To Forget:Darcy's London Christmas: Pride and Prejudice continuation; Sweet Tea Short Story (3 page)

Did Bingley know he was so useful or was it merely a happy coincidence?

If the latter, Bingley enjoyed more good luck in a fortnight than any man was entitled to in a lifetime. If the former, he was a good deal more clever than any gave him credit for. In either case, he was a very good friend.

Sir Andrew and Miss Aldercott proved interesting acquaintances indeed. Father and daughter both had distinct opinions on the likelihood of purchasing a matched team of four and the proper price to pay for such. Darcy agreed more with the father than the daughter. Even so it was a memorable conversation to have had with a young woman. Almost as memorable as some of the conversations he had enjoyed at Netherfield.

Miss Bingley pushed her way through the milling guests and whispered something in Bingley’s ear.

“Capital!” He cleared his throat and raised his voice.” I have just been informed, dinner is served.”

“Ladies,” Miss Bingley led them to the doorway.

The ladies sorted themselves by rank and proceeded to the dining room.

Was it Bingley’s influence that dissuaded her from insisting upon the modern convention of having the gentlemen escort the ladies in? Or did she just prefer more traditional sensibilities? Whichever it was, he was grateful to avoid another potentially awkward situation.

Bingley elbowed him on the way into the dining room. “You ought to know Caroline expects you to sit beside her at dinner.”

“Have you no knight or baronet or grey-haired gentleman to take that place? Sir Andrew should surely have that honor.”

“Sir Andrew is looking for a wife and would prefer to sit beside the widow Garnet.” Bingley chuckled and faded off to address another guest.

Perhaps it was not so bad, at least he knew Miss Bingley. Conversing with a new acquaintance was always painful and difficult.

Inside the dining room, he took his assigned seat. The room glittered with candles and crystal and mirrors. Holly, laurel and evergreen draped every available surface. Their fresh aromas blended with those from the heavily laden table.

“Why must we have so many guests at Christmastide?” Young Darcy walked down Pemberley’s grand staircase holding Mother’s hand.

“Because it is a season for generosity, hospitality, and frivolity and none of those things can be achieved by keeping ourselves in isolation. I know it is hard for you, but with practice these events will grow easier.”

“But I practice my lessons, my fencing, my riding and shooting. Must I practice something else as well?”

She chuckled, a special sound that seemed reserved for him alone. “You forgot dancing, you practice that, too. And yes, you must practice conversation and hospitality. They are essential for a gentleman.”

“I am not sure I want to be a gentleman.”

“I am afraid dear you have no choice.”

“I hope you see some choice here that pleases you, Mr. Darcy. Charles let slip a few of your favorites. I made certain they would be near your seat.” Miss Bingley gestured toward the veal collops and roast cauliflower.

“Ah ... yes ... thank you. It was very gracious of you to go to such lengths for me. May I serve you from those dishes?”

“Thank you.”

He placed dainty portions on her plate. If she were anything like his Mother, she would have eaten before her guests arrived so that she might focus on her role as hostess.

Once he had served himself and the neighboring ladies, the difficult part of the evening began.

He needed to say something, but what?

That was one thing to be said of Elizabeth Bennet, she never forced on him the burden of starting a conversation. No, she took it upon herself to begin and offered such intriguing insights; it was easy to come in with his own. Never stilted or awkward, dialogue flowed so easily with her to facilitate. Her voice was a joy to listen to.

... and he still needed to say something.

“Have you enjoyed your move back to London?”

“I cannot tell you how much.” Miss Bingley took a tiny sip of wine. “I am not well formed for life in such limited society. The four and twenty families dined with by the Bennets did not suit my needs for companionship.”

“I can imagine why.”

A few of them might have appreciated Miss Bingley’s fine manners. All who attended had lauded the Netherfield ball. Still, as to establishing a genuine relationship, they had little in common.

“I have been remiss in offering you my thanks. Your help was pivotal in convincing Charles of the expedience of leaving that place. It is best for all of us that he should be away from the machinations of that ... that Mrs. Bennet.”

How could a woman like that have raised such a daughter as Elizabeth?

Miss Jane Bennet was a decent enough female, proper and demure, but not one easily moved to affection. Charles would suffer with an unattached woman. That alone was reason enough to separate them. But Elizabeth, witty, vivacious and passionate, the family was almost worth tolerating for the privilege of her society.

“Bingley does appear sanguine here.”

“I am not so certain. He has been quite the brown study over the last fortnight. But it is for his own good, and we all bear it as well as we can.”

“A brown study? That is difficult to imagine of him. He seems cheerful tonight.”

“He is in a great company around him now and that always cheers him. I have events planned every day until Twelfth Night in hopes of keeping him encouraged.”

“That is very good of you.”

Was she correct? Charles melancholy? Could he truly be so affected?

“You flatter me, Mr. Darcy. I do wish only the best for my dear brother. But, I still worry about the success of our plans.”

“What cause have you for concern?”

“Perhaps I am simply looking for vexation where none exists. I cannot help but remember the mention of an uncle in trade. Gardiner, I believe his name was, who lives in Cheapside. It seems that a determined mother might see her daughter to relatives in London in hopes of finding a lost suitor.”

“Do you think she might do such a thing?” Darcy sat up straighter.

And more important, might she bring a sister—the right sister with her?

“In truth, I do not know. Perhaps I am being overly concerned.”

“Would you like me to make discreet inquiries after this Mr. Gardiner? I cannot be certain of discovering anything—”

“I would be ever so grateful for your assistance. I do not wish to see Charles at risk again.”

“Of course. I shall see what I might discover.”

Was it possible? Miss Elizabeth might come to London? Might she be away from her dreadful family even now?

His heart beat a little quicker. But what were the chances of this Gardiner fellow being any less dreadful than the rest of her relations?

Even if he were not, they certainly did not mix in the same circles. Would he ever have the opportunity to see her?

Blast it all! The whole point of going to London was to avoid society with the Bennets.

“Are you well sir?”

Zounds, Miss Bingley was staring at him. Had his face turned some unusual color, or broken out in spots?

“Mr. Darcy?”

“Forgive me. I am well. I was just—just considering what you had said.”

“I am so glad to know we are of one mind, sir. It is uncanny, is it not, how much alike we are, you and I.”

A coy, predatory look hung about her eyes, the look of a hunting bird circling its prey, lazily waiting for a convenient moment to strike.

He edged back. How had he missed it before? He knew the look well, but had thought himself safe enough amongst friends.

Miss Bingley called for the second course. The staff cleared away the dishes and revealed a fresh table cloth. More of his favorite dishes appeared at the head of the table.

At least now, Miss Bingley would turn the tables and converse with the lady on her left for the remainder of the meal. The knight beside Darcy already seemed to be in his cups. Annoying as it was, it meant Darcy had little to do but nod and offer sounds of affirmation as the knight prattled on. With his mind reeling, that was the best he could offer, so he ought to be thankful.

Bad enough one corner of his mind actively sought to forget one Elizabeth Bennet, whilst another conspired to find ways to seek her out should she chance to be in town. Now, he must also discourage Miss Bingley’s matrimonial machinations without disenfranchising Bingley, too? Truly, could this become more unpleasant?

Servants began putting out candles and a hush settled over the room. In the dim light of the remaining candles, a bright blue flame flared at the end of the room. The housekeeper paraded the flaming Christmas pudding in and placed it at the center of the table.

Mother always took pride in her Christmas puddings. She made Stir-it-up Sundays a grand affair, bringing in all the Matlock cousins she could gather.

Around them, the kitchen hummed with activity. Cook and her battalions chopped, stirred and wrapped puddings for the boiler.

Spices and sweet fruit hung heavy in the hot, moist air. Darcy, Fitzwilliam and other young Matlocks stood around the large table as Mother guided them through the ritual.

“Now add the flour and pass it to your brother.”

Darcy and Fitzwilliam sneaked raisins and almonds from a little pile between them. Father looked the other way and exchanged meaningful glance with Mother.

“Now, children, each of you give it a good stir and pass it to the next. I have the charms for you to add. Hold your hands out...”

Mother pressed a cold silver charm into each of their hands.

He and Fitzwilliam would always try to remember when each one had been placed. Of course they never could, but the fun was in the trying—and the boasting in who would find the silver coin.

“...mind the charms in the pudding. Whoever finds one must call out their fortune.” Miss Bingley sat down.

When had a slab of pudding appeared on his plate?

He took a small bite. Sweet, rich and soaked in brandy, exactly what a Christmas pudding should be. But it did not taste like Pemberley’s.

Like home.

Mrs. Reynolds would have to teach Elizabeth how to make Pemberley’s someday.

He choked, coughing and sputtering on his bite of pudding.

What was he thinking?

“Are you well, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley asked wide-eyed.

He blotted his mouth with his napkin. “Forgive me, I am fine.”

“You did not swallow a charm, did you?”

“No, just a crumb caught in my throat.”

Across the table Bingley yelped—he had found the ring. Superstition promised him marriage in the next twelve-month. Another diner cried out she found the coin. Others followed in rapid succession.

His own pudding remained steadfastly void of any portent of his future, save the abundant raisins and brandy. Was that to be his lot in life, alone but for a drink in his hand and food on his table?

Miss Bingley adjourned with the women to the drawing room, leaving Mr. Bingley to supply port and cigars to the men. Darcy welcomed the respite from the demands of conversation. Far less subtlety reigned here, permitting him to follow the conversations with greater ease and confidence.

In this company he could simply listen and not be judged uncivil. If he spoke, he could limit himself to topics that interested him, ones he might speak on with authority. It was the one part of the evening that, without a doubt, ended too soon.

Rejoining the ladies renewed those itchy woolen blanket feelings he had so recently discarded. He tried to excuse himself to Bingley and flee for the quiet of his own home, but Bingley would have none of it.

“I know we are nothing to Pemberley here, but—” Bingley’s voice broke and he looked away.

Was this the melancholy that Miss Bingley had noticed?

“Holidays spent in town are nothing to those in the country. They never are. We must make merry with what we have then, no?” He clapped Darcy’s shoulder. “Allow me to make an introduction that I am sure will improve your evening in great measure.”

“No, there is no need.” Darcy inched back, but Bingley’s hand between his shoulders propelled him into the drawing room. Bingley continued to nudge and prod him until they reached a group of three ladies sitting near the window.

“Lady Elizabeth Wesson, might I introduce you to my friend Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy?”

The lady rose and curtsied.

This Elizabeth was the height of Miss Elizabeth, Bennet, and, at least to an objective observer, far more beautiful. She sported classic features and a generous bosom that had occupied the attention of most of the men at dinner at one point or another.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” She smiled just enough to be pleasant and proper. Nothing like the genuine, spontaneous smiles of Meryton’s Elizabeth.

At least he knew how to manage such smiles.

He bowed smartly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Miss Bingley appeared at Bingley’s elbow. “Lady Elizabeth, would you consider favoring us on the pianoforte?”

“Capital notion, Miss Bingley. And Darcy, you can turn pages for her, even sing a few bars yourself.”

Darcy’s brow tightened into a hard knot. “I do not perform to strangers.”

Bingley withered, as he deserved to, for making such a suggestion.

“No offense to you, Lady Elizabeth. I will turn pages for you should you desire the service.”

The lady’s eyebrow arched and the corner of her lips lifted. Was she amused, puzzled or tolerant?

Reading ladies was far too complex.

“I believe I can reconcile myself to singing alone.” Her voice was modulated, and musical, exactly as a lady’s should be.

He followed her to the pianoforte. The whispers following in their wake were no surprise. He could hardly offer the time of day to a female before the rumors began. That was simply a part of the landscape now.

He glanced over his shoulder. No, still no gossip writers, at least none that he recognized.

Lady Elizabeth sat at the pianoforte and placed a complicated score before her. Few would attempt to exhibit with such challenging music. Even Miss Bingley might think twice about making this the showcase of her skill.