss of her once-bright future.

“ Oh Lyddie. ” Mary murmured, gathering the younger girl in her arms and muffling her bawling against her shoulder.

In time, the two of them stood up and Mary, half carrying Lydia, walked them over to her bedroom.

Mary Bennet had very simple tastes, and her room reflected that very well.

A made up four poster-bed sat in the centre of the room with cream-coloured draperies and canopy, a dressing table was stationed in one corner next to the fireplace with a boudoir chair and a writing desk where Mary spent most of her time copying scriptures and sermons was placed in front of the window.

A sturdy armoire and a dressing screen sectioned off the rest of the room from a more private corner where a chamberpot and a washstand were stationed for her nightly ablutions.

The three oldest Bennet sisters had their own rooms, though oftentimes Lizzy and Jane spend the night in one for they had a habit of sharing confidences before sleeping each night.

Mary preferred her privacy, though, being a middle child between four sisters who had quite neatly paired up with each other, said privacy was not always voluntary and not always welcome.

It did have it’s advantages, however, like now when she was quite forgotten by the rest of the ladies of the household as they’d gone off to call on Mrs Phillips, a relation who, though Mary loved, she could never understand or accept because of her unseemly behaviour towards younger, pleasant-looking men and tendency to gossip.

She laid Lydia down on her bed, then joined her sister when it became clear the girl did not have any intention to let go.

Together, the two sisters cuddled until Lydia calmed down, Mary whispered comforting, nonsensical gibberish in her ear and stroked her hair like she was a baby.

When Lydia had finally stopped trembling, Mary pulled away just enough to look at her and ask,

“Truly Lydia, what was going on in your head? You could’ve hurt yourself. Maybe even died.”

Lydia pouted, though it was a very different sort of pout from the usual obnoxiously fussy one she wore when she could not steal her sisters’ bonnet,

“I wish I would have.” She hiccuped, “And when you find out why, you would wish it too, Mary, I know you would!”

“Wish you would have died !” Mary looked at Lydia aghast, trying to make sense of what her sister was saying, “I could never wish for such a horrible thing! I could never even think of it!”

When Lydia just shook her head, Mary once again pulled her in a hug, “Pray, tell me what is wrong, Lyddie. You are scaring me.”

Lydia stilled.

“You cannot tell anyone.” She begged, “Not mama or papa or any of our other sisters.”

It was a promise Mary did not make lightly, for she would never break her word if she gave it.

But these were extenuating circumstances, and Mary was determined to fix whatever it was, even if she had to do it alone.

“I will not tell our parents or our sisters.”

“Or anyone in Meryton! Or the Gardiners!” Lydia added quickly .

Mary huffed, almost smiled before she remembered the scene she had come to out on the bannister.

It sobered her very quickly.

“I promise.”

Lydia took a deep breath.

Pulling away from her sister, she looked Mary right in the eyes and said in an unusually quiet, unsure tone, “Mary, what do I do? I think I might be with child.”

Mary’s heart dropped.

Lydia burst into tears anew but Mary did not hear her.

There was blood rushing in her ears, and her arms around her sister felt numb and cold.

The words repeated over and over in her head, I might be with child, I might be with child, I might be with child.

A dozen verses from a dozen sermons and scriptures screamed at her.

For years, she had made a study of them.

A virtuous woman doesn’t outwardly covet the attention of the opposite sex.

She dresses with simplicity and speaks without design and she most certainly does not engage in…

in.

.

in activities that lead to this sort of a predicament!

A woman who engages in fornication is ruined both in the eyes of society and the eyes of God.

Her reputation is in tatters and her name and her family’s is blackened and no one will ever look upon that woman with anything other than disgust.

And yet-

“You do wish me dead now, do you not, Mary?” Lydia sobbed, too afraid to look anymore at her sister’s horrified countenance, she hid her face in her pale, trembling hands, “You should’ve let me fall! ”

And yet, this was her sister.

Her baby sister.

Her little Lyddie, who, before she had learned to walk and talk and become silly, had often toddled over to Mary with her arms outstretched and her lips turned up in a wide smile.

This was not a woman condemned but an ignorant, innocent soul and for all the years she had spent shaming Lydia’s overly-flirtatious actions and irregulated manners, Mary did not doubt for a moment that her little sister was a victim.

Someone who had been taken advantage of.

Someone who now needed comfort and love and above all, protection.

She gently pulled Lydia’s hands away from her face.

Lydia looked up at Mary with scared eyes and blinked when she found nothing in them but a very grim determination to set everything to rights,

“You must tell me everything, Lyddie.” Mary said seriously, “From the very beginning.”

And so Lydia did.

From the beginning of her acquaintance with Mr Wickham, she shared her every interaction with that man with her sister.

Their flirtations, his charming manners, his singular attention towards her and then later, his promises, and his declarations of love, most of which were made in the heat of passion, but Lydia had believed him anyway, like an idiot!

“Have you told him about your condition?” Mary asked her tightly, trying to calm herself so as to not shake Lydia by her shoulders for her stupidity.

How she could give her virtue to a man she had only met a few of months ago, who was a veritable stranger to them then and who they now knew was a blackguard through Lizzy and Mr Darcy’s accounts, was beyond her understanding, “Will he marry you?”

Lydia shook her head, “I did tell him. He said he would not.” She wailed, “He said I am too loud and poor and only passably pretty! ”

Mary sighed, but dutifully pulled Lydia back in her arms.

She was not quite sure, despite the drastic action her little sister had been about to take, that Lydia understood her mistakes, or if she even repented.

Lydia was not yet sixteen, and in more ways than less, was very much still a child.

Perhaps with time and proper attention, Lydia would have grown into a sensible woman, but now with a babe on the way and no husband whose name she could take, Mary feared for her sister, for her very silliness and uncaring attitude that she thought made her so attractive could very well become her noose.

Another, much larger part of her was furious- not at Lydia but at Mr Wickham.

With what selfishness and daring had he ruined the life of a gentlewoman!

With what nerve and negligence had he then refused to take responsibility for his actions!

What kind of an evil man lived in their midst even now, brandishing himself in clothes of men who had sworn to protect them!

Mary had promised her sister to not say a word to her father, but she now realised that even if she hadn’t made such a promise, Mr Bennet was not the right man to go to for help.

He would get angry on his daughter's behalf, maybe even call Mr Wickham out, but he did not have the kind of leverage needed to make men like Wickham do things against their will, and in the event a duel was proposed, her father would be much older and weaker than his opponent and the match would only lead to his demise.

No, Mary could not go with this to her father. She needed another man’s protection.

She needed a brother.

“Lyddie, listen to me.” She gently nudged Lydia away from her just enough so as to meet the other girl’s eyes, “We need Mr Darcy.”

Lydia’s eyes widened like saucers, “Mary, no! ”

“We have no other choice!” Mary insisted, “Father, Uncle Gardiner, Uncle Phillips, none of them can help us with this. You know what Lizzy told us. Wickham is a gambler and a rake. Even if he could be persuaded to marry you, he will demand a lot of money. No one in our family can afford it except him.”

Lydia shook her head, though her eyes were hesitant, “What if he says no?”

“He will not.” Mary did not know how she knew, but she did. Mr Darcy was an honourable man, “Mr Darcy loves Lizzy, and he is very good to me. He might be a little solemn and severe looking, but I have no doubt that he will help us.”

“But, you can’t tell Lizzy! You promised you would not!”

“I won’t.” Mary agreed, and did not bother telling Lydia that even if she did not say a word, once Mr Darcy knew, their papa and Lizzy will be the first ones to know, “I will write to him myself.”

A silent moment passed between the two sisters as they just looked at eachother,

“Do you really think he will help?” Lydia asked in a quiet voice,

“If he wants to marry Lizzy, he will.” Mary replied, “If you are ruined, then by extension, so are we all. And a ruined woman can never marry into a respectable family. Mr Darcy will not let that happen. He will save us.”

Lydia chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, her eyes wide and innocent and now shining with hope. Mary was reminded painfully of her sister as a little child, gazing into Meryton’s milliner’s shop through the display glass into all the pretty bonnets and ribbons she was always so impatient to wear. Really, Lydia was just so very young.

“Very well, then.” She nodded, “Please write to Mr Darcy. ”