Mr Darcy's Christmas Carol

Part 2

After an hour's peace in his study, he had anticipated his anxieties receding. If anything, though, he found his thoughts straying to Hertfordshire even more.

"Too much society," he grumbled aloud. "And too much brandy." He reached for water, not wanting to agitate the kitchen staff in seeking something as soothing as milk. He was a grown man, not a boy in need of a comforting drink to chase away a bad dream. Even so, he shuddered, in spite of the warm fire blazing in the hearth, and pulled his favourite armchair a foot or two closer to the flames. The sound of London's night-time bustle began to fade from his notice and the comforting crackle of the fire, along with its warmth, began to lull him towards sleep. As his head nodded he wondered, drowsily, whether he ought to retire to bed.

His window, which had been left open to allow the tiniest crack of fresh air to circulate, suddenly caught on a breeze and pulled wide The gust of wind billowed the curtains momentarily, before slamming the glass shut with a finality that startled Darcy out of his half-sleep. His candles had been all but extinguished by the gust, and the noise of the window slamming closed again summoned his housekeeper, who knocked and entered, stifling a yawn.

"Are you alright, sir?" she asked, hurrying to the window and securing it firmly. "I'm sorry, I thought Mavis had closed the windows up for the evening." She cast a cursory glance towards the clock on the mantel. "I hope nothing keeps you up at this late hour, sir? Can I fetch you anything? Perhaps a warm drink?"

"No," Darcy said, more sharply than he intended. He followed the word with a polite grimace in lieu of a smile, and his housekeeper ducked into a half curtsey, before excusing herself.

The room felt even emptier, somehow, in her absence, and with reluctance, Darcy turned towards bed, acknowledging to himself that it was late in the evening and he'd serve nobody well by forcing himself into wakefulness simply out of some obstinate desire to rule over his need for sleep. It was on this final retreat towards the door when he ensured the fire was out, and snatched up a remaining candle to light his way upstairs, that he noticed another casualty of the cold night air's onslaught. A pile of papers had been whisked off his desk and onto the floor, and with a grunt, he stooped to retrieve them. He dropped the pile back onto the mahogany desk, vowing he would sort through them on the morrow, when a certain word caught his eye and made him pause. It was his own hand and spelt out the very names that had been on the tip of his tongue half the evening. Bennet...Longbourn...Netherfield. He scanned the missive, unable to place it for a moment, before recognising it as a letter he had only half-finished addressing to Georgiana. His account of life at Meryton had been interrupted by the sudden decision to uproot and abandon Hertfordshire in favour of London, and he had gone no further with the letter.

Yet even now it haunts me! he thought, ruefully sliding the piece of paper free and folding it neatly. He carried it with him to bed, intending on reading it over once more before disposing of it. Georgiana would have a fresh letter, one without mention of the Bennet sisters, although he was sure she would wish for more intelligence concerning their near neighbours, for he had mentioned them in passing in his previous note, and received, in her reply, a demand for more detail. Gentlemen never feel the necessity of description, she had complained. How am I to imagine the people of whom you write if you cannot even spare a line or two to tell me of their looks? This Miss Bennet that Mr Bingley is already attached to - for I assume that to be the case, though you said nothing so clearly in your letter and I have resorted to looking for all that you did not express - must be very beautiful, but what is the nature of her appearance? Is she fair-haired or dark? Short or tall? Dainty or plump? And her sisters, are they all very different creatures, or all in a mode one after another? Tell me more, William, for I am lonely and eager for some distraction from my own consuming thoughts at present. Better yet - and these words had made him smile when he read them. Invite me to stay. Mr Bingley will not mind, and his sister, I am sure, is as sweet-natured as he and would welcome another guest at Netherfield. Merely send word and I can be with you before Christmas! He had not sent word, of course, nor would he, for Georgiana would be overwhelmed by the busyness of London, particularly London at Christmas.

Tucking the note into his pocket he reached his room and continued to ready himself for bed, grateful that the memory of his sister had turned his thoughts from freely rampaging about the countryside back to something approaching order. It was not befitting to allow them to roam so, and it was pointless to dwell on people he had left so firmly behind him. So he had seen a lady who, in passing, bore a vague resemblance to Elizabeth Bennet. Did that mean he must forevermore be haunted by her bright eyes and teasing tone of voice, even here and in his own home?

"It is a nonsense," he told his reflection, taking one last cursory glance in the mirror before extinguishing the candle and finding his way towards the bed in the dark. He pulled his blankets to his chin and stared up into the blackness. "She is nothing to me. Hertfordshire is nothing to me. I was there at Bingley's request only."

His whisper brought him almost entirely back to his senses, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy.

He had been in Hertfordshire at Bingley's request, and now he was in London at Bingley's request. Perhaps he ought to start eschewing his friends and decide on his own course of action if such removals were to leave him thus unsettled.

A bird screeched somewhere in the blackness of London, the last sound Darcy heard, as he surrendered to sleep...