“Please tell me you’re not still knitting,” Jane said without preamble. “It’s been hours.”
“I’m not still knitting,” Elizabeth lied.
“Elizabeth.”
“Alright, fine. But I’m nearly finished!”
“It’s not about the knitting,” Jane interrupted. “It’s about you tyingyourselfin knots—no pun intended—over a Christmas present. He’s mad about you. Anyone with eyes can see that. I worry that you’re putting too much pressure on this present.”
“It’s been three months, Jane. Three months. I don’t want to come on too strong, but I also don’t want it to seem as though I don’t care. It’s like some horrible mathematical equation where every variable leads to catastrophe.”
“Charles told me that Darcy spent twenty minutes at dinner last week explaining the difference between various coffee bean origins because he wanted to understand why you prefer Ethiopian to Colombian. The man researched coffee beans for you.”
Elizabeth paused mid-stitch. “Did he?”
“He also asked Charles to ask me what your favourite flowers were. He’s been walking past the florist on his way to work just in case inspiration strikes.”
Something warm and fizzy bubbled up in Elizabeth’s chest, like champagne mixed with sunlight. “He has?”
“That’s what Charles said. So stop torturing yourself and just give him something that comes from you. Even if it looks like it was knitted in the dark.”
The laugh burst from her, uncontrolled, no doubt her sister’s intention. “Jane!”
“I’m kidding! It’ll be wonderful because it’s from you. Now put the needles down and have a glass of wine.”
After Jane hung up, Elizabeth sat in her living room, the scarf warm in her lap. Outside, London hummed with its usual evening symphony: buses sighing to stops, the distant rumble of the Underground, someone’s music booming from a passing car, the upstairs neighbours stamping heavily on the floor as though they were playing football.
She thought about Darcy asking Charles about her favourite flowers. She thought about him remembering the type of coffee she liked and holding open her car door, and all the tiny, careful ways he’d been showing her he cared.
Maybe Jane was right. Maybe it wasn’t about the present being perfect. Maybe it was about the giving itself, the act of saying:I’ve been thinking about you. I care enough to try, even if I’m rubbish at it. You matter to me.
Elizabeth took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and picked up the needles again. This was happening. She was going to finish the wonky, lopsided, absolutely appalling scarf. She was going to fold tissue paper around it, put it in a box, and wrap it with Christmas paper. She was going to tie a ribbon around it and give it to Darcy with her heart in her throat.
And ready or not, come Christmas, he was going to know exactly how much she cared.
Chapter Two
William Darcy did not believe in dithering. His life was composed of timetables and precision, the neat grid of a calendar and the unbending order of a well-managed portfolio. If there was a problem, he solved it. If there was a gap, he filled it. If something needed doing, he arranged for the best possible person to do it.
Which was why the entire matter of Elizabeth Bennet had left him, well, undone.
She was chaos dressed up in curls and quick wit, unpredictability wrapped in laughter, and yet somehow the most grounding force he had ever known.
Just more than three months, and she had permanently rearranged his world.
Three months of her quicksilver wit, of golden retriever hair on his suits, of late-night texts that were equal parts hilarious and sweet. Normally, he trusted the numbers. The data spoke; the models held. But Elizabeth Bennet did not behave according to any logical forecast. He was quietly thrilled.
And anxious. Because now it was Christmas, and with Christmas came the question of a present.
Darcy sipped his coffee in the immaculate kitchen of his Belgravia flat and contemplated the problem. The present had to be perfect. Not extravagant enough to alarm her—Elizabeth was sensible to the bone, and he doubted she’d appreciate anything that smacked of display or, heaven forbid, an attempt to impress her with his bank balance. Not careless either, as though he’d delegated the task to his assistant with a vague instruction to “find something nice.” It had to strike the exact note: considered, thoughtful, significant without being overwhelming.
It was rather like threading a needle while taking a horse over fences.
He’d once stood in front of a room of irate clients and explained why a blue-chip’s dividend had evaporated. Even that had been less unnerving than choosing a present for Elizabeth.
Athena, sprawled elegantly on the marble floor, yawned her opinion of his predicament.
“You’re no help at all,” Darcy told her, setting down his cup with a decisive clink.
