A Merry Darcy Christmas

“We do know the gentleman,” said Jane. “For he is a friend of a neighbor of ours . . .” Jane’s voice trailed off, and her gaze drifted past Mr. Pettigrew, looking away into the distance.

“Do you know Lady Catherine?” Elizabeth asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

Pettigrew shook his head.

“Never met her. North knows her—I mean Lord Northover. He’s with her now. She collared him the moment we arrived.”

Elizabeth took a sip of her tea, the sweet taste cheering her a little after the thought of Mr. Darcy.

“Lizzy is the only one of us who knows her Ladyship,” Jane said. “Lady Catherine invited her and had to invite the rest of us in the bargain.”

“Well, the more the merrier I always say. Especially at Christmas. I must say that I’m relieved to find the company so pleasant. North’s all right, but some of his friends would prefer not to have to associate with me.”

“Well, we have relatives in Cheapside,” says Elizabeth. “So we would probably be less popular with those persons even than you.”

Pettigrew laughed. He chomped a biscuit down in two bites. Elizabeth didn’t think she had ever seen anyone with redder hair—or a heartier appetite.

She wondered what Kitty and Anne were discussing. They were seated in the far corner of the drawing room, and while Kitty was doing most of the talking, and was the most animated, Anne seem to be quite engaged; Elizabeth thought that she had never seen her so voluble.

“I wonder when we shall meet your friend? Jane asked Mr. Pettigrew.

“Oh, soon, I expect,” Mr. Pettigrew replied. “If not now, at dinner I expect. Don’t know what Lady Catherine wanted with him. He said something about some financial scheme or other of hers.”

“Do you know Lord Northover well?” Elizabeth asked.

“Oh yes,” Mr. Pettigrew said. “Been friends for years. Funny story about how we met—”

“I believe that might be him now,” Jane interrupted.

Elizabeth turned to see a slender man of aristocratic bearing enter the drawing room. He was handsome enough, she thought—perhaps not so handsome as Mr. Darcy, but nevertheless very agreeable in his own way—and was quite a contrast with his friend Mr. Pettigrew who performed the introductions.

“So, you are Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Lord Northover said as they were introduced. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

From Mr. Darcy no doubt, Elizabeth thought. “And I you.”

“Do not believe a word of it,” Lord Northover said. “And in any event, I have reformed. Whatever Pettigrew has told you about me you may safely attribute to youthful folly.”

“He has said nothing, or next to nothing about you,” said Elizabeth archly. “It was another who spoke to me of you.”

“Indeed,” said Lord Northover. “I hope that other was not unduly critical.”

“Quite the opposite,” said Elizabeth. “The individual praised you highly.”

“Then you know it wasn’t me,” said Mr. Pettigrew with a laugh.

The assembled party exchanged pleasantries until it was time for the ladies to repair to their rooms and begin the arduous task of selecting their evening apparel, and otherwise preparing for dinner.

Elizabeth found Lord Northover to be as engaging and charming as Lady Catherine had intimated she would. There was no doubt that he was charming, and genteel, and extremely well bred. But why he should be interested in her was a mystery.

Surely, he ought to have the same objections to her suitability as did Mr. Darcy. She had no fortune or connections, and her family was—thankfully Mrs. Bennet was resting, and Lord Northover had yet to meet her—not part of the aristocracy. Certainly, her father was a gentleman, but the Bennets did not move in the same lofty circles as Lord Northover was accustomed to.

Perhaps—and there was evidence of this in his choice of Mr. Pettigrew as a friend—Northover was less inclined to family pride than Mr. Darcy was? Perhaps, as Lady Catherine had suggested, he was so wealthy that he didn’t need to concern himself with what people thought?

But try as she might, Elizabeth could not persuade herself that Lord Northover was so beguiled by her charms that he could look past her situation. That was something more to it, something behind his attraction to her that would make sense of it, but what that something was she could not begin to imagine.

Dinner was, if possible, even more splendid and varied than it had been the day before. Elizabeth marveled at the assortment of delicacies—in season or out, Lady Catherine’s table did not seem to care—which were replaced as the courses proceeded by the diligent footmen. Nearly the only dish Elizabeth recognized was the white soup with which the meal began.

“Would you care for more pheasant, Miss Bennet?” Lord Northover, who was seated at her right, asked.