Chapter Two Preview

Darcy set aside the ledger, the numbers already lost to him, and leaned back in the chair. The silence offered no balm. Once, Georgiana’s music had softened such hours; now the quiet was stark, stripped of any note that might have eased his mind.

He rose and crossed to the escritoire in the far corner. A few letters lay upon it, received and unanswered: Lady Matlock’s looping hand, full of warmth and insistence, urging him to join the family in Town; Georgiana’s smaller, careful script, polite and cool where once it had been eager and unguarded.

He touched the topmost page without opening it. There had been a time when her letters were confiding, filled with her music and her little triumphs. Now each line was cropped short, correct, and held at a distance—as if affection must be counted out like coins before it could be spent. He did not need to see the words again to feel the space they left between them.

With a snap of his wrist, he closed the drawer and pulled open another. A small bundle lay within, tucked inside a worn leather case that might have once held a watch. He drew it out with hesitation that mocked itself—what was the use of such a trifle to a man who prided himself on sense and sobriety? Yet he did not put it back.

A length of green ribbon lay coiled within, faded now at the edges, still soft where it had once tied back dark curls. He remembered it too clearly: the days at Netherfield, when Elizabeth Bennet’s light step and ready hands had brought life to every room she entered. The ribbon had slipped free one evening, as she leaned near the hearth to warm herself after tending her sister. She had searched for it briefly, laughing at her own carelessness, before forgetting it in the press of other concerns. He had come upon it the next morning, fallen against the leg of a chair, and had tucked it into his pocket as though it were a treasure.

He ought to have returned it. Any other man would have left it for the maids. Instead, he had folded it away, telling himself it was nothing. Nothing—and yet it had followed him from Hertfordshire to London, from London to Kent and London again, then back to Derbyshire, until now it lay hidden in his desk like a guilty talisman.

Darcy turned it between his fingers, the silk catching the firelight. Foolish sentiment. A man of honour should not cherish what could never be his. Yet it was the only piece of her that time and distance had not taken.

Her eyes at Hunsford had condemned him; her words had struck with a justice he could not dispute.

And afterward, when Lydia Bennet’s folly had become the talk of every drawing room, when George Wickham had ruined the entire Bennet family and Darcy had heard of it too late to spare anyone the damage, he had understood what it must mean for them all. If there had ever been the faintest hope, it was extinguished then. Elizabeth Bennet was lost to him.

And still, he kept her ribbon.

He pressed it briefly to his palm, then folded it once more and laid it back in the case. When he shut the drawer, it was with the finality of a man determined to forget. But as he returned to the fire and stood with one arm braced against the mantel, the memory lingered. Elizabeth, her head bent over her ailing sister; Elizabeth, walking briskly through Netherfield’s halls, eyes bright with wit and spirit. Elizabeth, who had seen him at his worst, and who, despite all, he could not cease to—

Darcy closed his eyes. Such thoughts were useless. She could never forgive him; and even if she could, her family’s disgrace would forever stand between them. To think of her was to indulge in a fantasy that mocked them both.

The clock on the mantel struck the hour. He stirred the fire once more and told himself he would write to Lady Matlock in the morning, declining her invitation. He would not go to town; he would not go to Kelton; he would not go anywhere that offered company. Let Richard spend Christmas in merry society. For Darcy, solitude was safer.

And yet, as he turned back toward the desk, his eyes fell unbidden to the closed drawer. The ribbon lay hidden there, silent as memory, whispering of what remained.

Morning in Gracechurch Street had its own cheerful order, though the house was quieter than Elizabeth sometimes wished. The maid brought in a tray of warm rolls, the kettle sang on the hob, and the fire kept a modest brightness against December’s chill. Outside, cartwheels splashed on the stones and a hawker’s cry drifted faintly through the fog. Within, the sitting room was tidy, the air touched with the scent of orange peel where Mrs. Gardiner had set a saucer near the grate.

Elizabeth sat by the table, her fingers busy tying sprigs of evergreen into a simple garland. The task was small enough to be called trifling, but it pleased her to give shape to the room with a little winter colour. Across from her, her aunt held a piece of mending in her lap. The needle moved carefully, steadily, but the lines of her face betrayed more effort than the task required.

Elizabeth rose and poured out the tea, and set a cup within reach. “You are determined to be useful,” she said, softening her tone with a smile.

Her aunt returned it faintly. “It is better than brooding. And I have decided—I am determined to go, Lizzy, even if it does me a few cold days on the road. I had my own letter from Louisa this morning, and I cannot disappoint her. If I keep to moderation, the journey may do me no harm.”

Elizabeth set her own cup aside, touched both by relief and concern. “You will not be overtaxed?”

“Not if you contrive to scold me when I attempt too much,” Mrs. Gardiner answered, her needle pausing with the ghost of amusement. “Your uncle really must go on to Northampton, and I would rather go with him most of the way than make him travel alone.”

Mr. Gardiner entered at that moment with a packet of letters in hand, his step brisk despite the damp morning. “The post is obliging,” he declared. “One from Longbourn, another from Northampton. Both clamouring for our attention.”

Elizabeth accepted the familiar hand with a mixed anticipation. Her mother’s letters seldom failed to amuse and weary in equal measure. She broke the seal and read aloud, abbreviating where the exclamation points grew too numerous.

“‘My dear Lizzy—your Aunt Phillips insists it is the talk of the neighbourhood that Netherfield has not been given up at all. Mr. Bingley may return any day. You will not suppose your sister Jane intends to lose her chance, so she must remain with us through the season. No excuse will be accepted.’” Elizabeth lowered the sheet and shook her head. “Poor Jane. She deserves better than to be tethered to a rumour.”

Mrs. Gardiner’s mouth compressed with gentle disapproval. “Your mother means well, but hope should not be built on such foundations.”

Elizabeth smoothed the paper and returned it to the table. “Jane bears it with patience, as she always does. But I cannot like to think of her future balanced upon Mama’s fancies.”

“Then let us be grateful your own is not,” her uncle said, with the cheerful practicality that never failed to steady a room. “We have more immediate matters to arrange. Taylor writes from Northampton: it is quite settled now that I must look in upon them before the year’s end. If we are to go north, my dear, it ought to be soon”

Mrs. Gardiner lifted her gaze. “I should like to see Louisa as soon as may be. If the roads are kind, then perhaps we may depart before the end of the week.”

“Very good,” Mr. Gardiner agreed. “I shall write to say as much. If the frost holds, we will leave for Towcester by Thursday, and from there I will go on to Northampton. You will be better off with Louisa’s hearth than in a draughty counting-house.”

Elizabeth gathered her workbasket, heart tightening in that odd mixture of anticipation and resignation that had become so familiar. There was no question of her returning to Longbourn while her aunt and uncle ventured north. Her aunt’s spirits had been too fragile to consider such a thing.

Besides… there was nothing worth returning to Longbourn for just now.

The journey itself promised variety: the bustle of an inn yard, the simple cheer of her aunt’s old friend, and perhaps the brightness of another household if the roads carried them farther. She did not deceive herself into expecting delight. Her own chances of happiness had been spent too dearly. But she could still be glad for her aunt’s comfort and her uncle’s satisfaction. That was reason enough.

When the letters were answered and the household began its modest preparations, Elizabeth stood at the window. A sleet of fine snow traced the glass, softening the outlines of the street below. The world beyond London seemed suddenly closer, as if the roads themselves were urging them onward. She drew the curtain against the draft and whispered a quiet wish—not for herself, but for those she loved—that the journey north might be gentle, and that Christmastide would bring them some measure of peace.

“You will drive yourself into the floorboards at this rate,” Richard said, striding into the library without ceremony. “Every time I see you, you are in this chair or bent over those ledgers, as if Derbyshire itself would collapse without your hand upon it.”

Darcy’s fingers twitched toward the desk drawer before he caught himself. The brass handle was flush, the lock secure—nothing to betray what lay hidden within. Only then did he look up, schooling his features into calm as Richard planted himself before the fire.

Darcy folded his arms, leaning back. “It is my duty to see Pemberley secure. If others squander their time, I cannot afford to.”

His cousin’s brows rose. “Duty again. You wear the word thin, Darcy.”

“It is what sustains me.”

Richard looked down at him for a long moment. “Sustains? It devours you. I have seen men come off a march half-dead, and they carried more life in them than you do sitting here by your fire.”

Darcy’s gaze tightened on the flames. “You speak of what you cannot understand.”

“I understand more than you credit me. You think yourself alone in loss? I have buried comrades enough to know the look of a man who believes the best part of life is behind him.”

Darcy’s hand curled against the arm of the chair. “What remains to me is enough. Pemberley thrives. My tenants are content. That is sufficient.”

“And Georgiana?”

The name struck like a blow. Darcy looked up sharply, but Richard’s expression did not waver.

“She is well cared for at Matlock House,” Darcy said stiffly.

“She is cared for, yes. But does she confide in you now, as she once did?”

Darcy’s silence was answer enough.

Richard’s voice gentled. “You are losing her, cousin. Not to scandal, nor to Wickham—God be thanked—but to distance. To silence. And you let it happen because you will not face what it costs to reach her.”

Darcy rose abruptly, pacing to the far side of the hearth. “Do you think I do not feel it? I have done all I know, and still—still—” He broke off, pressing his palm against the mantel. The fire hissed as a log collapsed into ash. “I cannot command her heart to trust me. Nor anyone’s.”

Richard watched him steadily. “Then perhaps it is time to stop commanding and start seeking.”

Darcy let out a short, humourless laugh. “Seeking what? More society? More empty hours of card tables and hollow talk? I have no taste for it.”

“You never did. But once, you endured it for those you loved.”

Darcy turned on him, his voice sharper than he intended. “And look what came of it. My efforts brought only contempt. I will not expose myself again.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed, though his tone remained calm. “So that is your verdict? To shut yourself in this house until duty consumes you? To let Georgiana drift where she may, while you bury yourself alive?”

“I am content,” Darcy bit out.

“You are not.”

Darcy turned from the fire. “Enough, Fitzwilliam. You press me as if my absence from one party or another will unmake the world.”

“Not the world. Only you.”

Darcy only snorted.

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “So that is your verdict? To shut yourself up in this mausoleum until the year turns?”

Darcy’s hand tightened on the mantel. “It is my choice.”

Richard let out a breath that might have been a laugh if it were not so sharp. “Then I will make one of my own. I mean to leave for Kelton Manor on Thursday. If you will not come, say so plainly and I shall quit troubling you.” He reached for his gloves, tugging them on with soldierly briskness. “But I warn you, Darcy—if I ride out of here without you, I may not trouble myself to fetch you again.”

Darcy hesitated, pride warring with weariness. The thought of Richard gone, leaving him alone in this echoing house through Christmastide, ached more sharply than he cared to admit. At last, he said curtly, “Thursday, then.”

Richard glanced up, the corners of his mouth easing, though he offered no triumph. “Very good. I shall see to the arrangements.”

The door shut behind him, leaving Darcy once more with the fire’s restless glow. He sank into the chair, his jaw set. So be it. He would go to Kelton Manor, if only to silence his cousin’s importunity. It could offer nothing but discomfort and wasted hours—but at least it would not be this suffocating solitude.

Still, as the fire hissed low, he felt no lighter for the decision.

To Be Continued!

The Christmas CollectionShop now Products by Category How to Get Caught Under the Mistletoe Read Now Mistletoe, Magic, and Mr. Darcy Read Now for Free Mr. Darcy’s Christmas Kiss Read Now for Free Queen of Winter Read Now The Scotsman’s Ghost Read Now for Free

The post Want another sneak peek? appeared first on Alix James.