Regina Jeffers: Christmas at Pemberley

Sitting before the blaze’s warmth, Elizabeth easily remembered how with his second proposal, Darcy had mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make you think better of me? Did you on reading it, give any credit to its contents?”

She had tried to allay his fears. She had explained what its effect had had on her and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.

“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter.” Of course, she had not. Elizabeth had read and reread it so often that she could recite it by heart. “There was one part,” Darcy had continued, “especially the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again.” It was so typical of her husband to worry that his words had brought her mental suffering. She loved him dearly for his compassion. “I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me.” As if she could hate a man who had unselfishly saved her family from ruin.

Elizabeth had seized the opportunity to protect him — to let Mr. Darcy know that she welcomed his renewed attentions. “The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believed it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.” Yet, she had not burnt that first letter or any of the others that had followed. For a man who was abashedly silent at the most social of times, her husband was absolutely eloquent when he put pen to paper. Starting with the morning after their wedding night, Darcy had marked poignant moments with personal notes left on her pillow. She would wake to find what he couldn’t say in person.Tonight, she began her reading with that wedding night homage to their love: “My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,” she read aloud.

My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,

As I sit at this desk in awe of the most splendid of gifts that you have offered me this night, my heart overflows with love. The loneliness has dissipated, and I do not speak of the physical closeness we shared last evening — as exquisite as it was — I speak of the happiness that you have brought to my life and to Pemberley. From the beginning, you destroyed my hard-earned peace, and many times I found myself spiraling out of control, but I would, willingly, suffer the pain again to know you for but one day — one hour, even.You are everything — firmly planted are my hopes — you are the coming chapters of my life’s book.

D

A tear slid down her cheek, but Elizabeth didn’t whisk it away. He had rattled her senses that night. Rattled. Shaken. Turned her world upside down in the most tantalizing ways. Her heart had pounded so intensely when she’d looked upon her husband for the first time: It had mimicked the cadence of his as Darcy drew her into his embrace. Unbelievable desire had coursed through her — ricocheted through her body and devoured her soul. Luckily, she’d spoken quite frankly with her Aunt Gardiner prior to the wedding night. If not, his power over her might have frightened Elizabeth. Instead, she’d viewed it as a challenge, and although she’d allowed Darcy to lead, she’d learned to exercise her own power. Elizabeth loved it when he surrendered to her — when he couldn’t deny her.

A smile turned up her mouth’s corners. They were good together — the absolute best. Her hand instinctively rested on her abdomen. “Please, God,” she whispered. “This time… please.” She wanted so desperately to prove to Darcy and to the world that she was worthy of being the Mistress of Pemberley — worthy of his love.

For the next hour, Elizabeth thumbed through the various notes and letters. Two of them she’d left folded — letters from Darcy after each miscarriage. Ignoring them didn’t mean that she’d never read them — quite the reverse. They were two of her favorites, but she held the strong belief that this gestation would prove successful if she could control all the outside forces — neither too much gaiety nor too much hardness nor too much melancholy. She would keep an evenness — an equable, systematic, methodical order. Maybe then God would see fit to reward her with the child she desperately wanted.

“Maybe it’s my punishment for the sin of pride. I once thought too highly of my own intelligence and not enough of Fitzwilliam’s inherent goodness.” Mr. Darcy’s constancy had never ceased to amaze her. She could not think of Darcy without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, and absurd. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish and self-reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. “Punish me, God,” she whispered. “Not him. My husband is the best of men.”

Swallowing back her tears, Elizabeth put the letters away. A few moments later, Darcy’s knock announced his return. He kissed her cheek upon his entrance. “I see you’ve managed without my serving as your maid,” he remarked as he strode past her.

“I didn’t realize you wished to assume Hannah’s duties, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said teasingly as she closed and locked the door behind him.

Darcy turned toward her, a smug smile gracing his lips. “I’m more adept at removal of garments, Mrs. Darcy.”

She crossed the room and crawled into the bed. “I’ll keep that in mind, Sir, in case you ever need a reference letter.”

Darcy watched his wife carefully, trying to take his cue from her. “Did you find something entertaining to do?” He removed his jacket and draped it over a chair’s back and then turned his attention to his cravat.

“Just some quiet time,” she said as she draped the blanket across her lap.

Darcy continued to undress before stoking the fire again with more coal and kindling. “We may be here a couple of days, Elizabeth,” he informed her as he joined her under the wool blankets. “Two more gentlemen have taken shelter. They came north from Manchester. They said the storm was just beginning in the south when they left, but it turned icier the farther north they traveled.” He blew out the lone candle.

“How in the world did Mr. Washington accommodate them?” she asked with some surprise.

“Mr. Horvak and Sir Jonathan graciously agreed to double up.”

Elizabeth turned into his embrace as Darcy slid his arm under her pillow. She rested her head upon his shoulder. “Then I’m still the only female among Mr. Washington’s guests.” She could not disguise the tentativeness in her tone.

“I will protect you, Elizabeth.”

“I know, Fitzwilliam. I’m just being foolish.”

“Mother, we cannot,” Anne De Bourgh offered her weak protest. She’d have liked to say more, but Anne had never taken a stand with Lady Catherine — with anyone, for that matter. Never rendered formidable by silence, whatever Lady Catherine said was spoken in so authoritative a tone as marked her self-importance. Anne often wished she could replicate even a quarter of her mother’s unflappable nature.

“And why not, may I ask? We cannot travel to William’s Wood. Observe the roads, Child.” Anne peered through the frosty coach window at the sand-like peppering of the ice pellets on the roadside. A sheen of frigid crystals accumulated in every rut and opening. “Mr. Swank’s an excellent coachman, for I’d have none without his expertise, but even he’s having difficulty keeping the coach on the road. Martin has released the staff at Matley Manor. Where else would you have us seek shelter?”