A Merry Darcy Christmas

They trooped outside with the other guests when directed and assembled in front of the manor house, all of them looking up at the balustrade above which they could see the pale white canvas sheets which shrouded the cupola.

Suddenly, the sky lit up the blazing yellow light, and the canvas flew off to reveal a gleaming golden dome that shone like a sun against the dark night sky. There was a gasp from the crowd, and then loud applause, and Elizabeth was impressed, not just at the sight itself, but that Lady Catherine had managed to impress such sophisticated company.

Inside again out of the cold, the marzipan model had its little muslin covering removed from its cupola as well, and all the guests lined up as pieces were broken off for them to take to eat, or more likely, to save as a souvenir of the event.

Elizabeth had intended to save her piece in a handkerchief, but before she could obtain it, she was approached by Kitty.

“That was splendid,” Kitty said. “But I knew what was going to happen. Anne told me.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, not wishing to spoil it for Kitty by saying she had also known how the cupola was to be illumined. “You are fortunate that Anne shares her secrets with you.”

“She tells me a great many things,” Kitty said. “She also asks a great many questions. Are you getting some of the marzipan?”

Before Elizabeth could reply, Kitty grabbed her by the arm. “I nearly forgot, Lizzy. I have a message for you from Anne.”

“Well?” said Elizabeth.

“The message is,” Kitty said slowly as though trying to remember the message word for word. “That there is a Christmas gift for you in your room, on your dressing table. There. That’s the message.

“Don’t you think that’s strange, Lizzy?”

Chapter 12, A Strange Gift Indeed!

Mr. Darcy’s Letter

Elizabeth rushed back to her room. On her dressing table, as Kitty had said it would be, was a letter which bore a red wax seal.

With the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Seated at her dressing table, in the flickering light of a wax candle, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, April 10, 1812, and with great curiosity, Elizabeth began it:

“Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.

“Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honor and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Willfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favorite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.

“I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honor of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be und

ecided. From that moment I observed my friend’s behavior attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavored to forget, because they were not immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than it is honorable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say farther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.

“The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went--and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.”

This was even worse than she had thought! Mr. Darcy was admitting to everything that Col. Fitzwilliam had told her—thinking he was speaking to a disinterested party—and more. That Mr. Bingley’s sisters were complicit in the affair was no surprise. That much had been obvious to her. But she had not known the depths to which Mr. Darcy had sunk in his interference with Jane and Mr. Bingley.

Still, it was something that Mr. Bingley himself had had no part in the scheme. He was as innocent as Jane. This would explain his eagerness to resume their relationship.

Elizabeth read on:

“With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.”

The details which the letter contained concerning Mr. Wickham—now her sister Lydia’s husband—should have shocked her but they did not. She had, in the time that had passed since that spring day when Mr. Darcy had tried to give her the letter and now, reflected on the character of Capt. Wickham and found it to be wanting. His debts in Meryton, his strange elopement with Lydia, all told against him.

So when she read of his profligacy, his dissembling to her concerning the living Mr. Darcy was to provide to him after the death of Mr. Darcy senior, and his interference with Georgiana—although this did shock Elizabeth for having met the girl and seen how sweet and innocent she was, Mr. Wickham’s treatment of her was all the more outrageous—she could credit it. It remained a mystery why he had married Lydia, for there was no doubt, but that Wickham was a fortune hunter, but she could not look to Mr. Darcy to explain that.

She continued:

“This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.

“You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father’s will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavor to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

“FITZWILLIAM DARCY”