A Merry Darcy Christmas

His apology was insufficient for Elizabeth. The words were there, but there was nothing of contrition in them.

“And yet you gave it,” she said. “That seems to be the only aspect of social interaction which you have completely mastered. I seem to recall you once managed to give offense to an entire assembly.” Elizabeth thought of the effect that Mr. Darcy had had on her friends and relations at the Meryton assembly. There was hardly a soul in Meryton who had not taken umbrage at his pride and aloofness.

“Once again, I apologize,” he bowed, so slightly that the bow was barely perceptible. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She would not excuse him, far from it. But she said nothing and permitted him to depart.

“Elizabeth, I do not think that Mr. Darcy intended any offense,” Jane said gently.

“Jane, I will not have you taking his side in this,” Elizabeth said with exasperation. Jane was always so good and willing to give others the benefit of the doubt, that she could not see fault no matter how clearly it presented itself. “Mr. Darcy’s presumption in lecturing me on who is and who is not a suitable candidate for my attention is intolerable.”

“He was hardly lecturing you, Lizzy—”

“Enough! Enough, Jane,” Elizabeth said. She needed to collect yourself and had not the energy to spare for further argument. “I need some fresh air.”

Elizabeth was going to ask Jane to join her but saw Mr. Bingley approaching. Instead, she excused herself and took her leave of the party.

Rooks bickered in the beech trees, their raucous voices shrill in the cold air. Although Elizabeth recognized the paths from her walks there the previous spring, everything looked different.

The pale winter sun provided no warmth, and the trees—their branches bare of leaves and covered over with ice—provided no shelter from the icy wind that chilled her to the bone.

Teasing man! Frustrating man! How could he persist so in inflaming her anger? It was as though his sole purpose in life was to insult her at every turn.

And what could his motive have been, to tell her that Lord Northover was not suitable for her? Did he think she did not know that Northover was an aristocrat, and of an old and proud family? Had not Lady Catherine told her as much?

And if Lord Northover was prepared to overlook Elizabeth’s deficits—her lack of fortune or family connection—what concern was it of Mr. Darcy?

It was all very vexing. And that his conduct should bother her when he was nothing to her, once she realized that it did, made her more angry still.

The cold air made her walk briskly, and as she walked her mood began to lift. From where she stood she could see carriages proceeding down the lane towards the manor house. It was a merry sight indeed, the carriage drivers with their tall black hats, the red-coated postilions, and the sleek prancing horses.

Elizabeth wondered who would be attending, how many sons and daughters of Earls were arriving in the shining carriages?

The thought filled her with some unease. These people were part of a society far above her and her family’s usual company. She hoped her mother would restrain herself so as not to embarrass them, realizing this hope was almost certainly doomed.

Elizabeth picked up her pace. The brisk walk through the bracing air made her blood pump as her boots crunched the snow on the path. She would attenuate her walk—it was far too cold to walk as far as she used to walk in the spring—and soon be back to warm herself before a blazing hearth. Turning the corner in full stride, she was startled by a figure approaching on an adjacent path.

She stopped by a green Yew tree, leaning her hand against its soft boughs. The figure, apparently seeing her, stopped too.

It was Mr. Darcy.

Elizabeth was as surprised as if she’d seen a ghost. She had not expected to run into anyone on a cold winter’s day, least of all him.

“I knew you would come here,” Mr. Darcy said.

So, he was admitting that he had followed her. But why? Had he not already provided her with sufficient offense for one day?

There was something about his expression though that prevented Elizabeth from speaking. He had an earnest, and concerned look -- a look of determination she decided, yes, that was it, he was determined. She looked at him expectantly.

&nbs

p; “I wished to speak with you,” he said. His hand went to his breast pocket.

“Speak then,” Elizabeth said. “You do not require my permission.”

Her voice sounded shrill, even to her, and harsher than she had intended.

Mr. Darcy fumbled in his breast pocket as though to retrieve something. Then his hand dropped to his side, and he stood immobile, looking at her with a puzzled expression.