by Maria Grace
Mama burst into the room. “Shall we all to dinner?”
“Might I escort you, Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Wickham offered his arm.
Elizabeth muttered something, curtsied to her aunts and took Mr. Wickham’s arm. He led her through the crowded hall toward the dining room.
“Thank you.” The words barely slipped past her tight throat. “Pray, excuse my Aunt’s indelicate choice of conversation.”
“What indelicate choice? You do not think her conversation reflected in any way upon you, do you? I have found when people resort to dialogue which some may consider disagreeable it is most often attributable to indigestion.”
Elizabeth snickered under her breath.
“Perhaps it would be wise to suggest Mrs. Philips have a few words with her cook. A change in diet might be the very thing to relieve her discomfort and improve her general disposition. See there how her husband is red in the face and his hand is pressed so obviously to his belly? I would venture to say he too may be suffering from indigestion. It is his cook and no one else to blame.”
It would seem Mr. Wickham did not or chose not to see Mama at Uncle Philips’s side, speaking with great animation and casting sidelong glances toward Elizabeth.
“I shall suggest that to her.” The words came easier now. She forced her lips up into something resembling a smile.
“Ah, that is a far better expression for you, Miss Elizabeth. Unhappiness does not suit you at all.”
“It appears it is difficult to be unhappy in your presence sir. Do you make it your business to drive away such specters wherever they might appear?”
“I certainly do, what better occupation in life than to bring happiness wherever I wander?”
How very true, and how very different to Mr. Darcy. To maintain such a disposition despite the very great unfairness and trials he had faced. Mr. Wickham was truly too kind.
London
Inside the dining room, Darcy took his suggested seat. The room glittered with candles and crystal and mirrors, nearly as bright as day. Holly, laurel and evergreen draped every available surface. Their fresh aromas blended with those from the heavily laden table. Apparently the Bingleys employed an excellent Cook.
His mother had held such Christmas dinners at Pemberley. Truth be told, he missed them.
“I hope you see some choice here that pleases you, Mr. Darcy. Charles let slip a few of your favorites. I made certain they would be near your seat.” Miss Bingley gestured toward the veal collops and roast cauliflower.
“Ah ... yes ... thank you. It was very gracious of you to go to such lengths for me. May I serve you from those dishes?”
“Thank you.” She looked far too pleased at the suggestion.
He placed dainty portions on her plate. If she were anything like his Mother, she would have eaten before her guests arrived so that she might focus on her role as hostess.
Once he had served himself and the neighboring ladies, the difficult part of the evening began. He needed to say something, but what?
That was one thing to be said of Elizabeth Bennet, she never forced on him the burden of starting a conversation. No, she took it upon herself to begin and offered such intriguing insights; it was easy to come in with his own. Never stilted or awkward, dialogue flowed so easily with her to facilitate. Her voice was a joy to listen to.
... and given the expectant look Miss Bingley wore, he still needed to say something.
“Have you enjoyed your move back to London?” Not the most original topic on his part, but it would do.
“I cannot tell you how much.” Miss Bingley took a tiny sip of wine. “I am not well formed for life in such limited society as Meryton. The four and twenty families dined with by the Bennets did not suit my needs for companionship.”
“I can imagine why.”
A few of them might have appreciated Miss Bingley’s fine manners. Though all who attended had lauded the Netherfield ball, still, as to establishing a genuine relationship, they had little in common.
She leaned in a little closer and dropped her voice a mite. “I have been remiss in offering you my thanks. Your help was pivotal in convincing Charles of the expedience of leaving that place. It is best for all of us that he should be away from the machinations of that ... that Mrs. Bennet.”
How could a woman like that have raised such a daughter as Elizabeth?
Miss Jane Bennet was a decent enough female, proper and demure, but not one easily moved to affection. Charles would suffer with an unattached woman. That alone was reason enough to separate them. But Elizabeth, witty, vivacious and passionate—the family was almost worth tolerating for the privilege of her society.
“Bingley does appear sanguine here.” Darcy glanced down the table toward Bingley, chatting with his neighbor.
“I am not so certain. He has been quite the brown study over the last fortnight. But it is for his own good. We all bear it as well as we can.”
“A brown study? That is difficult to imagine of him. He seems cheerful tonight.”
“He has a great company around him now, and that always cheers him. I have events planned every day until Twelfth Night in the hopes of keeping him encouraged.”
Was she correct? Bingley melancholy? Could he truly be so affected?
“I do wish only the best for my dear brother. But, I still worry about the success of our plans.” She fluttered her eyelashes and pressed her fingertips to her chest.
“What cause have you for concern now you are away from Meryton?”
“Perhaps I am simply looking for vexation where none exists. I cannot help but remember the mention of an uncle in trade. Gardiner—I believe his name was—who lives in Cheapside. It seems that a determined mother might see her daughter to relatives in London with the hopes of finding a lost suitor.”
“Do you really think she might do such a thing?” Darcy sat up straighter. More important, might she bring a sister—the right sister with her?
“In truth, I do not know. Perhaps I am being overly concerned.” She shrugged, affecting a look of helplessness that was far from the truth.
“Would you like me to make discreet inquiries after this Mr. Gardiner? I cannot be certain of discovering anything—”
“I would be ever so grateful for your assistance. I do not wish to see Charles at risk again.”
“Of course. I shall see what I might discover.” For Bingley’s sake, and his own.
Was it possible? Miss Elizabeth might come to London? Might she be away from her dreadful family even now?
His heart beat a little quicker. But what were the chances of this Gardiner fellow being any less dreadful than the rest of her relations? Even if he were not, they certainly did not mix in the same circles. Would he ever have the opportunity to see her?
Blast it all! The whole point of going to London was to avoid society with the Bennets.
“Are you well sir?”
Zounds, Miss Bingley was staring at him. Had his face turned some unusual color, or broken out in spots?
“Mr. Darcy?”
“Forgive me. I was just—just considering what you had said.” His cheeks burned. If only she knew what he was thinking!
“I am so glad to know we are of one mind, sir. It is uncanny, is it not, how much alike we are, you and I.” A coy, predatory look hung about her eyes, the look of a hunting bird circling its prey, lazily waiting for a convenient moment to strike.
He edged back. How had he missed it before? He knew the look well, but had thought himself safe enough amongst friends.
Miss Bingley called for the second course. The staff cleared away the dishes and revealed a fresh table cloth. More of his favorite dishes appeared at the head of the table.
At least now, Miss Bingley would turn the tables and converse with the lady on her left for the remainder of the meal. The knight beside Darcy already seemed to be in his cups. Annoying as it was, it meant Darcy had little to do but nod and offer sounds of affirmation as the knight prattled
on. With his mind reeling, that was the best he could offer, so he ought to be thankful.
Bad enough one corner of his mind actively sought to forget one Elizabeth Bennet, whilst another conspired to find ways to seek her out should she chance to be in town. Now, he must also discourage Miss Bingley’s matrimonial machinations without disenfranchising Bingley, too? He pressed his temples against a burgeoning headache. Truly, could this become more unpleasant?
Servants began putting out candles and a hush settled over the room. In the dim light of the remaining candles, a bright blue flame flared near the doorway. The housekeeper paraded the flaming cannonball shaped Christmas pudding in and placed it at the center of the table.
Mother always took pride in her Christmas puddings. She made Stir-it-up Sundays a grand affair, bringing in all the Matlock cousins she could gather. Spices and sweet fruit hung heavy in the hot, moist air of the kitchen as the cousins added ingredients and took their turn stirring. The last to go in were the family charms, silver and worn smooth with time; who would find their fortune with them added an air of mystery and anticipation to the event.
“...mind the charms in the pudding. Whoever finds one must call out their fortune.” Miss Bingley sat down.
When had a slab of pudding appeared on his plate?
He took a small bite. Sweet, rich, spicy and soaked in brandy, exactly what a Christmas pudding should be. But it did not taste like Pemberley’s.
Like home. Mrs. Reynolds would have to teach Elizabeth how to make Pemberley’s someday.
He choked, coughing and sputtering on his bite of pudding. What was he thinking?
“Are you well, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley asked wide-eyed.
He blotted his mouth with his napkin. “Forgive me, I am fine.”
“You did not swallow a charm, did you?”
“No, just a crumb caught in my throat.”
Across the table Bingley yelped—he had found the ring. Superstition promised him marriage in the next twelve-month. Another diner cried out she found the coin. Others followed in rapid succession.
His own pudding remained steadfastly void of any portent of his future, save the abundant raisins and brandy. Was that to be his lot in life, alone but for a drink in his hand and food on his table?
Meryton
For all Mama’s fussing and fluttering, she did set one of the finest tables in the county. Candlelight sparkled off mirrors and crystal, filling every corner of the dining room with glistening warmth. The table and sideboards groaned under the weight of the dishes heaped with fragrant offerings. A huge goose lay near Papa’s place, waiting for him to carve it. Elizabeth’s mouth watered. Nothing tasted like a Christmas goose, its skin brown and crispy, the meat juicy and succulent.
Wickham held the chair for her and sat beside her, politely ignoring Lydia’s cross look. What did she have to be cross about though? With Denny on one side and Sanderson on the other, it was not as if she would be in want of company and conversation herself.
Mama sat up very straight and rang a little silver bell. The door swung open and Hill appeared, holding a platter of roasted boar’s head high. Her arms quivered under the massive offering.
Denny and Sanderson jumped to their feet, nearly knocking their chairs to the floor, and rushed to her aid. Together they made a lovely show of bringing the final dish to the table. Though Mama glared at Hill, she seemed very pleased at the officers’ efforts and settled into her comfortable role, presiding over the table.
Wickham leaned toward her. “It has been quite some time since I have enjoyed such a Christmas feast.”
“I hope you take every opportunity to enjoy this one.”
He served her from the platter of roast potatoes nearby. “I will certainly do just that and lock it into my memory to treasure against times which may be far less agreeable.”
“I am sure it is difficult to spend Christmastide away from one’s home and family. The militia requires a great deal from you.”
“I find that it gives back as much as it demands. It is not at all disagreeable for one in my state. The hardships do not at all compare to those I suffered the first Christmastide of my banishment from Pemberley.”
“Banishment?”
“Perhaps that is too strong a word, you are right. It does not serve to be so melodramatic.” He bowed his head. “You must forgive me, for it is the subject of some trying remembrances. Christmastide at Pemberley was a most wondrous season, filled with warmth and generosity. My family was invited to dine at Christmas dinner. A complete roast boar would be carried in by two footmen, goose, venison, and roast beef besides. I am sure it was a month’s worth of food, for my little family at least, all brought to the table at once.” He closed his eyes and licked his lips.
“I can imagine one might miss such extravagance.”
“Pray, do not think I intended to belittle the wonderful hospitality Longbourn offers. Not at all. It has reminded me of much happier days. I am most grateful for the reminder.”
Mama’s silver bell rang again. Hill and the maid hurried in to clear the first course. Platters and used dishes disappeared along with the table cloth. The second course dishes filled the empty table and fresh china appeared before them. Amidst the staff’s efforts, Aunt Gardiner caught her eye, tipped her head toward Wickham and raised her eyebrows.
Elizabeth allowed a hint of a smile and shrugged. He was very pleasant company. What did she expect?
Mama announced the dishes, but the platter of minced pies needed no introduction.
Wickham placed a small pie on her plate, along with black butter and spiced apples. The first minced pie of Christmastide was always agreeable, but somehow it would be nothing to the ones that would later be made from the leavings of the Christmas feast.
Mama’s bell rang again, and she slipped out of the dining room. Hill circled the room, snuffing candles until only one in each corner remained.
Although Mama repeated this ritual every year, somehow the flaming pudding entering on the silver platter, held high in Mama’s arms never lost its thrill. Blue brandy flames, glinting and multiplying in the mirrors and crystal, cast dancing shadows along the wall turning the dining room, for those brief moments, into a magical fairyland.
Too soon, the flames died down. The maid scurried about relighting candles, and the normal world reappeared with Mama standing over a great cannonball of plum pudding. She broke into it and served generous slices.
“Mind the charms!” Mama’s smile seemed forced as she openly avoided looking at Elizabeth.
What better way to remind Mama of Elizabeth’s transgressions than the pudding stirred up whilst she still had hopes of Mr. Collins? Pray let her not discover the ring, or better still, any charm in her pudding. Further notice from Mama could not be a good thing.
Elizabeth held her breath as the company partook of the pudding. Heavy, sweet, spicy and saturated with brandy, this was the taste of Christmas and family.
Uncle Gardiner laughed heartily. “What ho, what shall I do with this?” He held aloft a tiny thimble.
“Consider it for thrift, my dear.” Aunt Gardiner winked at him.
Thank Providence that Mary was spared that omen!
Lydia squealed. “I have the coin! I shall come into a fortune.”
Papa muttered something, but Elizabeth could not make it out. Probably best that way.
Wickham neatly pulled his slice apart with knife and fork. He dug in with his knife and lifted it to reveal a shining ring hanging on the blade.
“Now you’ve done it, Wickham!” Sanderson pointed at him, laughing.
“I would not go about showing that off, if I were you.” Denny leaned back and held up open hands. “But whatever you do, keep it well away from me.”
“So you shall be married this year, Mr. Wickham.” Mama looked far too pleased.
Had there been any way to have achieved that end intentionally, Elizabeth would have thought Mama manufactured this result. But such a thing was n
ot possible. Still, the smug way she settled into her seat and dug into her own pudding begged the question.
“You may threaten all you like.” Wickham slid the ring off the knife and held it up in the candlelight. “But I have no fear of this innocent little ring.”
Did he just wink? At her?
Heat crept over the crest of her cheeks, but Aunt Gardiner’s brows drew a little lower over her eyes and her forehead creased.
London
Miss Bingley adjourned with the women to the drawing room, leaving Mr. Bingley to supply port and cigars to the men. Darcy welcomed the respite from the demands of conversation. Far less subtlety reigned here, permitting him to follow the conversations—on topics he understood and cared about—with greater ease and confidence.
In this company he could simply listen and not be judged uncivil. If he spoke, he could limit himself to subjects that interested him, ones he might speak on with authority. It was the one part of the evening that ended too soon.
Rejoining the ladies renewed those itchy woolen blanket feelings he had so recently discarded. He tried to excuse himself to Bingley and flee for the quiet of his own home, but Bingley would have none of it.
“I know we are nothing to Pemberley here, but—” Bingley’s voice broke, and he looked away.
Was this the melancholy that Miss Bingley had noticed?
“Holidays spent in town are nothing to those in the country. They never are. We must make merry with what we have then, no?” He clapped Darcy’s shoulder. “Allow me to make an introduction that I am sure will improve your evening in great measure.”
“No, there is no need.” Darcy inched back, but Bingley’s hand between his shoulders propelled him into the crowded drawing room brimming with women. Bingley continued to nudge and prod him until they reached a group of three ladies sitting near the window.
“Lady Elizabeth Wesson, might I introduce you to my friend Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
The lady rose and curtsied.
This Elizabeth was the height of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and, at least to an objective observer, far more beautiful. She sported classic features and a generous bosom that had occupied the attention of most of the men at dinner at one point or another.