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 discoveredhis 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.”
