Yuletide

by Joana Starnes

  “What about my aunt? Do you intend to make her fall in love with you as well? Or do you still resent her for the things she said prior to our marriage?”

  “Truly, I harbour no resentment—or hardly any,” Elizabeth declared stoutly. “Your aunt had her reasons to be dismayed at the thought of our alliance, however ungraciously she expressed them. I ruined her dearest plans and hopes. However, she was almost civil to me when she came to visit us last year.”

  “And she grew rather fond of our William.”

  “Who would not?” declared Elizabeth with the happy complacency of a proud mother. “She gave me prodigious amounts of advice on how to care for him and bring him up, which I have been careful to ignore altogether. For this visit, I have a baby daughter for my calling card. Surely Lady Catherine will dote on her. Everyone does, after all. Your aunt must unbend at last once she meets her namesake.”

  With that happy thought, she snuggled against her husband and enjoyed a little nap until they reached Rosings.

  Elizabeth Bennet Darcy seldom found herself at a loss for words or in want of fresh subjects of conversation, but within a quarter of an hour of being in Anne de Bourgh’s company, she already despaired for the success of her holiday scheme. Anne had so very little to say! She returned all of Elizabeth’s enquiries with only a “yes” or “no,” and any questions Anne might have posed in return were all forestalled by Mrs. Jenkinson, who hovered by the heiress’s side.

  “I trust you had a pleasant journey, Mrs. Darcy?” “Is the weather more severe in Derbyshire?” “How long did you stop in Hertfordshire?” “I trust you left your family in good health?” “I believe you have relations living in London?”

  Anne merely nodded and smiled when Mrs. Jenkinson complimented Elizabeth on her children. “Little Catherine bids fair to be a beauty! And William is the very image of his father!”

  Miss de Bourgh looked even more frail than Elizabeth had recalled. Darcy’s cousin was well below the middle height and exceedingly slender. She was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain, were insignificant. Her brown hair was elaborately curled and dressed, suggesting that she spent a good part of her morning suffering the ministrations of a lady’s maid. Her light grey eyes seldom met Elizabeth’s sparkling dark ones.

  Feeling that she had nothing to lose, Elizabeth unwrapped the little parcel she had brought to the drawing room and offered the first volume of Evelina with a cordial smile and a “My dear cousin, this story was ever an old friend of mine” and “We have our own copy at Pemberley, yet when I saw these beautifully bound volumes at Lackington’s, I could not resist purchasing them for fear they should fall into unworthy hands. Will you do me the honour of giving it a home?”

  Any reaction from Miss de Bourgh would have gratified Elizabeth—even a refusal or a coldness might have given her some notion of where she stood with the daughter of her hostess. She was relieved when Anne looked at first surprised, then wary, and then slowly extended her little hand to accept the volume. The “My gracious, how thoughtful” and “What a pretty little book it is, too” came all from Mrs. Jenkinson, while Anne caressed the handsome leather cover of the book. Then Anne slowly opened it, to look at the title page.

  “This volume does not bear Madame D’Arblay’s name,” said Anne. “This must be the first printing of the work, I perceive, when it was anonymously published.”

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to be silent, but from surprise.

  “Thank you, Cousin Elizabeth,” said Anne. “This is…this is very special, and I shall always keep it with me in my bedchamber.”

  “What are you speaking of, Mrs. Darcy?” came the voice of Lady Catherine de Bourgh from across the room. “I must know what you and Anne are speaking of.”

  Anne sighed faintly and hid the book in her shawl.

  Elizabeth rose and crossed the floor to join her hostess. “We were talking of books, Your Ladyship. Your library here at Rosings is very handsome. I believe I derive as much pleasure from the sight of books and having them around me as I do from reading them. What is a home without books?”

  “I recommend to all young ladies that they set aside some portion of the day for reading,” Her Ladyship returned. “Had Anne’s health permitted, she would have improved her mind through extensive reading, but she suffers from weakness of the eyes.”

  “Oh, that is most—”

  “Having weak eyes, in itself, is not undesirable in a young lady,” continued Her Ladyship, “but the greatest care must be taken not to squint, which creates furrows in the brow.”

  “Indeed, madam,” said Elizabeth. “Prolonged thought of any kind is a hazard to an unwrinkled complexion.”

  “Sir Lewis de Bourgh ensured that our library was well stocked with improving works suitable for young persons. I do not like to see girls reading anything of a satirical or radical nature, of course. I abhor satire.”

  “Yes, madam,” Elizabeth said meekly, recollecting herself. She reminded herself she truly intended to keep the peace at Christmas. “I should be most gratified if your ladyship would be so kind as to recommend any particular authors or titles from your own library.”

  “Ah! Well!” Lady Catherine coughed. The truth was, she was not a great reader herself, usually content to look over the periodicals in an off-hand way. “Perhaps we shall have the gentlemen read aloud to us in the evenings—that is, when you are not playing for us, Mrs. Darcy. I trust you have not neglected your instrument?”

  “Fortunately, on account of having Georgiana with us at Pemberley, I have a strict taskmistress. Georgiana and I encourage each other, and I have learned some new pieces with which I hope to entertain Your Ladyship whilst I am here.”

  “It was wise of Darcy to leave Georgiana to spend Christmas in London with Mr. and Mrs. Bingley. She cannot expect to find a suitable husband if she resides solely in the country. My own daughter’s indifferent health, of course…”

  “Yes, Your Ladyship.” Pray do not reflect aloud on Darcy’s folly in choosing me, instead of your daughter.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Jenkinson interjected with “Where do the Bingleys live, ma’am?” which prompted Lady Catherine to give her opinion on the desirability of various London neighbourhoods and streets, followed by enquiries into Mrs. Jane Bingley’s housekeeping and the management of her servants.

  Elizabeth answered a long succession of impertinent questions and disagreed with nothing while her mind wandered ahead to dinnertime, when her friend Charlotte Collins and her husband would arrive.

  The reunion, when it finally came, was happy but restrained. Charlotte was looking well, expecting her third confinement.

  Mr. Collins’s girth had also waxed, in consequence of his fondness for good dinners and teas. Elizabeth was amused to observe his evident hesitation and confusion in greeting her: should he flatter and fawn over the wife of Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, or should he still speak to her as he had always spoken to his lowly female cousin?

  Many awkward pauses and many glances across to Lady Catherine to study the line that she took passed before Mr. Collins could resume some measure of composure. Elizabeth’s own reflections and amusement—which she took care to conceal—were her only solace for the necessity of deferring an uninterrupted chat with her friend Charlotte.

  The dinner produced nothing new by way of conversation save for the news that Mrs. Jenkinson was to spend the holidays with one of her nieces and would leave on the morrow.

  Elizabeth was able to wish Mrs. Jenkinson a pleasant journey with more than polite cheerfulness, for it was difficult to approach Anne when her companion was ever by her side. Mrs. Jenkinson was zealous in the discharge of her duties, especially when Lady Catherine was within hearing—constantly enquiring as to whether Anne was too hot or too cold, or wanted the fire-screen moved, or needed a footstool, or more tea. She answered questions on Anne’s behalf, counted her cards for her, and was at pains to spare her from any mental or physical exertion whatsoever. The lady’s absence
was an unmixed blessing, as far as Elizabeth was concerned.

  Of course, Elizabeth’s chief occupation was to attend her hostess every day, listening to her remarks, advice, and warnings. It fell to Elizabeth’s lot, just as naturally as it was the privilege of her husband and Colonel Fitzwilliam to spend most of their daylight hours out of doors walking or riding as they made a tour of the park with Her Ladyship’s steward. When they returned, they were at the billiard table or in the library. Elizabeth spent no less than four hours in conversation with her hostess where her husband spent one—a sacrifice that was richly rewarded when baby Catherine, placed upon Her Ladyship’s lap, promptly burped and deposited her breakfast on the lady’s fine brocade gown.

  The days leading up to Christmas might have blended into a sameness for Elizabeth, a fortnight with much to be tolerated and little to be enjoyed, had it not been for the slow, cautious, but definite progress of her friendship with Anne. .

  “Have you noticed, my dear, that every time Anne says something, her mother demands ‘what are you speaking of,’ and then takes the conversation into her own hands?” Elizabeth asked her husband as she sat brushing her hair one morning about a week into their visit.

  “That would explain why Anne speaks so seldom,” mused Darcy, bending down to kiss the top of his wife’s head. “She spares herself the vexation of being interrupted.”

  “Poor Anne!” Elizabeth continued. “Lady Catherine is forever speaking of ‘Anne’s indifferent health’ and what she might have accomplished but for her delicate constitution.”

  “Can I ever thank you enough, my dear, for your patience and forbearance with my aunt?”

  “I doubt you can.” Elizabeth laughed. “Or rather, I shall collect the debt with interest when we are home again at last in Pemberley!”

  Elizabeth did not add that she had observed Anne carefully but saw no symptoms of a broken heart. Elizabeth’s heart still sang whenever her husband walked in to the room; she believed she would perceive it if so strong a sentiment stirred in Anne’s breast. Anne was but distantly cordial to Darcy.

  As she hoped, Elizabeth’s stratagem of talking about books had helped to overcome Anne’s reserve. She produced a new volume every day—a novel or a travel book—with a friendly enquiry: “Have you read this one, Cousin Anne? This contains the most enchanting descriptions of Italian scenery” or “This novel is rather silly, but I confess that I enjoyed it greatly. Have you read it?”

  Elizabeth was now greeted with shy smiles and, while Anne never shared any information about herself and seldom gave an opinion about anything, she did display, in her quiet comments to Elizabeth, a knowledge of the finest poets and playwrights of the past century as well as the best-known works on history.

  “Are you and my daughter speaking of books again?” demanded Lady Catherine on Christmas Eve as the family gathered in the drawing room after dinner.

  “This is the season for indoor pleasures such as a good book, is it not, Your Ladyship?” answered Elizabeth respectfully.

  “Yes, but everything should have its due proportion. It is essential that a lady have an education, but it is most undesirable that she should display her learning and be thought a pedant. It will not do at all. It is most unbecoming and unrefined. Will you play for us instead, Mrs. Darcy?”

  “Certainly, Your Ladyship.”

  Lady Catherine was unusually attentive when Elizabeth took her seat at the pianoforte and began to play the pastoral music from Handel’s Messiah.

  A handsome fire burned in the hearth, and clusters of candles cast soft pools of light around the room. Through the multi-paned windows, which stretched almost from the floor and high overhead to the ceiling, the large, fat lazy flakes of snow glistened against a sky as black as ink. A feeling of tranquility filled the room as Elizabeth’s music spoke of “peace on earth, good will toward men.”

  Darcy’s eyes met those of his wife for a moment and they exchanged a heartfelt glance, he silently thanking her again, and she reassuring him with her smile that she did it all for love of him.

  The nursemaids brought Darcy and Elizabeth’s children for a visit before bedtime. Elizabeth had arranged that Lady Catherine should be the one to give the children their presents on Christmas Eve: a coral teething-ring for baby Catherine and Mr. Montgomery’s picture book for William.

  Neither child was inclined to linger long next to their benefactress. William promptly ran to his father, clutching his book, while Colonel Fitzwilliam took the baby so that Elizabeth might continue playing Handel and fill the room with the sound of angel’s wings and celestial voices.

  Anne quietly slipped out of her seat by the fire and joined Elizabeth at the piano bench.

  “What a lovely sight,” Anne whispered to Elizabeth. “Your husband reading to little William. Your little boy looks so engrossed! And so happy to be sitting with his father! I cannot remember much of my own father, but I do recall he used to read Aesop’s Fables to me.”

  “My father never read to us,” said Elizabeth, “but Jane and I were sometimes permitted into his study as a special treat. We were allowed to choose one of the books from his shelves and sit by the fire and read quietly. It was so peaceful, especially on a winter’s night like this.”

  “I was quite a fanciful child,” said Anne. “When I walked into our library and looked up at all of the volumes lining the shelves, towering above my head, I used to imagine the books whispering to each other, all in different voices. But books sit silently. They often sit unopened for years, waiting for you to open their pages so that they may begin to speak to you.”

  “Yes, and some book you had passed over a hundred times might, once it is allowed to tell its story, entirely enchant you so you cannot put it down, even if you had put off opening it many times before,” said Elizabeth.

  “What is that you are saying, Mrs. Darcy? What is it you are talking of?” came the familiar demand.

  This time, it was Anne who answered.

  “Happiness, madam. We were speaking of happiness.”

  On Christmas morning, Elizabeth stood by one of the large, handsome windows overlooking the great lawn, holding baby Catherine in her arms. Outside, Darcy and William were building a snowman and marring the perfect expanse of sparkling white snow with their footprints. She suspected Lady Catherine would have something to say about that.

  Elizabeth hoped the roads would be passable after Christmas. After almost a month away from Pemberley, she was longing for home again.

  She became aware of Anne standing beside her, watching the scene.

  “How I have enjoyed this Christmas season, Cousin Elizabeth. It has inspired me.”

  “Inspired you?” Elizabeth wondered at her choice of words, and Anne blushed.

  “Seeing your children and watching them play. You see, I have a past-time—will you come with me for a moment to my bedchamber?”

  Consumed with curiosity but delighting in this evidence of growing intimacy, Elizabeth carried the baby and followed Anne up the grand staircase to her apartment.

  Anne’s bedchamber was a surprise. Her walls were adorned with a few needlepoint samplers from her childhood. Nothing else. There was a narrow bed, no doubt the same bed she had used since she was a little girl. Elizabeth supposed that Lady Catherine—who still dictated when her daughter might leave the house or where she might go—was unwilling to admit that Anne was no longer a child.

  A small dresser covered with bottles of tonics and medicines spoke of a lifetime of poor health and zealous doctoring. Elizabeth suspected that the latter had contributed to the former. There was a modest bookcase and a large old-fashioned wardrobe. A little table and two straight-backed chairs by the window commanded a fine view of the woods and, beyond that, the church spire in Hunsford.

  Anne gestured out the window. “When I was a child, I longed to travel, to escape Rosings,” said Anne. “True, it is very beautiful here. But I was lonely.”

  “You poor dear! Having four sisters, I
really cannot imagine having so much solitude. How oppressive! But you saw your cousins now and again, did you not?”

  Anne nodded. “Yes, and, of course, as soon I was old enough to comprehend, my mother began hinting to me that Fitzwilliam was to be my future husband. Perhaps if she had held her tongue, perhaps if she had not insisted upon it…who knows? I might have developed some kind of romantic feelings for him. As it was, though”—she shrugged—“I have imagined what a husband might be, and my imagination never painted anyone like my cousin.” She added quickly, “Pray, do not think I am disparaging Fitzwilliam! He is in every respect a fine man and, when he was a boy, he was always kind to me.

  Elizabeth nodded, pleased to have this glimpse of her husband as a boy and especially happy to hear from Anne’s own lips that only Lady Catherine regretted the alliance that never came to be.

  “So, with no one to talk with much of the time, I resorted to making up my own imaginary companions and writing little stories to amuse myself.”

  Anne pulled a chain from around her neck on which hung a small key. She opened a locked drawer in the dresser and revealed a bundle of papers.

  At first Elizabeth assumed it was a diary. But Anne placed them on the small table and, moving closer, Elizabeth saw that that they were booklets made of folded-up paper and hand-stitched binding. The booklets were covered with writing in a small, feminine hand. Elizabeth picked up one of the booklets and started to read it.

  The baby, sitting on her hip, began to wiggle and fret. Anne surprised Elizabeth by taking Catherine in her arms and cooing softly.

  It was a story, a fairy story, about a child princess who lived in a castle on a mountaintop. From the very first pages, Elizabeth was caught up in the simple and charming tale. The princess could only leave the mountaintop in her dreams. When dreaming, she had a variety of adventures, only to wake up every morning in her bed.

  Elizabeth sat in a chair by the fire and devoured page after page, losing herself in the tale. A bubble of laughter drew her attention to the sight of her daughter and Anne playing peek-a-boo with the window curtains.