Page 116 of Dear Friend

There seemed little reason either of them should remain strangers.

He pulled the bell.

Georgiana glanced towards him. “What are you doing?”

When the servant entered, Darcy turned towards him. “Have the carriage prepared for tomorrow morning and see that arrangements are made for our journey into Hertfordshire.”

“Our journey?” Georgiana repeated as the servant withdrew.

Darcy turned back to find her staring at him, surprise already giving way to delight.

“Pack your trunks, Georgiana. We shall spend Christmas in Hertfordshire.”

Chapter Forty

25th December 1811

Longbourn

Elizabeth

By Christmas morning, Elizabeth had begun to suspect that directing an important letter to a house its intended recipient had quitted months ago might not have been quite so clever as it had seemed when she wrote it.

She had written her reply two days after receiving Darcy’s letters, by which time she had managed to separate the accident which first placed her correspondence in his hands from everything he had chosen to do afterwards. That the letters had come into his possession was not his fault, nor, she had finally conceded, had he opened the first with any intention of invading her privacy. It was his decision to continue reading them, and later to meet her without admitting what he had done, which had caused the injury between them.

Elizabeth had sent her reply the following morning and had been rather pleased with herself at the time. Willowbrook had seemed the perfect direction, and there was something irresistibly amusing in trusting the same peculiar circumstance which had once placed her letters into Mr. Darcy’s hands to do so again. She had expected whoever remained at the cottage to forward it to him, just as her letters had once followed him from Somerset to Hertfordshire. Several days without any acknowledgement had made the joke considerably less entertaining.

Not that she expected an answer. Elizabeth reminded herself of this as she sat beside Julia in the drawing room, listening with only half an ear while her friend attempted to settle an argument between Kitty and Lydia concerning a ribbon, even as she wrapped a small box of her own. Elizabeth had not asked Mr. Darcy to write, nor had she directly asked him to return. She had merely informed him that her wishes had changed and hinted, quite clearly in her opinion, that she would be glad to see him again.

If the gentleman required a more explicit invitation than that, he did not deserve one.

“You have not heard a word I said.” Julia nudged her lightly with one elbow.

Elizabeth turned towards her. “I heard you perfectly.”

“What did I say?”

“That is an unreasonable test of whether I was listening.”

Julia laughed and returned to the small parcel she had been wrapping for her father. She had been staying at Longbourn for several days now, Mr. Harding having gone to spend Christmas with his wife and infant son, and was to remain with the Bennets until he returned for her. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called that morning to pay his Christmas respects and had lingered considerably longer than such a call required, though Elizabeth had wisely refrained from remarking upon it. His enquiries after Julia had become remarkably frequent of late, and Julia’s colour whenever his name was mentioned made it increasingly unnecessary to wonder why.

Christmas had made Longbourn more disorderly than usual. Mr. Bingley was expected before dinner, Mary had been at the pianoforte for much of the morning, and Mrs. Bennet had already gone twice to inspect preparations which she had declared perfect the previous evening. Even Mr. Bennet had surrendered his library for part of the morning, though Elizabeth suspected his generosity would not survive Lydia’s next noisy passage through the hall.

It ought to have been impossible to think excessively of one gentleman amid so much commotion. Elizabeth had managed it remarkably well.

She had wondered whether her letter had reached Willowbrook and whether whoever received it there would know where to forward it. Perhaps Darcy had already left London for Pemberley, and the unfortunate letter was presently pursuing him across half of England. More troubling still was the question of what he would think when he finally read it.

Elizabeth had written quickly because she knew that if she permitted herself too much reflection, pride might prevent her from writing at all. Afterwards, however, every incautious sentence had returned to her with increasing clarity, particularly the one she now suspected she might have phrased with rather more restraint.

Indeed, I think I should be very glad to see you.

At the time, it had seemed merely honest. Several days later, Elizabeth could admit that it had been considerably more than that. She wanted to see him. She wanted to know whether the ease they had once shared could survive everything that had passed between them, and she wanted, with an eagerness she no longer cared to deny, to hear his voice and see him standing before her again.

The only difficulty was that Mr. Darcy appeared determined to make her wait.

“Lizzy.”

Elizabeth blinked and looked at Julia. “What?”