The snowball fight had begun as a haphazard whirl of laughter and excitement, but before long an alliance was formed among the scamps, all united in the determination to pelt their parents with as many projectiles as they could fashion. Some snowballs stood the test and flew with uncanny accuracy, while the others disintegrated in the air, for they were little more than scoops of snow thrown without much care for the result but with prodigious merriment.
The parents’ alliance was more of the defensive kind. Even now, Fitzwilliam put an arm around Elizabeth and twirled her from the path of a snowball that would have caught her in the face. He offered his broad back to be pelted instead as he sheltered his wife in his embrace before spinning around to chase after their second daughter, scooping up snow for more projectiles as he went.
Georgy ran away with squeals and giggles towards the white-capped hedge, where reinforcements awaited. The other three sprang out with armfuls of snowballs and easily overpowered their compliant father. Moments later, he was on his knees in a melee of flailing limbs and wriggling little bodies, trying to fend off the four-pronged attack by any means possible. Unfair means too, by the looks of it, for Georgiana’s youngest niece shrieked with laughter, then lisped in admonishment:
“No, Papa! No tickles. You promised!”
“I did no such thing,” Darcy retorted, a shocking falsehood from a gentleman who set great store by honesty. His unprecedented slyness received its just reward: the last word of his falsehood turned into a splutter when his diminutive opponents joined forces most effectively and immobilised his arms so that at least three mittened hands out of eight could reach up and scrub his face with fistfuls of snow.
It was rather adorable, Georgiana thought, that for nigh-on ten years her brother had to countenance being increasingly outnumbered. Four girls were born to him and Elizabeth, one after another scarcely two years apart and, after a while, even Elizabeth—cheerful and sensible Elizabeth—had begun to fret that she was too much like her mother and she might never be able to beget a son.
Such worries were eventually shown to be for naught. Little Richard Charles George proved them unfounded and was now squealing in his nurse’s arms, turning this way and that. He seemed in equal measure entertained by the goings-on and very cross that he could not take part in the excitement. The fact that he had brought his mother great relief and joy with his arrival nine months ago could not interest him anywhere near as much as his relations’ antics, nor could he understand that he was heir to everything the eye could see.
Georgiana’s glance softened. Such a fortunate boy, her nephew was! Not just on account of his heritage—she had learned many years ago that, at times, the Darcy heritage could be rather daunting—but for having dearest Fitzwilliam for his father. Her brother would teach his son to ride, hunt, box, and fence, would teach him to love Pemberley as much as he did, and how to care for everyone who made the dear place their home.
Touching as that notion was, the deep emotion stirred in Georgiana’s heart was soon conquered by a giggle. Yes, a strong bond would form between them in the years to come, especially if they were to remain outnumbered—which might very well be the case unless Elizabeth took to bringing one son after another into the world.
The rumpus in the snowdrifts seemed to have quietened somewhat once her nieces had achieved their mischievous purpose. Still held to ransom in the shrubbery on his knees, with his face bright-red from the ignominious treatment, Fitzwilliam grinned at his daughters.
“There. Satisfied now?”
The eldest grinned back.
“Eminently, Papa,” she declared. “That was most satisfactory. For us, at least,” she added as she leaned forward to ruffle his hair.
She might have been named after her mild aunt Jane, but she was growing more like her mother every day, Georgiana thought and chuckled.
Fitzwilliam chuckled too as he replied, “Oh, I will have my revenge on the morrow, Miss Sauciness, you may depend upon it. Now be off, all of you. Get yourselves indoors and change out of these wet things. Come now! Lively, lively! Fear me, tremble, and obey,” he finished with a playful growl that sent his daughters into another fit of giggles.
Madeleine stifled hers into her hands.
“Papa, you are too droll. Who could ever fear you?” she chortled. She reached up to put her arms around his neck and pecked him lightly on the cheek, then set about brushing the snow off his cravat and coat.
Not wishing to be outdone in caring for their dear papa, the other three joined her in the endeavour with as much diligence as they had shown in splattering fistfuls of snow over him in the first place. Then, when the deed was done to their satisfaction, the troop scrambled to their feet, giggling as they sought to shake the snow from their own apparel and long ringlets with great energy but not much effect.
“Chocolate in the nursery, Mama?” Jane asked, with no real expectation of a change in the habitual routine. She was not disappointed.
“Of course,” Elizabeth assured her, affectionately patting her husband’s back to remove the snow their daughters had missed.
“Will you come up to have chocolate and scones with us? You must! And Aunt Georgy, too,” Georgiana’s namesake insisted. Once her aunt assured her that she would not miss that treat for the world, the girl scampered away towards the house with her sisters following in cheerful and vociferous pursuit.
Arms linked and still smiling widely, Darcy, Elizabeth, and Georgiana leisurely set off after them, yet Richard decided he had something to say about the arrangement. Utterly out of patience, he released a demanding squeal and stretched his arms towards his father with an insistent clamour of “Da-da-da-da,” leaving them all in no misapprehension of his wishes.
With a soft chuckle, his papa complied and came to scoop him up from his nurse’s arms. “Not fair, little fellow, is it, missing all the excitement? Never mind, you shall have your turn soon enough, and no mistake. But for now, you might have to be content with a scone in the nursery. What say you? Will that do?”
The tip of a tiny, pink tongue came out between rosebud lips to blow a loud raspberry, and it was hard to tell whether young Master Darcy had found a way to express his views (even if he could not speak as yet) or whether he was just making all the noises expected of a youngster his age. Either way, his father laughed and dropped a kiss on the chubby cheek, then fell into step with his wife and sister as they made their way back to the entrance.
Three footmen were at hand to relieve the cheerful party of their coats, muffs, and gloves and then take the wet garments away to be dried before the fire. Merrily chattering, the three elder girls made their way up the stone staircase followed by Master Richard and his nurse, while the youngest daughter and her aunt were bringing up the rear, holding hands.
As for the remaining two, they seemed somewhat distracted, Georgiana noted with both amusement and affection. The last ones in the entrance hall, Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam were now standing under the kissing bough, eyes locked in a tender gaze and bright smiles glowing in their faces.
Apparently she was not the only one to notice that they were tarrying below. When her brother’s hand came up to brush a lock from Elizabeth’s brow, then cup her cheek, little Anne asked with considerable concern:
“Has Mama got something in her eye?”
Her parents could not have missed that, surely. Georgiana could have sworn she heard them chuckling lightly just before they kissed. A brief kiss it was, since it had an audience, but although their faces drew apart, they still held each other in a warm embrace as they glanced up as one. By then, Anne had lost all interest and blithely looked away.
“Oh, that,” she said with a shrug, tossing her hair back. She clasped her aunt’s hand and resumed her tottering ascent as she said sagely, “No need to worry, Aunt Georgy, they are well. Do you know, they do that all the time!”
A se’nnight later, Pemberley was verily bursting at the seams once all the guests had finally arrived to join them for
the Christmas season. Mr. and Mrs. Bingley were there, naturally, and Mrs. Webb (Miss Kitty Bennet as was, before her marriage to the new vicar of Kympton), and Miss Mary (still unwed), and Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Of all the Bennet daughters, only the youngest was missing from the gathering, for unsurprisingly there was hardly any socialising with Mr. and Mrs. Wickham.
Socialising with Miss Bingley and the Hursts was vaguely more palatable, but not much. Still, they were visiting Mr. and Mrs. Bingley in their new home in the North, so they had to be included in the invitation to Pemberley. The other guest whose arrival brought more tension than pleasure was Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but at least the old family feud seemed to have been put to rest, and it was good to have the opportunity to see more of their quiet cousin Anne.
Their cousin Richard—who could never be described as quiet—was there too, along with his wife and sons, and so were Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner and all their children. Or their offspring, rather, Georgiana amended with a smile. They were no longer children but fully grown, nearly old enough to wed. Yet, not that long ago, they were the ones who stood around the table by the window engaged in a lively game of snapdragon.
Now it was her nieces’ turn to share in that amusement, and they did so with gusto, cheering and squealing as they competed with their Bingley and Fitzwilliam cousins in reaching out to snatch raisins from the bowl of flaming brandy and pop them into their mouths. In years to come, their brother would undoubtedly join them in the daring pursuit, but for now he was asleep in the nursery, far away from the noisy disport.
The children’s faces glowed with the flicker of the flames and the thrill of the valiant endeavour, and of all the people gathered in the room, it was only Mrs. Bennet who was too busy fretting to appreciate the spectacle.
“Oh, this game!” she cried, her kerchief aflutter, and likewise her spirits. “It sends shivers down my spine every time I see them at it. Why must they expose themselves to danger?”
“Nonsense, madam,” Lady Catherine declared. “Danger, indeed! Does them no harm to learn to avoid mishaps. It will harden them a little. They are brought up too soft.”
“But their hair could catch fire!” Mrs. Bennet protested. “Or their sleeves. Or they could burn their mouths! Oh, no, no. I cannot watch. It tears my nerves to shreds! Mr. Bennet, pray tell me when they are done with this savagery so that I can look again.” Yet she could not look away, nor could she help exclaiming, “Oh! That was close. Too close. Mark my words, Lizzy, this will end in tears!”
Yet it did not. It ended in more giggles and a clamour for another game once all the raisins had vanished into eager mouths.
“Bullet-pudding! Can we have a game of bullet-pudding now, Mama?”
“Oh, yes, Aunt Lizzy, bullet-pudding! The best game,” young Charles Bingley cried in support of Madeleine’s suggestion. “We never play it elsewhere. ’Tis the best part of coming to Pemberley!”
“I am very glad to hear it,” Elizabeth said and stood. “If this is the best part, then we cannot disappoint you.”
She affectionately ruffled her eldest nephew’s ever-so-curly hair, then went to tug the cord and make arrangements. In due course, Mrs. Reynolds appeared with a large pewter dish piled high with flour, and a young maid followed on her heels bearing a tray with round-ended butter knives. With eager exclamations of delight, the children rushed to choose one and gathered round the table, ready to cut the “pudding”.
“There you go,” Darcy said, grinning widely as he placed the bullet on top, and then he gave the signal for the children to begin.
Elizabeth stood by to lend assistance, cajole some, and urge others to wait for their turn to cut the “pudding.” Georgiana watched them do so in diverted expectation of the moment when one of them would inevitably make the bullet drop and would then have to seek it in the flour—not with their tiny hands, though, but their mouths.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners and a smile fluttered on her lips at the recollection of her brother’s deep discomfort when this boisterous and untidy disport was brought to Pemberley on the first Christmas after his marriage to Elizabeth. If snapdragon was a Darcy tradition, the game of bullet-pudding was a Bennet one. There was no doubt that her brother had struggled to take it in his stride and keep his mien impassive while the Gardiner children had sought the bullet and sent clouds of flour floating in the pristine drawing room at Pemberley.
These days it was only Lady Catherine, Miss Bingley, and Mrs. Hurst who scowled, shuddered, and sniffed in disapproval. Fitzwilliam would not bat an eyelid. Rather than wincing from a distance, he sat at the heart of the cheerful disturbance, holding Anne on his knee to give her a sporting chance against her older and much taller sisters and cousins. He laughed when she cut the “pudding” too close to the bullet and made it roll down into the flattened side of the pile of flour. He was still laughing when she turned towards him, giggling, her face a while mask from the eyes down but the bullet proudly exhibited between her teeth.
“Mind you do not swallow it,” he said, holding out his palm for the bullet, and rolled his eyes while reaching into his breast pocket for a kerchief to wipe the flour off her chin and chubby cheeks.
Georgiana’s smile widened. How grand it was to see him delighting in a pastime that had once made him cringe—how grand indeed to see her beloved brother following his wife’s example and learning to enjoy life to the fullest!
Georgiana’s affectionate glance drifted from her brother to her dear sister, and a warm glow of gratitude filled her heart. It was all thanks to Elizabeth. It was thanks to her that this room, once so painfully quiet, was now abuzz with good cheer and excitement. It was thanks to her that Pemberley was a true home again—that love and laughter abounded in Fitzwilliam’s life.
Not that they had not had their stormy moments. Sparks had flown at Pemberley often enough. In fact, truth be told, their worst disagreement had been on her own account—or rather, on account of her matrimonial intentions.
Her gaze settled lovingly upon her husband, who stood by the fireplace in an animated conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Even now after all these years, Henry did not know the half of it. Once matters had settled onto their happy course, she had chosen to keep silent on the subject of Fitzwilliam’s first reaction to Henry’s courtship, for there really was no reason to foster any coldness between her brother and the man she loved.
Nevertheless, the truth was that Fitzwilliam had begun by uncompromisingly opposing Henry’s suit, so much so that a severe disagreement had flared between her brother and Elizabeth once Henry had made his intentions known. He was sent away with a civil request for some time so that the matter could be given due consideration, but later that day, Fitzwilliam had not minced his words in his conversation with his wife.
This conversation Georgiana had inadvertently overheard. That is to say, she had inadvertently overheard its beginning from the morning parlour separated only by a door from Elizabeth’s sitting room. But then, much as she knew she was at fault to eavesdrop, it was her very future that was under discussion, so she did not walk away. Not even when Elizabeth’s voice had risen, to sound bitter and harsh and unlike any tone she had ever used in speaking to Fitzwilliam before.
“Of course,” she had almost sneered. “You married beneath you, but heaven forfend that your sister should make the same mistake. Or worse still, your daughters, I imagine.”
“That is uncalled for,” Fitzwilliam had retorted just as hotly. “Unfair too, and well you know it. Besides, there is naught amiss with Vernon’s connections. ’Tis his commission I object to. In case you have not noticed, we are still at war. Should I countenance having my sister broken-hearted should her betrothed lose his life in the Peninsula?”
“Better break her heart by forbidding the betrothal altogether, then?”
“Yes!” Fitzwilliam had fiercely shot back. “While he is still in active service, yes, to my way of thinking. And I shall not disguise my views under vague assurances and all manner of falsehoo
ds.”
“Indeed, why should you?” Elizabeth had scathingly replied. “We both know that disguise of every sort is your abhorrence.”
At that, Fitzwilliam’s tones had cut like steel.
“So much for forgiveness and a happy union. Must I do penance for a foolish speech for as long as I live? What of a pound of flesh instead, would that satisfy you better? Or would you rather bring this up whenever suits and hold it against me forever? Have it your way, then, Elizabeth. Nurse old grievances till they fester, if it pleases you. I thought we had moved past this long ago. More fool me, it seems. Excuse me.”
Nothing was heard afterwards but heavy footfalls and the slamming of the door.
Eventually, when Georgiana could bring herself to join her sister, she found Elizabeth morose and silent. Yet as the day wore on and the shadows lengthened, her ill-humour gave way to anxious glances darting to the door…then to restless pacing and complaints that the snow had melted so there would be no visible trail to follow and no way of ascertaining where the vexing man had gone.
Before long, a footman was dispatched to inquire at the stables. He returned to say that the master must have gone on foot, for all the mounts were accounted for.
Even later still, when the outdoor and house servants who had formed a search party began to file in, still with no tidings of Fitzwilliam’s whereabouts, to her further dismay, Georgiana discovered that Elizabeth had also vanished.
It was another hour before her sister had returned with muddy skirts and no pelisse, just a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, to let them know that—praise be!—he was found, and to ask two sturdy footmen to escort her to the folly on the other side of the lake, where Mr. Darcy waited with what she feared was a broken ankle.
“He had clambered up the rocky outcrop behind the folly and slipped. Not from the top, thank goodness, so he is not severely injured. Still, the physician should be summoned.”
It was only later, much later, when the house was at peace, that Georgiana could reflect with a brimming heart over the events of the day. It spoke volumes of their attachment—the fact that, even after their bitter disagreement, her brother should have bent his steps towards the folly he had commissioned for his wife, and that she should have been the only one who knew where to look, and the one who found him.
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