Page 58 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“You will be missed.” Darcy extended his hand, and Richard clasped it warmly.

“I shall expect a full report. Every detail, every glance, every meaningful nod.” Richard grinned. “And when you finally propose properly, I expect to be invited to the wedding.”

“I do not promise any such thing.”

“I shall be your second.” Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is too intelligent not to understand why you have given up your inheritance. And when she figures you out, she will not be able to resist you. I only wish I had something as worthwhile.”

“You do, Richard,” Georgiana said, placing her hand on his heart. “Just like Fitzwilliam does.”

“Absurd! Utterly absurd!” Lady Catherine stomped from the drawing room, trailing soot and cinders while Lady Matlock placed her hand on Richard’s arm possessively, glaring at Darcy for daring to expose her son to such lowly creatures.

But Darcy did not give a fig what she thought. His heart had already departed for Hertfordshire. In three days, maybe four, he would arrive in the same county as Elizabeth Bennet. Whether she would look at him with warmth or indifference, he could not know. But he would be there. And perhaps that was enough to begin again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE RETURN

Twelve days of Christmas went by without any hint of Darcy or news on Georgiana’s condition. Elizabeth told herself the post was slow over the holidays, and that, surely, Bingley would have received an express if Darcy’s sister had taken a turn for the worse. She contented herself with her great-great-grandmother Philippa’s commonplace book, in which she had noted her children’s growth and development. The firstborn was Thomas. Alice was the second, followed by Martha, Belinda, Susan, and Clarissa; no other boys. Naturally, there would be no mention of the Darcy boy who did not join their household until much later.

Elizabeth had found a receipt from Philippa for a Twelfth Night cake frosted with sugared rosemary, and Cook had agreed to create the evening’s crowning dessert. Mrs. Bennet and her usual confederates were gathered at the sideboard admiring the preparations for the evening festivities that would close out the Yuletide season. Bingley and Jane sat together on the sofa nearest the hearth. They were inseparable since New Year’s Day when Bingley’s carriage made that turn on the Longbourn lane, and Elizabeth was content with their happiness.

“The almonds are from London,” Mrs. Bennet stood in front of the concoction which was dressed in white icing with the rosemary and holly berries pressed into the top. “Mr. Philips brought them especially. And the taste is from my husband’s great-grandmother Philippa. Elizabeth unearthed the hundred-year-old receipt and described it exactly to Cook.”

“It is lovely, Mrs. Bennet.” Lady Lucas’s smile was fixed. “Quite the finest cake I have seen this Twelfth Night.”

“Yes, and the bean and the pea inside would crown the King and the Queen,” Mrs. Bennet announced. “And I do suppose it would be Jane and Bingley who would get the honors. Imagine that, Lady Lucas, our Jane is the heir now, you know, and Mr. Bingley is such a gentleman, so attentive. I always said he would come back, did I not, Mr. Bennet? I always said⁠—”

“You said many things, my dear.” Mr. Bennet did not look up from his wine. “Some of them were even accurate.”

Elizabeth, stationed near the fire with Charlotte, watched the room arrange itself around the evening’s twin centers of gravity: the cake on the sideboard and Jane beside Bingley near the fire. Her sister was luminous—there was no other word for it—her usual serenity transformed into a warm brilliance, as though a candle had been lit behind her eyes. And Bingley was helpless before her, and even more so because Jane easily forgave him.

“He cannot stop looking at her,” Charlotte said. “And she cannot stop smiling. Genuinely smiling, not the serene composure she shows the world.” Charlotte turned her sharp eyes toward Elizabeth. “It is good to see her happy. It is good to see you happy, too.”

“I am happy, yes. And I do wish you shall be happy again in this new year.”

“I suppose I shall manage,” Charlotte said. “You are waiting. I can tell, and at least you have someone to wait for.”

“Yes, but we never know who may be just around the corner, do we?” Elizabeth glanced out the window at the Longbourn lane. It was not quite as grey as it was the morning Darcy departed. The slanted winter sun had shone through clear skies—a surprising spell of warmth that would be a blessing when they headed out to the apple orchard later.

Elizabeth accepted a glass of negus and watched the shadows creep across the lane as the sun set. She was content, if not exactly happy. Jane had been patient in her disappointment, and had never expected Bingley to return. She had had even less to go on than Elizabeth, and now she received the reward she deserved. She had never complained, even when Darcy had returned, not mentioning Bingley, and commandeered their drawing room with improvement campaigns. She had graciously accepted the gift, learned to watercolor, improved her singing voice, and smiled at both gentlemen with kindness rather than spite.

“Lizzy, you are standing at the window like a ghost,” Mrs. Bennet announced in passing. “Come away and be sociable. Mr. Bingley’s sister is watching you, and she will think we raised a morose child.”

“Mrs. Hurst is asleep, Mamma.”

“She is resting her eyes.”

“Then she will be awakened as I see Mr. Moretti pulling out his fiddle. I do believe Lydia has persuaded him there will be dancing and festivities.”

Mary moved to the pianoforte, and the first chords of a country dance filled the room. The younger Lucas brothers and sisters joined hands and skipped around the drawing room while the even younger boy shot his popgun at his older sisters. Lydia tried to grab Mr. Bingley’s hand, but he was already bowing and offering Jane his hand. The footmen moved the furniture, stopping in front of Mr. Hurst’s sleeping form, the one Kitty was painting with what Mr. Cecil would have called “an unsparing eye for character.”

“Up you go, Mr. Hurst,” Lydia commanded, pulling him from the couch. “We must have dancing, and the sofa must be moved.”

And so, Mr. Hurst stumbled to his feet, rubbing his eyes, and was pulled into a reel by the youngest Bennet. Sir William asked Elizabeth for the dance, which she accepted, because Sir William was a kind man and an appalling dancer, and the combination was exactly the distraction she needed. He trod on her foot twice, complimented her deportment four times, and mentioned St. James’s thrice. By the end she was laughing along with them, because her family and their neighbors were ridiculous and dear, and Twelfth Night at Longbourn was a tradition she had loved since childhood. Even though she wondered about Mr. Darcy, she now knew his true character, and that he had sat beside his sick sister and had written to Bingley to bring him back to Jane. He did not give his promises lightly, and his heart was even more precious.

Wherever he might be—Matlock or Pemberley—she trusted he was thinking of her, just as she thought of him, missed him, and forgave him. After all, accounts belong in ledgers, not between friends.

The dinner proceeded with the controlled mayhem that characterized all Bennet entertainments. Cook’s goose was pronounced excellent. The roasted vegetables were consumed in quantities that suggested everyone had been fasting since Boxing Day. Bingley made Jane laugh, which was rather more laughing than Jane had done the entire twelve months preceding Bingley’s arrival.