Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation (11 page)

The same could not be said of Mr Bradden who, whenever he was asked for tea or dinner, persisted uniformly at Miss Bennet’s side. It was difficult to tell if this was a frank display of partiality or he simply felt considerably more at ease in the lady’s amiable presence than with those who did not scruple to show they thought themselves above him.

What they spoke of was anybody’s guess but they clearly took great interest in their conversations. One evening they were so thoroughly engrossed that they barely noticed Lady Amelia coming to whisk Georgiana away. Belatedly, Bradden remembered to civilly acknowledge their departure with a bow, then resumed his seat beside Miss Bennet and likewise their interrupted discourse.

Unconquerable curiosity bent Darcy’s steps in their direction until he was close enough to hear that they were discussing poetry with some animation. Truth be told, it was all on her side – the animation, the open, cheerful manner. A great deal more subdued, Bradden spoke but little. He merely offered the occasional opinion here and there, encouraging his fair companion to voice hers. She willingly obliged, with an aplomb Darcy found unsettlingly familiar. It was the same engaging manner that had added sparkle to their lengthy debates several weeks ago – and no longer did, for whatever reasons of her own.

He missed those light-hearted debates, he had to admit it. Moreover, he privately acknowledged that it bothered him to find the privilege now bestowed on the young reverend.

It was childish and petulant perhaps, but bother him it did. He rather wished he had overheard Bradden expounding the virtues of Fordyce’s sermons. But no, they were discussing Cowper, Goldsmith and Sir Walter Scott’s
Lady of the Lake
.

It was but meagre satisfaction that Lord Malvern and Lady Stretton’s baleful eyes were no longer fixed upon Miss Bennet. Unlike Fitzwilliam’s, Bradden’s interest in her society attracted neither their notice nor their censure. They must have thought that people of their station were fitting companions – that is, if they deigned to think of them at all.

For his part, Darcy could no longer agree. Bradden was a decent man, no doubt – but, even then, he was showing himself a poor match for Miss Bennet and her sparkling discourse. And overall, what had he to offer but the lot of a parson’s wife? Respectable of course, and in some ways rewarding, yet bland and restrictive for someone like her.

The uncommon line of thought drew him up short, and Darcy shook his head. Fitzwilliam was in the right. Whatever had got into him of late, to make him pay such untoward attention to other people’s matrimonial prospects? Perhaps it was a sign that he was ready to contemplate his own.

‘Nay, not that,’
he inwardly rebelled. Not quite ready yet. Just mindful that the issue had to be considered sometime. Sometime soon. He was nearing thirty.

He suppressed an exasperated huff. He had not met her yet, that picture of perfection who would entice him heedlessly into matrimony. Perhaps the time had come to seriously weigh his options and become a trifle more reasonable in his expectations. Lineage, fortune, beauty, accomplishments, affection, kindness and a sense of duty were perhaps too much to ask of one’s life companion.

A wise man would not wait forever for a chimerical paragon. Not if he did not wish to be the last one of his line.

* * * *

The morning before Christmas dawned bright and jolly over a fresh layer of snow. It must have fallen heavily overnight, clothing the land in pristine white, covering old tracks and smoothing every surface, but now the wintry sun shone from a clear sky, with nothing but a host of fleecy clouds hazily drifting over the expanse of blue.

It was very early still, but as he made his way into the garden Darcy could tell that he was not the only one who had ventured out, drawn by the brightness of the day. Several sets of footprints, some very small, had left a winding trail towards the shrubbery. Yet he could have guessed the small group’s location even without the trail. The sound of chirping voices punctuated by the odd peal of laughter gave it away, and Darcy’s lips curled into a smile as he walked to meet them, his much larger footprints joining the others on the path.

He only got as far as rounding the tall yew hedge, now crowned with a mound a good four inches thick, when the sudden collision stopped him in his tracks. His hands instinctively shot up to steady the trim form clad in a long pelisse splattered with white patches – a clear evidence of a snowball fight.

“Miss Bennet! Forgive me, I did not– ”

“The fault is mine, Sir. I did not look where I was going”, she replied, the merry glow in her countenance not yet dimmed by unease at the unorthodox encounter.

Her eyes sparkled under wispy curls in charming disarray and the cold morning air had put fresh colour in her cheeks. The hue deepened and dark-fringed eyelids came to screen the brightness of the glance, as she regained her balance and backed away from the tight clasp. His hands dropped from her shoulders and he offered:

“I hope you are not– ”

He did not get to finish. The last words were a garbled mutter, as a snowball flew right above her shoulder to spatter over his chin and mouth. A small cry of dismay rang from somewhere ahead and a childish voice piped up with a prompt apology:

“Cousin, I did not mean to– ”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Bennet exclaimed with a swift glance behind her to ascertain the perpetrator, before reaching up to repair the damage and brush the snow away. Her fingers were ice-cold, colder than the snow, and Darcy started at their fleeting touch. Her hand fell away as swiftly as it had come up, and she bit her lip.

“I beg your pardon, I should not– ”

“Your hands are freezing cold,” Darcy spoke up at the same time. She did not continue, so he resumed his thought and removed his gloves. “Here. Pray take these.”

“But– ”

“Fear not, I have no need of them for what I plan to do,” he laughed and rounded past her to grin widely at Hetty. “So, young lady, this is your game now, is it?” he growled playfully as he bent down for a handful of snow in retaliation.

Her earlier mortification quite forgotten in the face of his jocular manner, Hetty gave a little shriek of half panic, half delight, and ran to hide behind Georgiana’s skirts, her little face peeking from under her cousin’s elbow.

“Oh, no, that will not do at all. Come out and face the trouble you have started,” Darcy called, swiftly lunging sideways to shoot his projectile with great accuracy at her back, unwilling to meanly return measure for measure.

With another shriek Hetty ran away, scooping up fresh snow as she went and casting it haphazardly behind her, while Georgiana stepped away from the line of fire. She smiled widely, delighting in a game she remembered fondly from the time when she was Hetty’s age. It was the greatest joy to see her brother as carefree as he had been then, when it was her he had chased through the gardens, just as he was now rushing after Hetty, not to pelt her with more snowballs, but scoop her up under one arm and twirl her around, little booted feet kicking in the air.

Encouraged by the cheerful madness, Margaret came to her sister’s aid to hang onto his other arm and hop about, vainly seeking to reach up to his face with the remainder of a crushed projectile.

Unlike her, Georgiana was not moved to show any such sibling solidarity. Instead, she sided with the children to take his broad back as a target until he willingly collapsed to his knees under the three-pronged attack, his hat forgotten in the snow and at great risk of being flattened under the heap of flailing limbs and wriggling little bodies vanquished by laughter.

Georgiana joined them in their merriment, fondly envisaging a time when such cheerful gambols would once more be commonplace at Pemberley and, instead of young cousins, there would be her unborn nieces and nephews frolicking around her brother in the snow, everyone’s dignity abandoned.

Miss Bennet did not laugh, but her countenance spoke volumes as she watched them from her spot. She was still standing by the hedge, clasping to her chest hands encased in gloves too large for her. She did not think of hiding the heartfelt smile and the glow in her eyes, yet no one saw it. Not Georgiana. Not the merry group of three. Not even Fitzwilliam, from his vantage point at his bedchamber’s window, where he stood catching none of the undercurrents, just the heart-warming picture of carefree joy. Unknowingly, his thoughts mirrored Georgiana’s: it would be very good for Darcy to have children of his own.

* * * *

A change of apparel was rigorously necessary after the rambunctious disport and although she shook her head in solemn disapproval of such antics, the strict Miss Harding saw fit to honour the day by relaxing her stern rules a little, and allowed her charges to rejoin their cousins and Miss Bennet for further Christmas cheer.

When a nursery maid escorted the girls down, the three could be found in the small parlour. Their own wet apparel replaced and their dignity somewhat restored, they stood around the table covered in fresh mounds of greenery, going about the festive business of the season. Or rather, the young ladies were, while Darcy left them to it, content to watch and only assist if needed.

In the earliest hours of the morning a large number of Pemberley’s people had walked out to gather ivy, mistletoe, bay, rosemary and red-berried holly. Georgiana and Miss Bennet had joined them for a while, before their amusements in the shrubbery, and were now assisting the maids and footmen in the joyful task of adorning the house.

Bright garlands were already festooned around the columns in the ballroom and the entrance hall, as well as the banister of the great staircase. Several maids had been at work for hours to fashion them, on the vast table in the servants’ dining hall, and then the footmen had skilfully fixed them into place.

Nothing like their usual quiet and unobtrusive selves – and uncensored for it at this time of year – the maids were now scurrying hither and thither with basketfuls of greenery to decorate the mantelpieces and the picture frames, while in the parlour Georgiana and Miss Bennet were putting the finishing touches to the Christmas Bough.

In time-honoured fashion, ivy and holly were entwined around its hoops and, as a result of the young ladies’ efforts, it now stood resplendent, ornamented with red ribbons, gilded nuts, fire-red apples and the customary sprig of mistletoe.

When Peter was summoned to take it to the entrance hall and suspend it in the designated spot from a hook never used for another purpose, Hetty and Margaret skipped after him, clapping and chanting “The Kissing Bough! The Kissing Bough!”, while the other three followed at a more leisurely pace, exchanging warm glances at their childish glee.

Once they gained the hall the girls stood aside to let Peter go about his task, but as soon as it was done and the ladder removed, they rushed to be the first to embrace under the bough and follow a custom they both loved, little as they understood it.

They were too young to know that for hundreds of years the bough had reigned supreme over Christmas celebrations as a sign of goodwill and new beginnings. With an embrace beneath it, all the ills and wrongs of the previous year were set aside and instantly forgotten, as relations, neighbours, friends or mere acquaintances silently undertook to go forth with gratitude, benevolence and a light heart.

Margaret and Hetty might have lacked this insight, but did not lack lightness of heart as they resumed their chanting and linked arms to dance under the bough. They only stopped when a voice called from the foot of the stairs:

“I have never heard such a racket on this side of the Channel. What strange and fearsome tribe has come to invade?”

Supremely undaunted, the girls ran to their uncle.

“The Kissing Bough is up, Uncle Richard,” Hetty piped up and both girls reached to clasp his hands and tug him forward, until he was standing underneath it.

He willingly obliged, the corner of his mouth curled into a mock grimace:

“Oh, is it now? Well, if needs must,” he said, and bent down to kiss Margaret’s upturned cheek, then Hetty’s.

He scooped the youngest up, while she squirmed and declared that his whiskers were awfully ticklish and, with his giggling niece in his arms, he turned to drop a kiss on Georgiana’s cheek – and likewise Miss Bennet’s.

The latter blushed becomingly, yet took it in good cheer. It was Darcy who frowned and, as soon as Fitzwilliam had straightened from setting down his wriggling burden, he stepped closer and lowered his voice to sternly deliver:

“Was that really necessary, Cousin?”

But the other grinned in the most provoking manner.

“Oh, quite. ‘Tis a time-honoured tradition. In fact, seeing as you are so mindful of old customs, I wonder at your scorning this one,” he added, to Darcy’s growing irritation.

Miss Bennet’s heightened colour showed she overheard the flippant comment, and Darcy silently cursed his cousin for it – only to curse himself a fraction of a second later, when he discovered to his acute mortification that, of their own volition, his eyes were fixed on her full, perfect lips. His neckcloth suddenly too tight, he swiftly glanced away, while she turned to her former charges to ask if they wished to help decorate the music room. They eagerly agreed and the trio hastened on their way, followed by Georgiana, thus leaving Darcy with his cousin – and his roiling vexation. He could not stop from scathingly observing: