Page 7 of The Difference of a Darcy
He let out a long breath and looked toward the fire. He would have to write to Georgiana—she would be disappointed, though she would put on a brave face. She had planned to spend the Christmastide with the Matlocks, but they had hoped he might join them at Twelfth Night. Now, it would seem, he would instead be fending off Lady Catherine’s lectures and her hints for him to marry his cousin.
If Anne had eyes half as fine as Miss Elizabeth’s, or even a quarter of her wit, then marrying her would not be quite so unpalatable.
No—these were thoughts that were best left in the past. Miss Elizabeth was entirely inappropriate as the future Mrs. Darcy.
He reached for his pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and set it to paper.
My dear Aunt—
He paused, then crossed it out.
Lady Catherine—
That would do. With a grim expression, Darcy began to write.
∞∞∞
Hertfordshire, December 4th, 1811
Elizabeth’s boots crunched softly over the snow-packed lane, her breath curling before her like smoke in the cold morning air. The countryside lay hushed beneath its pale white blanket, trees sheathed in silver and hedgerows dusted like sugarplums. Though her bonnet did little to keep her ears warm, she relished the feel of the brisk air on her cheeks.
Winter does have its charms… especially when one is out of doors and away from talk of marriage prospects.
Tree branches were etched in white, and holly berries gleamed scarlet in the frost. She ought to have been merry. It was the season for it. But her heart felt heavier with every step.
It had been two days since Charlotte Lucas—her steady, pragmatic Charlotte—had paid a quick call, cheeks pink and voice unnaturally light, to share the news of her engagement to Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth had not known what to say. She had saidsomething, surely—polite congratulations, expressions of surprise, perhaps even a half-hearted compliment on the match. But it had been difficult to summon any genuine warmth, much less enthusiasm. Charlotte, who had always seemed sensible, if not particularly romantic, had calmly accepted the attentions ofthat man, as though reason could outweigh ridicule, and comfort make up for companionship.
Now, as she trudged the snowy path to Lucas Lodge, Elizabeth found herself more sad than shocked. Sad that Charlotte had felt so little hope for anything better. Sad that the world was organized in a manner that intelligent women were forced to make such decisions.
And sad, if she were honest, that this Christmas—their last together as girls—would be colored by such a sacrifice.
As she gave her name to the maid and was shown into the modest parlor of Lucas Lodge, Elizabeth realized she felt nonearer to peace on the subject than she had before her walk.Poor Charlotte; to share the rest of her life with such a man.
Lady Lucas and Maria were seated near the hearth, bent over a basket of mending, their fingers working nimbly despite the chill in the room.
“Miss Eliza!” Lady Lucas greeted her warmly. “Do come in, my dear. Your timing is excellent—we have just stoked the fire again.”
Maria gave a cheerful, if slightly breathless, smile. “Charlotte is downstairs helping Cook with the fruit puddings—she will be up directly.”
Elizabeth removed her gloves and took the offered seat, unable to entirely suppress a flicker of surprise.Charlotte in the kitchens?It was not entirely improper—particularly in a household without a full staff, and Charlottewouldbe marrying soon—but it still gave her pause.
Mrs. Bennet would be horrified.
“My girls? In the kitchens?”she could hear her mother’s shrill voice echo in her head.“They are daughters of a gentleman, not housemaids!”
A few minutes passed in pleasantries before Charlotte entered, her cheeks pink with exertion and her hands lightly dusted with flour. She wiped them hastily on her apron, but the dusting remained like a ghost upon her fingertips. Elizabeth rose to greet her, noting that her friend’s eyes were red-rimmed, though her smile was bright enough to distract anyone not looking too closely.
“Lizzy! You are so good to come in this weather. I hope the snow was not too deep on the lane?”
“Only enough to be pretty,” Elizabeth said gently, eyeing her friend. “Though I begin to worry that your cook may be working you to death before you even reach Hunsford.”
Charlotte laughed, but it sounded brittle. “It is only Christmas puddings. I must learn to manage such things myself soon enough.”
Maria, who had been watching the exchange with barely contained energy, burst out, “Have you told her yet? About the letter?”
Charlotte flushed. “Maria—”
