Chapter Eight
Darcy prided himself on reading situations correctly. It was a skill that had served him well in business, in social settings, and in the careful navigation of his generally well-ordered life. But as he stood in the morning room at Pemberley on the morning of Christmas Eve, he was beginning to suspect that his analytical abilities might have their limitations.
“Waffles, that’s not your breakfast,” Elizabeth was saying, her voice caught between exasperation and laughter. “You’ve already had yours.”
The golden retriever looked up at her with an expression of innocence. Meanwhile, Athena sat by the tall windows watching until she had evidently had enough. Then she trotted right over to Waffles and hip-checked him away from her food.
Elizabeth had driven up from London with an overnight bag and what appeared to be half of Waffles’s possessions. “He gets anxious sleeping in new places,” she’d explained, depositing a bag of toys, blankets, and various dog paraphernalia in the entrance hall. “I thought if he had familiar things, he might behave better.”
Darcy had nodded and smiled, though privately he wondered how one dog could need so many accessories for a two-day visit. Athena had neverneeded anything beyond a tennis ball and her usual bed and blanket, which had been in the same corner of the utility room for the past three years.
It was fitted up for her, of course, and she had other beds around the house. But he’d removed the one from the library for this visit. He was very fond of Waffles, whirling dervish that he was, but he wasn’t sure he could trust the beast around all the books.
Now, as Darcy watched Elizabeth redirect Waffles’s attention to a rubber chicken, Darcy again found himself charmed. There was something rather wonderful about seeing her here, moving through rooms with such easy confidence, making herself at home in a way that transformed the grand estate into something that felt like a home. He hadn’t felt that way about the old pile since his father died.
“Coffee?” he offered, reaching for the Ethiopian beans he’d requested that his housekeeper stock.
“Please.” Elizabeth straightened up and pushed a curl behind her ear. She looked beautiful this morning, wearing jeans and a cream jumper that made her skin glow in the winter light streaming through the windows. “And thank you again for having us here for Christmas. Pemberley is even more beautiful than you described.”
“I’m delighted you’re here,” Darcy said, and was surprised by how much he meant it. He’d been nervous about bringing Elizabeth to Pemberley. The house could be rather overwhelming, with its history and grandeur. But she’d taken it all in stride, exclaiming over the paintings and the library without seeming intimidated by the scale of it all.
The truth was, before the dinner with her family, Darcy had been expecting to feel overwhelmed. Yes, the Bennets were loud. Yes, they lacked the refined polish he was accustomed to. But there had been something undeniably warm about their home, something genuine in the way they’d welcomed him without pretence or ceremony.
Her mother had tried to inquire into his finances as much as her youngest sister had, but he hadn’t detected any real malice in them. These days all they had to do was search his family’s name online and they’d have nearly all the information they could wish. Evidently, they hadn’t done that, unlike most people he was meeting for the first time. He only wished he’d been less . . . stiff. It had been bred into him early that overt signs of affection weren’t polite. He knew his parents had loved him; it wasn’t that he had felt neglected in any way. It was just . . . nice to see a family so at ease with one another.
“So,” Elizabeth saidas she settled into one of the armchairs by the fireplace with her coffee and tucked her legs beneath her. “What’s the plan for today? Besides preventing Waffles from destroying your ancestral home, obviously.”
Darcy glanced toward the side table, where the elegantly wrapped headphones sat beside a small collection of other presents. Georgiana was with friends. She’d return this afternoon, and they’d planned a proper Christmas exchange tomorrow morning, but he’d wanted this moment—this private exchange—to be just theirs.
“I thought we might exchange our presents this morning. Before Georgiana comes back. Something just for us.”
“Perfect,” Elizabeth said, though something in her expression implied she was more nervous than excited. “But about my present for you . . .”
She reached for a lumpy parcel, wrapped in plaid paper and tied at the top with a familiar red ribbon. “I should warn you,” Elizabeth continued, holding the present as though it might explode. “I’m not . . . well, you’ll see. Just remember that it’s the thought that counts, right?”
Darcy took the package with a sort of careful reverence. Elizabeth was watching him with an anxious expression, her coffee cup balanced precariously on her knee.
“Three months, first Christmas, all that. Just . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Try to look pleased, even if it’s hideous.”
Darcy unwrapped the package while Elizabeth literally held her breath. The paper fell away to reveal something that was unmistakably a scarf, though it was quite possibly the most extraordinary scarf he’d ever seen.
The craftsmanship was, to put it charitably, enthusiastic rather than expert. One end was notably wider than the other, the edges curved in ways that defied both logic and physics, and there was a section in the middle where the stitches had gone quite dramatically wrong before being corrected.
It was knitted in a blue-grey wool that was almost exactly the colour of his eyes.
Absolutely dreadful. Absolutely perfect.
“Elizabeth,” he breathed as he ran his fingers over the uneven stitches. “I didn’t know you knitted.”
“I don’t, clearly.” She hid her face in her hands. “I know it’s awful. I know you must have a million scarves from Dunhill’s, and this looks like it was knitted by a four-year-old, but I wanted to give you something that was . . . well, fromme.” She peeked at him through her fingers.
Darcy stared down at the scarf. He could picture it: Elizabeth sitting in her flat, swearing at the knitting needles, starting over multiple times, persevering despite obvious evidence that handicrafts were not her forte. All because she wanted to give him something personal, something that would be his alone in these grand rooms filled with centuries of accumulated treasures.
“The colour,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s . . .”
“The colour of your eyes,” Elizabeth admitted, her cheeks a bright pink that made his mouth go dry. “I spent an hour in John Lewis comparingwool to my mental picture. The shop assistant thought me completely mad.”
Darcy looked up at her then, this remarkable woman who had spent weeks creating something that said, more plainly than any expensive purchase could, that she’d been thinking about him. That she cared enough to learn a new skill, badly, for his sake.
