A Merry Darcy Christmas

“Are these for the poor?” Elizabeth asked. The boxes were similar to those she and her father distributed on Boxing Day at Longbourn.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Darcy. “It is my custom at Pemberley to distribute boxes to the poor on Boxing Day, and I saw no reason to depart from it during my stay at Rosings, especially given that I know so many of the local families, and know which ones may be in need.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said. “We do that in Longbourn as well. Father and I, and Jane.”

He stopped and turned to her. “Would you care to accompany me? I could use your assistance.”

Elizabeth considered for a moment, but only a moment. She had intended to go outside anyway, and riding in his carriage would be warmer than going for a walk, and she would see more of the countryside. More than that—perhaps it was just the season—but Mr. Darcy seemed more relaxed and good-natured than ordinarily. For some reason, his company cheered her.

“I would be delighted, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth. “As you can see, I’ve already dressed for the weather.”

“It’s not cold at all,” said Mr. Darcy. “Perhaps a little brisk. It always warms up when it snows. The clouds operate to keep the heat from dissipating. They act as a sort of blanket holding it in.”

As they loaded the boxes into his carriage, Mr. Darcy explained various meteorological peculiarities of Kent, and generally. He seemed to know a great deal about the weather and its effects.

When she asked him about this, he explained to her that in the management of his estate he had had to learn a great many things about the seasons, and how they would affect agriculture and other important matters.

“I’ve learned a great deal from the local farmers here at Rosings as a boy, as well when I would spend summers here,” he said. “I got my hands dirty in the fields, but I was never happier.”

“Did you pack these up last night? Is that why you were not at dinner?” Elizabeth asked.

“Well, it would be fairer to say that I supervised the packing of them, but yes, that is why I was not at dinner. In all candor, Miss Bennet, I do sometimes need a break from my aunt. I was not motivated to miss Christmas dinner solely by altruism.”

Elizabeth laughed. She did not blame him for wanting to escape Lady Catherine’s company. She recalled how she had had an impossible time so much as tasting her soup given the interrogation she had received from Mr. Darcy’s aunt the first time she had dined that Rosings back in the spring.

Mr. Darcy’s team of chestnuts stomped impatiently to be off, their breath steaming in the frosty air.

The lane leading out of the manor house was covered with snow, but the carriage rolled through it without difficulty.

“It’s no more than a dusting,” Darcy said. “We could manage far deeper snow.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Elizabeth said.

She watched as they passed snow-covered fields which undulated under a sparkling white blanket. The evergreen trees too were decorated with snow, their boughs drooping under the weight.

Elizabeth turned back and looked at the manor house, and saw the cupola catching the morning sun. It was a dazzling sight, and she mentioned it to Darcy.

“It is indeed striking,” Darcy said. “I have to confess that it looks far better than I imagined it would. Although,” he added in a low tone, “it is a shocking waste of money which could be better spent elsewhere.”

That was Elizabeth’s opinion too, for it seemed to her that Lady Catherine was more concerned with the appearance of things, than with their substance. Tentatively, she mentioned this to Mr. Darcy.

“I could not agree with you more,” he said. “Our station in life—and by this, I am referring to that occupied by my aunt as well as myself—comes with duties, not just privileges. When that is forgotten, there are consequences.”

Elizabeth knew that he was referring to France, and the shocking events that had transpired there which the nobility in her own country, including Mr. Darcy, had not forgotten.

But it was too splendid a day to dwell on such dark matters. She decided to change the subject.

“Mr. Pettigrew mentioned that your sister’s birthday is very early in the new year.”

Mr. Darcy slowed the horses as they turned onto a lane which was, although covered in snow, nevertheless heavily rutted and caused the carriage to shudder and lean.

“January 2,” he said when he had reigned in his team. They were so spirited that this required some effort. “Georgiana turns eighteen.”

“That is a very bad time to have a birthday,” Elizabeth said. “My father’s birthday is on New Year’s Eve, and he always complained that everybody forgot about it as it occurred amidst the season’s festivities. I always told him that we would’ve forgotten it anyway, and at least he was spared the offense.”

Darcy laughed. “Georgiana is so reserved that she likely prefers not to have

a fuss made on her birthday, and so the date probably suits her. Indeed, for that purpose she probably would’ve preferred it to fall on Christmas Day.”