by Maria Grace
She was not here.
Elizabeth was not here.
Any sensible man would be relieved. The complication had been avoided, and he was safe.
But perhaps he was no longer sensible. Perhaps he had not been since he had met her.
A little sliver of cold slid along his ribs, toward the center of his chest, a bit like the one that had been lodged there since his mother’s passing.
He swallowed hard. No, this was for the best.
The housekeeper anticipated his arrival with hot water ready for tea. She brought a tray into his office and made a hasty retreat. She had worked for him long enough to recognize the expression he wore without him saying a word.
He fell into his leather wingback and threw his head back into the familiar worn depression in the stuffing. Father had worn it into the chair before him. Mother had often laughed at how similar he and his father were. But had father ever chased a woman, who was not even there, to an unfamiliar house? Had he spied upon a shopkeeper, followed his boy, not even knowing where he went?
Surely not!
Certainly not!
Father would be appalled at Darcy’s behavior, with very good reason.
Darcy sprang to his feet and stalked across the room and back again. What had become of him? Even Bingley would be hard-pressed to rival the foolishness Darcy had just displayed.
This could not continue; it must not!
He fell back into his chair and snatched up the paper that the housekeeper had left tidily folded on the tea tray. The newspaper made a satisfying snap as he flipped it open. News of parliament and the war, prices, taxes, trade goods. None of it caught his attention. But his gaze locked upon the society pages.
He grumbled under his breath. Only fools read the drivel contained on those pages.
Fools and himself.
Scanning the columns for familiar names, he held his breath and clenched his teeth.
Dash it all! Bloody damnation!
Purple-hat had indeed taken her pen in hand after the panto. There in black and white, she speculated on the company he kept and confusing behaviors he exhibited toward a certain young lady he sat near at the theater, but neither arrived nor left with. What could it mean? Perhaps that he was still declaring himself free and available, or perhaps there was a secret amour covered by such casual contact.
Snarling, he crushed the paper into a ball. He stomped to the fireplace and shoved it in, taking up the poker to feed it directly into the flames.
The spleen, the audacity! How dare she speculate about his private intentions! Exactly as he had warned Bingley, no movement of Darcy’s was safe from the gossips. What great good fortune Elizabeth was not in town. What disaster might have arisen from even a casual conversation with her?
How close had even today’s ill-considered actions brought him to an untoward exposure to a poisoned pen? He braced his shoulder on the mantel and panted. This was not to be borne.
No, more! All thoughts of Elizabeth, all musings and pleasant considerations had to stop now. It was far too dangerous.
The resolution should have brought him peace. Indeed, what other possible outcome could it have? But somehow, the determination not to think of her only fueled the tormenting thoughts further. At last his port decanter proved the only means by which he might silence them.
He drank and paced and paced and drank. Near midnight, his feet dragged heavily against the marble, and he leaned against the wall for support.
The case clock chimed twelve times. The end of the old year.
Darcy staggered to the front door and opened it to usher in the new year. A cold breeze blasted his face, rousing his muzzy faculties.
“May you, 1812, bring me better fortune than 1811,” he muttered, shuffling toward the back door, to conduct out the bad luck that had brought Elizabeth Bennet across his path.
Meryton
On New Year’s Eve, Papa wasted no time in arranging for his very specific wishes to be fulfilled. Ashes, rags, scraps and all things perishable had to be removed from the house. The principal rooms required a thorough cleaning.
Hill, Cook and the maid all hated New Year’s Eve in equal measures. Mama probably hated it most of all. The volume of work to be done required that she and all her daughters join in the efforts, something she assiduously tried to avoid.
Usually Jane and Elizabeth would work together and reminisce over the events of the past year. Jane had such an excellent memory, particularly for those things pleasant and agreeable. Elizabeth’s contributions tended toward the ridiculous. Together, they made short work of the chores at hand.
This year, Elizabeth had no such relief. Whilst Mary proved an efficient and hardworking partner, her conversation was limited to observations on the moral value of hard work and the suggestions of Mrs. Rundell’s book in how best to accomplish it. Elizabeth favored her with the appropriate utterances of attention, but turned her own focus inward as she spread damp, used tea leaves along the floor and swept the parlor.
She had never anticipated a first footer’s arrival as she did this night’s. Would Mr. Wickham act on her suggestion? Did he even recognize it for what it was? She could not come out and ask; that would be improper and violate the spirit of Papa’s traditions. If only she could, though.
Even if he came, would he give her any indication of what had happened the previous night, why he was so distant? Was it some passing oddness of that particular evening, or had something truly changed? Surely, she could not have been imagining his favor before, had she?
No, fretting would do no good and change nothing. But the flutterings in her stomach made it so natural and easy to do. Was this how Mama felt when she complained about her nerves? Heavens, pray that was not the case. To have nerves like Mama and not yet be one and twenty!
Enough of that! Thank heavens there was still plenty of work to focus upon!
Mary got her attention, and they retrieved the carpet from the outside line where Mrs. Reynolds and the maid had been beating it. It took several tries to get it lined up the way Mama preferred, but at last, the carpet was back in place. They would soon be finished with the parlor.
She unpinned the drapes, allowing them to puddle down to the now very clean floor. Why should Mr. Wickham and his attention to Mary King bother her so? It was not as if she fancied herself in love with him, violently or otherwise. He was an agreeable gentlemen, granted the most agreeable of her acquaintance, but nothing more.
Yet, she did like him. Very well. Very well indeed. As did Mama and Papa.
Oh bother! All this wondering and worrying sounded far more like Lydia than herself. How very vexing!
She flipped out her dust cloth and sneezed. How very considerate of Papa to ensure she could occupy her mind for the rest of the afternoon with cleaning the drawing room.
“Hurry along now, hurry along.” Papa ushered Kitty and Lydia ahead of him as he trudged down the stairs and into the parlor, exactly the same as he had done last year and the year before and the one before that.
Elizabeth turned aside and bit the inside of her cheek. Mama would scold if she sniggered aloud. Proper young ladies did not laugh in company, particularly when Mama was irritable.
Jane would have shared a private laugh with her when they finally tucked into bed. But she was off to London. Only a day gone and already she was sorely missed.
“You have had the maid remove all the ashes?” Papa pulled chairs toward the center of the room, into a rough circle.
Candlelight filled the dark corners, turning the summer garden feel of the room into something more reminiscent of an autumn bonfire. Warm and cozy and friendly.
Mama flipped her skirts and settled into a seat. “Yes, yes and Hill has given all the kitchen scraps away as well. I dare say your pointers are very happy tonight.”
“Capital, capital.” Papa nudged a final chair into place.
He asked the same questions every year. There was something comforting in his predictability even if
Mama disliked it.
“Truly Mr. Bennet, I do not understand why you insist upon this—”
“Do not say foolishness, Mrs. Bennet.” He raised a warning finger.
She arranged the fringe on her shawl. “It is naught but superstition and nonsense.”
Not unlike puddings and charms.
“Shall I remind you how you recently complained of bad luck? Moreover, I endure your endless talk of lace and frippery. One evening of the year, it is not too much to ask of you—”
Mama folded her arms over her chest and harrumphed. “When you put it in those terms—”
“It is very nearly midnight,” Kitty pointed at the clock.
They all turned toward the venerable longcase clock in the corner, its hands nearly overlapped below the ‘12’.
Papa rose and hurried to the front door. The clock struck the first chime of midnight, and he opened the door. “Welcome to the Year of Our Lord eighteen twelve. Now to usher out eighteen eleven.” He tromped through the hall to the back door. It creaked in protest and thumped against the wall like it always did when fully opened.
A sharp breeze whistled from the front door. Elizabeth rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms. Somehow, New Year’s Eve always managed to be windy, at least at midnight if no other time.
“Do hurry along Mr. Bennet, or we shall catch our deaths.” Mama knotted her shawl around her shoulders more tightly.
Papa waved her down as he passed through the parlor with his particular, heavy-footed gait and shut the front door. A moment later and the backdoor was shut as well and the cold drafts ceased.
“What now, Papa?” Kitty asked.
“I am sure we will have to sit here waiting until someone comes to the door.” Mama frowned and shook her head as though she had drunk sour milk.
“I propose a game of spillikins to pass the time.” Papa retrieved the game from the cabinet while Kitty and Lydia moved a small table into the center of the chairs.
For a man with large hands, Papa was surprisingly good at the game, but Mama’s nimble fingers gave her a distinct advantage at retrieving the tiny ivory sticks without disturbing the rest of the pile. Lydia lacked the patience to be very good at it, though she found her amusement in teasing the rest when they fumbled. It proved an excellent distraction whilst they waited for—
The front door creaked open and Hill muttered something she could not make out.
“Halloo there—is a first footer wanted here?”
Surely that could not be ... Elizabeth rose, her heart racing, but Lydia and Kitty preceded her to the front door.
“Mr. Wickham!” Lydia squealed and shouldered Kitty out of her way.
Was it only coincidence or had he correctly divined her invitation? Her chest ached, and she bit her lip waiting for sight of him.
“Come in, come in.” Papa ushered Mr. Wickham in and shut the door.
“A tall, dark and handsome man is the best first footer.” Lydia clung to Mr. Wickham’s right arm.
“But only if water will run under his foot.” Kitty clutched his left elbow.
They half escorted, half dragged him to the parlor. He glanced at Elizabeth, who remained several steps behind them. His eyes twinkled with good humor. Did he wish rescue from Kitty and Lydia, or was he enjoying their attentions? She had always been certain of the former before, but now—she was not so sure.
“Sit down, Mr. Wickham and let us see your feet.” Lydia shoved a chair at him.
“You will find them very acceptable, Miss Lydia.”
Kitty pulled his arm, and he stumbled into a seat.
“I believe we can take one of His Majesty’s officers at his word regarding the shape of his feet.” Papa leveled a stern gaze upon them lest they start wrestling with Mr. Wickham’s boots.
“Besides, I believe it is equally significant that he does not arrive empty-handed.” Elizabeth cocked her head and quirked her brow.
Mary donned an attitude of boredom, still as taciturn and broody as she had been through most of their efforts cleaning. Was she still upset over Mr. Collins? Did she still have to be so sensitive, even over the attentions of young men she did not especially like?
Mama leaned toward Elizabeth. “Do not be so rude. Mr. Wickham is welcome regardless—”
“No, Lizzy is right. It is a bad omen indeed for a first footer to arrive empty handed.” Papa wagged his finger at Mr. Wickham who winked.
“Never fear, my gracious hosts! I have come well-prepared for the evening.” He reached into the market bag slung over his shoulder. “Let me see now, here is a coin.” He handed it to Mama with a bow. It was just a penny—not a silver coin as it more properly should have been—but it was enough.
She giggled as she took it.
“And a bit of whisky.” He passed a flask to Papa. “Sweets for two young ladies.” He handed Lydia a piece of shortbread and Kitty a small black bun.
He must have visited Papa’s favorite baker in town. That was the only place one could acquire a black bun in Meryton. Elizabeth ran her knuckles along her lips. What could such diligence mean?
“And Miss Mary.” He handed her a small paper packet. “For you, salt, replete with symbolism you best appreciate.”
She took it, a little light returning to her eyes.
He turned to Elizabeth. “I fear all I have left for you is this.” He held up a lump of coal.
What a charmingly useful gift. Useful, dirty and drab.
She forced a smile and took the coal. He avoided her gaze as she took it from his hand.
“Lead him through the house and demonstrate the excellent work of your mother’s staff. Then we may warm his welcome by putting the coal on the fire.” Papa gestured toward the hall door.
“Mr. Wickham does not need to see the house is clean.” Mama sniffed.
“And I am sure he would much rather a toast than put coal on the fire.” Lydia donned a well-practiced pout.
“At the right time, my girl.” Papa twitched his head toward the door. “There is an order to these things that must not be forsaken.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Wickham extended a hand toward Kitty and Lydia, turning his shoulder to Elizabeth. “Perhaps you will do me the favor of escorting me through the house.”
They immediately took his arms, giggling. Lydia snuck a smug glance at Elizabeth. Their footsteps echoed on the clean floors as they disappeared down the corridor.
Papa lifted his eyebrows at Elizabeth.
She shrugged and turned away, pulling her shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders. No, she was not going to trail after them, fighting with Kitty and Lydia for a place with the first footer. She shivered. When would he close the doors and put a stop to the cold breezes tearing through the house?
Giggles and loud whispers announced their return.
“Have you found the house to your discerning standards?” Papa asked.
“Cleaner than even my grandmother could desire.”
“Shall we all to the parlor where I have poured a toast.” Papa pressed the dull steel flask into Wickham’s hand. “Your gift is most appreciated, but my ladies are not accustomed to the rigors of whisky. You and I may so indulge, but wine is far more to their sensibilities.”
Wickham tucked the flask into his coat with a wink. “Of course you are right, and very gracious of you to make it so.”
They followed Papa back to the parlor, Wickham close to his side. On his heels, Kitty and Lydia jostled to be in his shadow.
No sooner did they step into the parlor than Papa pressed a glass into her hand. “Add the coal to the fire, Lizzy dear, and we shall have a toast.”
“Hurry up, must you always take so long at everything?” Lydia edged her out of the way and looped her arm in Wickham’s.
Elizabeth tossed the coal into the fire. “And so we shall have warmth in the coming year.”
The fire popped and flickered and felt so very cold.
“To Longbourn and all who dwell within.” Wickham rais
ed his glass. “May the welcomes continue to be warm, the table full and filled with flavor and prosperity.”
They all sipped their glasses.
“If I may have the privilege, sir?” Wickham placed his glass on the mantle.
“It is your right.” Papa gestured at Mama.
She offered her hand. Wickham brought it to his lips as she tittered like a girl.
Lydia edged closer, but he turned toward Mary and extended his hand.
Her cheeks flushed, and she muttered sounds that resembled protests, but she extended her hand toward him. He kissed it with the same ceremony he had Mama’s, and she flushed deep crimson.
Lydia and Kitty jostled for the position nearest him and presented their cheeks. Wickham smiled, eyes twinkling, and placed a kiss on each of their cheeks. As one, they sighed and pressed a hand to their cheeks. Such silly girls. Perhaps, Papa had not exaggerated when he called them the silliest girls in all England.
Elizabeth fought not to roll her eyes. She turned aside and into Mr. Wickham’s shoulder. He stepped back, and for the first time in their acquaintance, looked bewildered.
She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow.
He looked away.
Something inside her shattered like a glass knocked from the mantle.
“Will you stay a little longer, or do you care to usher out last year’s troubles and sorrows with you?” Papa gestured toward the back of the house. “I imagine first footers are welcome in many houses tonight.”
“You have been as gracious as the Kings were, but I would not overstay my welcome. Lead the way. Ladies.” Mr. Wickham bowed and followed Papa out.
The backdoor swung shut. No doubt Wickham would be off in search of another house in want of a first footer. After all, he had already been to other house. He had been to see the Kings.
Mary King. And her new fortune—his first priority.
She sank into a faded velvet armchair and pinched the bridge of her nose. Papa had been right, he had done the job quite credibly. Hopefully Papa would not gloat.
January 5, 1812. London