“Make another!” Elizabeth spluttered. “Fifteen minutes! It takes our machine nearly fifteen minutes alone to complete that seven thousand-stitch embroidery design of green peas atop a globe. And that’s not mentioning the time it takes to sew on the appliqué afterwards.”
“How can it take a quarter hour to recreate a twee drawing?”
Mary huddled with her younger siblings. “Pray for peace.”
Sotto voce, Lydia quoted, “Peace on Earth! Give me presents!”
Ignoring the others, William plucked from the clothesline a soft, shell pink sweater, thrusting it at Elizabeth. “It seems a simple enough process. Slap the appropriate embroidery on this bog-standard jumper and Bob's your uncle.”
Her laughter had a decided edge. With sweeping arm gestures, Elizabeth directed his attention to the items folded on shelves and hanging from the line. “For six months, friends and neighbours worked on these labours of love. Not for some pampered girlfriend of F. William Darcy, but for a sick child who might not live to see another Christmas unless she gets the costly medication she needs to survive. That’s why we created Homespun—a not-for-profit organisation run by my family and supported by our volunteers.”
Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth ran fingers through her hair, dislodging auburn locks from the clip holding her messy bun. “It’s Christmas Eve. We’re all looking forward to closing shop and being with loved ones.”
“A worthy cause, I grant you, and I applaud your initiative. But, see here, there is such a thing as false advertising, and your—”
Sighing and shaking her head, Elizabeth gazed at the ceiling beams. “You don’t get it. Other than photocopied flyers on a few community bulletin boards, we never advertised. The sick girl’s sister—my best friend Charlotte—posted photos of our creations on Instagram, Pinterest, Twitter, and Facebook. The whole thing went viral without our knowledge…until we started getting thousands of inquiries.”
“You had no marketing plan?”
“This was meant as a local fundraiser only, but it got out of hand. Imagine my surprise when the rich and famous decided our charming—your word, not mine—woollen goods should become the latest trend. So, here we are, hardly able to keep up with demand. We’re ecstatic to have raised so much money for Mariah, but we’re tired…and, I fear, emotional. I apologise on behalf of my sisters and myself.”
Her explanation left Darcy gobsmacked. I know all about working long, hard hours. About being tired and emotional. He apologised for his behaviour, adding, “This time, I mean it.”
Elizabeth raised her chin. Green eyes, luminous with tears, searched his own for sincerity. She offered him a wobbly smile, then some coffee, mulled cider, or candy-cane hot chocolate. “And there are a few cinnamon buns and gingerbread reindeer left on that trestle table…next to a stack of Dad’s used books that nobody wants. Interested?”
William thanked Elizabeth, accepted a bun and a biscuit, and wolfed them down. “I really must be on my way, though. I have a flight to catch, and the roads are, most likely, treacherous.”
“Haven’t you heard? The worst ice storm in fifty years is approaching. State police just issued a warning that motorists should stay off the roads. Airports are telling travellers to check their flights online before heading out.”
Flight Tracker already programmed in, William’s mobile was at his ear in seconds. Gentleman that he was, he turned away so no one would hear any four-letter words if his flight was cancelled. His head and shoulders dropped, his eyes closed. Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Georgiana. I’ve failed you again.
He discovered the Bennet sisters watching his every move. As his eyes met theirs, they looked away, busying themselves. Mary switched off the coffee machine and urns of cider and hot chocolate. Cathy and Lydia wrapped leftover baked goods in clingfilm while their elder sister secured the deposit.
Elizabeth fetched outerwear from pegs behind the storage room door. Distributing them, she insisted her sisters go home. “I’ll be along shortly. I heard car doors a while ago. Ed, Martha, and the kids must have arrived.”
The teens bid William a “Merry Christmas” and headed for the exit. Struggling against a gale-force wind, Lydia grunted, pushing at the barn door.
“Here. Allow me.” William put his shoulder to the heavy wood, forcing it outward. A blast of frigid air stole his breath. The door slammed behind him as he turned back into the room, shaking ice crystals from his hair. “Gad! It’s cold enough to freeze the bal— Er, it’s a bit parky out there this evening.”
Elizabeth waited.
“Yes. Cancelled, as you must have surmised. All flights cancelled.” Combing back his forelock with cold fingers, he forced another smile. “Now… Do you happen to know where I left my hat and gloves? And, more importantly, where I might find the nearest hotel?”
“Our nearest—our only—accommodation is a mile away. The Meryton Inn has just three rooms, all occupied by Lucas relatives here to visit Mariah over the holidays. Sorry. Unless you have friends nearby, you’re stuck. My parents would offer to put you up for the night, I know they would, but our place is packed, too. We’ve four bedrooms, but my aunt, uncle, and four cousins are staying with us, as is Dad’s cousin. By now, all beds, air mattresses, and pull-out sofas have been claimed, and— Wait! You can sleep here, in the barn. Up in the hayloft.”
“What? Are you honestly telling me, on Christmas Eve, there’s no room at the inn? And that I must sleep in a stable? In hay?” William guffawed then sobered, dragging hands down his face.
Elizabeth explained the loft had been converted into a studio apartment. “There’s a double bed and a few other furnishings. And, of course, a bathroom. With shower. You’ll just have to watch your head. You’re so very…tall and…” A flush crept across her cheeks. “And the walls are all slanted. Except in the very middle, of course.” Rubbing her brow, she looked away. “Sorry, I’m babbling.”
William opened his mouth to accept, but his stomach spoke first.
“When’s the last time you ate? Do you want another cinnamon—” Elizabeth slapped her forehead. “Ugh. Obviously not thinking clearly. Come over to the house, please. Join us for supper. There’ll be enough food to feed an army or, at least, Bill. First, though, you should park your car in the yard. Our snow-plow driver gets riled when vehicles are on the shoulder.”
He graciously accepted her offer. I’m buggered. What choice do I have?
After a search for William’s hat and gloves, Elizabeth bundled herself in a hooded coat and mittens and wound a Homespun scarf around her neck. While she turned off the lights, he fought with the wind over control of the door.
Outside, squinting against the elements, she gripped his arm, helping William keep his impractically shod feet beneath him. Through ice-encrusted snow, they trudged to the SUV—where they stood for two minutes arguing about her scraping, or not scraping, the windshield.
“Be sensible. I’m wearing proper winter footwear. You’re not.”
He, indignant at such a suggestion, opened the passenger door and insisted she get in. She, lips pressed together, complied. William slammed the door, or the wind took it. Whichever force was to blame, he slipped and disappeared from her sight.
“Men!” She inched the door open, bumping the side of his head as he pulled himself up.
In the driver’s seat, William pushed the starter and set the automatic climate control to max. Rubbing his head, he watched as an obstinate, mittened, aubergine anorak—for that was all he could see of Elizabeth—cleared ice from the windscreen with his anodised titanium credit card. “How was I to know there’s no scraper?”
Along with the north-east wind, Elizabeth breezed in, shivering. “I’m so sorry!” At his blank expression, she added, “Dropped it. Just need a minute to thaw out. Then I’ll go search again. Should be easy to spot against the snow.”
“Dropped what?” Don’t say credit card. Please don’t say you dropped my Black—
“Your credit card.”
<
br /> “Blimey.” Inch by inch, William bent forward until his forehead rested on the steering wheel, mumbling about needing petrol to make it to the airport and paracetamol to make it through the night.
A quarter hour later, Amex card secured in his breast pocket, he parked the Land Rover in front of the barn, and they slogged one hundred sixty yards to the front of the house. At the bottom of the steps—“Whoa!”—William’s feet shot out from beneath him.
Elizabeth yanked him up by his sleeve, saving him from landing on his expensively-clad bottom. “Careful of the icy patch. And, um, I should also warn you against mentioning anything to Mom about your Centurion card.”
“I hardly go about boasting of such things,” he huffed. Treading the steps carefully, holding onto the wooden banister for dear life, he glanced her way. “But why not, may I ask?”
His question went unanswered as the farmhouse’s exterior and interior lights blinked twice, then went out—as did the street lamps, the twinkling fairy lights in the pine trees, and all sources of electrical illumination as far as the eye, in poor visibility, could see.
Into the pitch-blackness, Elizabeth let out a wail. “Ohhh, fffuuudge!”
Part 2: A Bennet Family Christmas Vacation Story
Blinded when the front door flew open, William reared back. A middle-aged man—clad in parka, corduroy trousers, snow boots, and frown—appeared before him, battery-operated lantern in hand, ready to brave the elements.
“Lizzy! I was worried sick! Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“Sorry, Dad. The battery must have died in the cold. Speaking of which, can we please come in, out of it?”
The man stepped back, holding open the door.
Elizabeth and William stomped their feet and brushed snow and ice from their clothing onto the hallway mat. After hanging his outerwear on a nearby coatrack to dry and adding his shoes to a large collection of boots, William stood awkwardly, glancing alternately at her and at the thirteen people of various sizes, shapes, and ages—torches, lanterns, or candles in hand—who gawped back at him.
“Oh! Sorry! Dad, Mom, this is F. William Darcy. He was shopping here on his way to the airport and will be sleeping in the loft. William, my parents, Tom and Jenny Bennet.”
Shaking their hands, William exchanged a few civilities with his hosts.
“And,” said Elizabeth, “I believe you’ve already met most of my sisters. Except Jane, here.”
So taken with the beauty in the barn, William accepted Jane’s cool, extended hand and… Nothing. No blistering heat. No intense, challenging locking of eyes. Nothing.
Elizabeth’s father introduced the Gardiners and their four young children. “And,” he said, grimacing, “the hulking fellow breathing down my neck is Bill Collins, my sixth cousin, thrice removed. Removed, but, like a bad penny…”
Chortling, Bill slapped his cousin’s back before shaking William’s hand. “Actually, third cousin, twice removed. A pleasure, Will. I have, needless to say, heard of you. I don’t like to brag, but your aunt Catherine subscribes to my YouTube channel and occasionally leaves a scathing comment. The dear lady is just kidding, of course.” Puffing out his chest,” he added, “We’re, you see, LinkedIn. Have been for years. You might say we’re friends, although she has yet to accept my Facebook request.” Letting go of William’s hand, he said he had heard many good things about him and how glad he was that they finally met. “In fact, you might be interested in my next venture. I have this idea for a TED Talk and—”
“And nothing,” said Jenny. “Supper is almost ready.” Stroking William’s superfine sleeve, she bustled him down the hall. “We’ll dine by candlelight. Even in a power outage, we’re not completely in the dark.” Scowling over her shoulder at her cousin-in-law, she whispered to William. “At least most of us aren’t.”
William admitted he could do with a good nosh up. “I haven’t properly eaten since breakfast.”
“Our old propane stove has a standing pilot flame, so even the oven works. Now, come along. You and Liz must be frozen. There’s mulled cider and buttered rum heating over the hearth. Do you take brandy in your cider? Or would you prefer a spiked eggnog?” Without awaiting an answer, she prattled on, barely taking a breath. “We’ll fix you up with some Anadama bread toasted over the fire and a nice bowl of clam chowdah. That’s how you pronounce chowder in New England: chowdah. If you’re a vegetarian like Liz, we have corn chowdah, followed by a roasted vegetable quiche. There’ll be crab cakes with Harvard beets and, of course, lobster served with melted butter. You don’t look like a mac ’n’ cheese kind of man to me, but that’s what the youngsters will eat.”
Bill scurried to catch up. “A minute of your time, please, Will.”
William surreptitiously wiped, with his hankie, at the palm that had shaken the soap dodger’s hand.
Carrying a torch, Elizabeth spoke from behind. “His name is William, Bill, and I expect he might like to wash his hands before eating.”
Perceptive woman. “Yes, thank you. Where’s the loo?”
Bill offered to show William the way, but Elizabeth reminded him he had to help her father with the lobsters. Like an overgrown cockroach, he scuttered off into the dark.
Dingy in the poor light of torches and candles, the Bennet home, nevertheless, smelled clean and Christmassy. Tantalising aromas made delicious promises to William’s stomach, and he inhaled deeply. Amongst more welcoming ones, the unpleasant smell of a person's unwashed body lingered. “Interesting bloke, your cousin.”
“Distant cousin. Unfortunately for us, not distant enough…or able to keep his distance.” The beam of Elizabeth’s torch dimmed perceptibly as they reached the guest washroom. “He’s intimidated, I think, by Jane’s beauty. He hits on me, instead.”
“He does seem a bit of a thickie.”
“Right.” Elizabeth gave a short, mirthless laugh. “A man would have to be thick to choose me over Jane.”
Damn! “That’s not at all what I meant. If you’d like, I could— What’s the American football term? Run interference. Pretend I’m madly in love with you.”
“Ha! I doubt you’re that proficient an actor, but I’ll keep it in mind. Here, take the flashlight. I’ll wait on that deacon’s bench over there. Don’t want you getting lost on your way to the dining room.”
Having availed himself of all the loo’s facilities, William glanced at his watch before pulling out his mobile. Might as well—while afforded some privacy—check up on Georgie before it’s too late over there. He tapped on her image then drummed on the wall, waiting, as the wind howled and shook the windowpane.
“Will! We’ve been so worried! Are you en route? We heard there’s a blizzard raging along the US north-east coast.”
“I’m temporarily snowbound, although it’s more of an ice storm now. And there’s a power outage.” William pictured her pout while she asked when they might expect him. “Sorry, Georgie. I’ll not be home for the hols.” Holding the phone away from his ear, he waited as she threw a wobbly. “Are you quite finished? The weather, you know, is beyond even my control. It’s not as if I want to be here.”
“Where are you? The airport?”
“I never made it that far. I’m staying overnight in the back of beyond. Rustic place. Inhabited by hobby farmers, cheeky crafters, dappy teenagers, and clutching mothers…not to mention Chrimbo Santas and distant cousins filled with air.”
“William Darcy, have you been drinking?”
“Not yet. I am, however, knackered, hangry, and very sorry to disappoint you, luv. To top it all off, I’m to sleep in a bloody barn tonight, in a hayloft. Doubt I’ll catch much kip. Wish I was there with you.” William listened while his sister ranted and whinged. “You can get all mardy about it if you like, Georgiana, but—” He crooned into the phone, “You better watch out. You better not cry. Better not pout. I’m telling you why…”
“You are out of your box, aren’t you?”
William argued he was sober
as a judge.
Georgiana reminded him that some eighteenth-century tosspot ancestor—whose portrait graced Pemberley’s gallery—had been in that profession. Speaking to someone in the background, she told whoever it was to hold his horses. “There’s a nosy parker here beside me who’s beside himself with curiosity. We’ll FaceTime tomorrow, okay? Here’s Rich. Ta-ta! Love you!”
“Love you more— No, no, not you, wanker!”
William asked after all his relatives and expressed his regrets. “So sorry”—not sorry—“to be missing all the jollification.” All the “sameyness,” all the back-biting, all the overindulgences of a Fitzwilliam Chrissie knees-up. “You won’t believe the nightmare before Christmas I’m having.”
After Richard’s initial probing questions were answered, William elaborated at length on his first impressions. “And,” he continued ranting, “even the baby bonnets have infantile puns embroidered on them. What do you mean ‘What’s wrong with that?’ And why do you keep asking about her? No, I have not mentioned Elizabeth at least a dozen times!” Have I? “She—of the grotty apron and tacky jumper—is of no interest to me. Absolutely not! I have no intention, now or ever, of chatting her up or cracking on to her.” Liar, liar, pants on fire, nose as long as a telephone wire! “Nevertheless, Rich, she’s a proper fit piece. Elizabeth’s teal jumper had ‘Christmas Cheer’ plastered across the chest, complete with two white pom-poms positioned at strategic points. I think the name of a local competitive cheer group was there, too. A part of me wanted to rise up and shout, ‘Rah!’ Truth be told, man, you should see all the Bennet sisters. Five of them. All close in age. All as hot as hell and…hold on a sec. Bloody torch battery just went flat, and I’m in the dark. Might as well sign off and grope my way to the dining room. Give everyone—except your prat of a brother—my love and apologies. Cheers.”
Fumbling in the dark, William opened the door, wincing at the glow from a lantern on the floor across the hall. Raising his eyes, he spotted Elizabeth, arms folded, leaning against the wall instead of down the hall where she said she’d be. “Hello. Waiting for the loo or simply eavesdropping?”
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