Epiphany with Tea
A Christmas Tale
by
Renata McMann
and
Summer Hanford
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From Ashes to Heiresses
In the wake of a devastating fire at Longbourn, Elizabeth and Jane are taken in by their aunt and uncle in Meryton. Concerned about their situation, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley come to Hertfordshire, but not before Mr. Wickham attempts to use Jane’s heartache to his advantage.
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With special thanks to our editor, Joanne Girard
Cover by Summer Hanford
Copyright 2016 by Renata McMann & Summer Hanford
All rights reserved
December 1822, Pemberley . . .
After nine years, Darcy knew Elizabeth well enough to guess she didn’t consider their disagreement of the day before resolved. His first and most salient clue was the look she’d leveled on him after his previous day’s declaration that he would not discuss the issue of Wickham’s son further. It was the first time he’d made that sort of arbitrary declaration to Elizabeth and he’d regretted the words, his father’s, as soon as they left his mouth. The glorious sight of her, shoulders back and eyes afire with emotion, was almost worth her anger, but he didn’t truly enjoy provoking his wife or mirroring certain traits of his sire.
If her reaction yesterday hadn’t been enough of an indication of her feelings, her absence that morning was. Normally, Elizabeth would appear, generally with one or both of their children in tow, as he was finishing dressing. From there, they would all go down to breakfast together, though little Jane, just three, generally stayed only a short time. Their son, Fitzwilliam, was eight now and took pride in exhibiting proper manners at the table, which, in turn, was a source of pride for Darcy. Today, however, Darcy dressed in suspicious silence, punctuated only by brief exchanges with a studiously bland valet.
Arriving in the breakfast parlor, Darcy found matters worse than expected. Instead of her usual place at his side, where she would sneak glances at his morning paper and converse with him on the topics, Elizabeth sat at the foot of the long table. She’d already served herself and sat straight backed, perched on the edge of her chair, slicing her food with deft strokes. She wore black. He knew it was out of respect for her recently deceased sister, Lydia, but Darcy still saw it as a grim omen. Though the color emphasized the fine quality of Elizabeth’s complexion, he would have spared her the necessity of wearing it if he could.
“Good morning,” Darcy said. He considered crossing the room to drop a kiss on her brow, but the somewhat savage and exceedingly efficient slicing warned him away. He crossed to the sideboard and served himself, motioning for one of the footmen to bring his coffee.
By the time Darcy took his seat, the silence from Elizabeth’s end of the table was becoming acute. He took a sip of coffee, glancing about the room. His gaze lingered on the bow-bedecked evergreen boughs, festively placed over the windows and draping the mantel. He’d never confided it to her, but he loved that Elizabeth insisted on decorating so much of their home for the Yuletide. A secret part of him, harkening back to somewhere in his youth, drew a spark of wonder from the trappings of the season.
His perusal of the room coming full circle, he returned his gaze to his wife, whom he knew desired a continuation of their discussion on Wickham’s son. “I believe this is where you supply a polite return greeting.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in a look of amusingly sincere innocence. “I take it, then, that having a good morning is a topic which we may discuss further?” She smiled sweetly.
Darcy cast another look around the room, this time noting the three footmen and two kitchen maids. “Would you excuse Mrs. Darcy and myself, please?” he said to the room at large.
They murmured ascent and shuffled out, not really hiding their disappointment. They would, he assumed, listen at the doors. At least that way they wouldn’t actually witness his defeat, if indeed he suffered one, only overhear it.
“You cannot expect anyone else to take him, Darcy,” Elizabeth said as soon as the door closed behind their staff.
Darcy suppressed a smile. One of the things he loved about his wife was her directness. “I can and I do. No one would fault me for not taking in George Wickham’s son. Especially in view of my history with the man.” Wickham had spread misconceptions about him, tried to elope with his sister when she was only fifteen, and cost him thousands of pounds. The last occurred shortly after he married Elizabeth, when Wickham ran off with Lydia but wouldn’t marry her unless Darcy paid him a substantial amount. Wickham had known Darcy would pay to save his wife’s sister from disgrace.
“Most people do not know the extent of your history with Mr. Wickham, and so would not weigh it when judging whether or not you should take in his son, but you cannot tell me that you truly care what most people think of your actions,” she said, setting aside her silverware.
“Well, then, those who know me well enough to provide opinions which matter to me would not expect me to open my home to the boy.” Surely, Elizabeth must understand that. He took another sip of coffee. “Think of our children.”
“Our children?” She raised her eyebrows. “Surely you don’t believe an eight-year-old boy is dangerous?”
“No, but he will be. If we take him in and raise him alongside Fitzwilliam, he will end up just as his father did. He’ll grow to be useless, penniless, a seducer of gentlemen’s daughters, a vagrant, and die in a duel over another man’s wife three years after wedding.” Or worse, Darcy added to himself.
“I suppose you believe he’ll also grow up to attempt eloping with our daughter?” Elizabeth’s tone was an equal mixture of amusement and exasperation.
“I do.” Darcy set a firm look upon his face. He was resolved not to be swayed in this. He hadn’t grieved the day Wickham died. He would not permit the man a postmortem foray into his life.
“Where, then, do you think my sister’s son will go?”
Darcy didn’t care, so long as it had nothing to do with his family, but he knew that was not the correct reply. “He shall live with your mother and Miss Mary. I’ll increase their stipend. It will please them and give greater meaning to their lives.”
“If there is anyone who would surely bring out the worst tendencies in the boy’s nature, it is my mother. She is the perfect person to turn young George into all you fear he may become, and a terribly negligent parent. Perhaps if my father . . .” She trailed off, shrugging. As always when her late father was mentioned, sorrow flickered in her gaze.
Darcy, too, thought it was a shame Mr. Bennet had already left them. Though Darcy wasn’t as confident in Mr. Bennet’s parenting skills as Elizabeth seemed to be, no one was a more stimulating conversationalist, both on the too-rare occasions they’d met in person and by correspondence. Darcy still had all of his late father-in-law’s letters, and sometimes referred to them for opinions, or simply to smile. He cleared his throat. “Miss Mary is there as well, to provide a sober influence.”
“Yes, that’s what the lad needs. My overly pious, insular sister spouting Bibl
e verses she doesn’t quite comprehend at him day after day.”
“It will do him good,” Darcy said, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe any child would flourish under the neglect of Mrs. Bennet and the attention of Miss Mary.
Elizabeth leveled a look at him that spoke volumes on her opinion of the sincerity of his statement.
“Your sister Kitty was closest to Lydia,” he offered.
“Kitty’s health is increasingly precarious, rendering her nearly incapacitated most days, and her husband will never be promoted above lieutenant and has no family connections.” Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at him. “Before you suggest it, you know he’s too proud to permit you to buy a promotion for him.”
“He wouldn’t need to know who was responsible.” Darcy knew there would be little doubt, though, that the promotion had been secured by him.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Darcy, you know we are the only choice. Would you send my sister’s child to an orphanage?”
“There are the Bingleys, the Gardiners and the Philips.” He leaned back in his chair, feeling slightly smug. Elizabeth couldn’t possibly have a good reason why none of the three would suit.
“My Aunt and Uncle Gardiner have five children of their own to care for, and much fewer resources than we have. My Aunt Phillips would hardly be a better parent than my mother. In case you have forgotten, ever since Longbourn passed into Mr. Collins’ care, my mother and Mary live two houses from the Phillips. You may as well subject the boy to Mother’s care.”
“You cannot have a reason your nephew can’t go to the Bingleys.” Darcy was confident enough in this to permit himself a celebratory grin.
Elizabeth’s answering smile doused his. “Did I forget to tell you, then, that Jane is with child again?”
Darcy winced. Still, the Bingleys obviously enjoyed a large family, so why not add one more? He opened his mouth to say as much.
“Given that she’s born two sets of twins already, and that she and Charles have six children already, I really don’t feel we can ask it of them,” Elizabeth said before Darcy could speak. Her smile fell. “You know Charles’ investments haven’t gone well,” she said in a lower voice. “I don’t want to put any more pressure on them. The strain is beginning to show.”
Darcy was aware that Bingley was in some financial difficulties, but hadn’t thought it anything significant. It wouldn’t be like Elizabeth to fabricate, though. He frowned, reviewing recent interactions with his friend. If looked at through the lens of Elizabeth’s words, he could construe some of Bingley’s statements and an increase in the tension evident in his mien as indication that things were more dire than Bingley let on. “I didn’t realize.”
“He doesn’t wish you to know, but Jane confided in me.” Elizabeth stirred her tea, her expression contemplative. When she met his eyes again, her smile returned. “So, you see, we are the best choice.”
“I do not see.” Darcy grimaced at the slightly sullen edge to his words. “I will not have a young George Wickham in our home.” He gentled his tone. “I am sorry Lydia died, especially so near Christmas, but you cannot ask me to welcome a repetition of the troubles inflicted on Georgiana and myself. What form of parent would I be if I willfully subjected our children to such trials?” He braced himself for her ire. Elizabeth was at least as strong willed as he was.
Her expression softened, much to Darcy’s surprise. “You would be a good parent, because that is what you are.” She pressed her lips into a contemplative line. “I believe the flaw here is in your basic assumption. Having refused to ever meet the boy, you do not know him. You assume he embodies the worst traits of both my sister and his father. You know I visited Lydia several times.” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “He’s a good lad. You cannot condemn him for being his father’s son. At least meet him. If life has taught me two things, one is that you must come to know someone before you deem yourself capable of judging them and the other is that you can’t know a person based simply on their relations.”
Darcy blinked. He took a sip of coffee. He knew Elizabeth’s words were true, but it was George Wickham come again to intrude on the lives of Darcys. How could he condone that? Across the table from him, Elizabeth raised her teacup to her lips.
It was his mother’s favorite set, he noted. Elizabeth preferred it. When they’d first wed, he’d given her every permission to replace it, if she so desired, but she hadn’t. It was the same set, in fact, that his Aunt Catherine often used. The two, his mother and aunt, had both taken a liking to the pattern and commissioned them together, to match.
Seeing Elizabeth sitting across from him, cradling that delicate china cup with its expertly detailed roses, took Darcy back to the most important day in his life. The day Elizabeth Bennet agreed to be his.
Over Nine Years Earlier, April 1813, Rosings . . .
As usual, his Aunt Catherine was dominating the conversation. She was droning on about the weather, at what could only be considered an exhaustive length. She insisted it would rain that very evening. No one asked her what she based her forecast on. For his part, Darcy didn’t care to know, or to prolong the experience by arguing.
His aunt’s clergyman, Mr. Collins, seated to her right, didn’t ask either. Instead, he agreed with her enthusiastically. That wasn’t much worth noting, since he always agreed with her. Usually, Mrs. Collins was present to alleviate some of the tedium. She had a knack for turning the conversation to a new topic by asking Lady Catherine for advice. Today, however, Mrs. Collins was tending her visiting younger sister, who wasn’t feeling well, and Darcy couldn’t think of a single thing he was willing to ask Lady Catherine’s advice on, although she would be happy to give advice on any topic, regardless of how much she actually knew about it.
Across from them, Darcy’s cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, appeared amused, though likely not for reasons their aunt would appreciate. Darcy glanced at Lady Catherine’s daughter, Anne, seated near Richard. She wore an unreadable expression and Darcy didn’t linger on it to attempt interpretation, or even spare a glance for her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson. Instead, he permitted his gaze to rest on the one person he wished most to observe, Elizabeth Bennet.
She sat, straight backed, on the edge of an overly-ornate settee, giving Lady Catherine her attention without the slightest trace of boredom or skepticism. It was one of the many things Darcy admired about Elizabeth. She was always polite. As he watched, she raised a delicate, rose-adorned teacup to her lips, taking a sip. From where he sat, he could observe she used the cup to hide a smile from his aunt, holding it before her until she regained control of her expression. Darcy admired the tactic.
Elizabeth’s sparkling gaze flicked toward him, sharing her amusement. It occurred to Darcy that, with her propensity for enlivened thought, she was likely entertained by how ludicrously his aunt was behaving. He ought to be offended. She should be more deferential. Elizabeth Bennet wasn’t of a high enough station to be amused by his aunt.
Yet, in what other positive light could anyone regard the conversation? Lady Catherine was bullying, arbitrary and self-absorbed. Were she not a titled lady and his aunt, he would object to her behavior. One must either take up Elizabeth’s tactic, be bored, or be affronted. Darcy generally elected boredom, but Elizabeth appeared to be having a much nicer time than he was.
It occurred to him, for all her inner merriment, Elizabeth likely did object to his aunt’s behavior. His cousin Anne had detailed to him how Lady Catherine asked Elizabeth impertinent questions, which Elizabeth responded to with both politeness and spirit. Darcy wished he’d been witness to one such exchange. He could spend every day listening to Elizabeth’s wit.
Elizabeth turned her attention back to his aunt, setting down the rose-adorned teacup. Darcy permitted his gaze to linger on her elegant profile, finding perfection there. He wondered if she had any notion of how he’d come to regard her? She must, for he took few pains to hide it. In light of that, her smile of moments ago
must be viewed as encouraging. She must see him in a positive light, at the least.
Or must she? As his aunt droned on, Darcy mulled over his interactions with Elizabeth, looking for clues as to how she regarded him. He was perceived, he knew, as somewhat lofty. Did he appear to be similar to his aunt? Did others compare her obnoxious snobbishness with his reasonable recognition that he was better than most of those around him?
His gaze glided over Elizabeth’s elegantly curved figure, wondering how she would react to his thoughts on himself. Would she argue with him and let him know if she considered him to have bad manners? Or, would she give him polite smiles and hide broader ones behind teacups?
If she did argue with him, would she be right to?
“Lady Catherine,” a woman’s voice said.
His musing interrupted, Darcy turned toward the sound. He was surprised to find Anne’s companion was speaking. He couldn’t recall a time the prim, drab looking woman had ever initiated conversation. Her role was not to do so, but to reply when spoken to.
“I’m giving my one month’s notice,” Mrs. Jenkinson continued. “Mr. Collins, I would like to post banns for Mr. Kendall and myself. I’ve written out our full names, marital statuses and parishes for you.” Leaning forward, she offered Mr. Collins a piece of paper.
Mr. Collins’ hands shot up, palms out as if staving off a physical onrush. He looked wildly at Darcy’s aunt. Whatever guidance he expected to find wasn’t forthcoming, for she wasn’t looking at him. Her formidable attention was aimed at Mrs. Jenkinson.
“How dare you give notice in such a public location,” Lady Catherine demanded, the many creases on her face pulled downward into a scowl. “To speak to me of such things before a room full of people, some of them not family, is unforgiveable.”
Darcy admired his aunt’s choice of criticism. He knew she disliked anyone to make a decision without her advice, especially a large one, and the news that Anne’s companion wished to marry clearly upset her. She didn’t belittle herself by attempting to claim the notice was insufficient or expressing anger toward Mrs. Jenkinson for wishing to leave. After all, a month was adequate time to interview replacements and what real care could a lady have over the loss of a household member who was little more than a servant? Instead, Lady Catherine was clever enough to give a reason for her antagonism that didn’t degrade her station.
Epiphany with Tea: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 1