Christmas at Rosings​
One bright November morning, at breakfast, Mr Darcy asked his wife whether she had made any plans for Christmas.
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Elizabeth helped herself to a generous slice of cold ham before replying. ‘I have no plans at present, except that I would like to spend our first Christmas here at Pemberley.’
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‘That is what I was afraid of,’ he said, folding up the letter he had been reading and manufacturing a deep sigh of regret.
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The effect was immediate: his wife transferred her gaze from the ham to him, the beauty of her fine eyes enhanced by a flash of curiosity. She demonstrated admirable restraint, however, merely observing to no one in particular, ‘After six weeks of marriage, Mr Darcy is already fatigued with my demands. And who can blame him? It is so unreasonable of me to wish constantly for his company and the comfort of our own home.’ She added airily, ‘And I am told that the winters are harsh in these parts. I expect the very idea of being snowed in together for days on end is abhorrent to him.’
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Darcy smiled at her across the table – a smile of such tenderness that the good matrons of Meryton would not have recognised the man they had once deemed proud and disagreeable. ‘As you see, Elizabeth, the thought of being closeted with you day and night fills me with dread. But I am fortunate to have an aunt who is ever attentive to my needs: I have received a letter from her this morning, inviting herself and my cousin Anne here for Christmas.’
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Elizabeth’s fork clattered onto her plate. ‘Good heavens! Imagine if we were snowed in with them. In such circumstances, I doubt whether even Pemberley would be large enough to prevent murder and mayhem.’ She laughed, as though relishing the prospect. ‘What do you propose to deter her? A sudden return of the Plague to Derbyshire, preventing any travel across its boundaries during December?’
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‘I fear it will take more than the Plague to deter Lady Catherine.’
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‘Especially since she is an infestation in her own right. Never have I met with such dignified impertinence, misplaced arrogance, and ill-natured interference in the concerns of others.’
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Her words stirred a series of recollections, causing him to grimace. ‘Those are all faults that, during the early days of our acquaintance, I believe you also attributed to me.’
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Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. ‘How so, my dearest Mr Darcy? I insist that you provide me with some evidence, for the crimes I have listed are heinous indeed.’
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He fortified himself with a sip of coffee, and schooled his features into severity. ‘At our first meeting I refused to dance with you, describing you as “tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me”. That was a clear case of dignified impertinence, although you chose to find it excessively diverting.’
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She nodded sagely. ‘True, I cannot question either your dignity or your impertinence on that occasion. Next?’
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‘My initial proposal of marriage.’ He felt his face flush. ‘I believed that you were expecting my suit and would accept me without hesitation. My arrogance, however, proved to be sadly misplaced.’
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‘But at least you learned from the experience, as did I. Your second proposal was suffused with humility, and more successful than you dared hope.’ Her voice faltered. ‘I often wonder what would have become of me if you had never renewed your offer.’ Then, evidently rallying her spirits, she arched her brows in mock reproof. ‘And the final accusation? When have you exercised ill-natured interference in the concerns of others?’
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‘As you yourself observed at the time, I used my influence with Bingley to discourage him from any thoughts of marrying your sister –’
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‘But you heeded my observation, and some time later used that same influence to persuade him to make her an offer.’ Another laugh. ‘You see, my love, it is a hopeless case. In the end your good nature prevailed and consequently I cannot allow your evidence. The only other example of interference that I know of – your involvement in arranging my youngest sister’s marriage – speaks still more eloquently of your goodness. I therefore refute your claim with all my heart.’
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He shook his head. ‘I cannot allow you to rewrite the past, Elizabeth. Some of my words and actions I am still ashamed to remember, and always will be. However, I have a more pressing matter to deal with.’ He indicated the letter beside his plate. ‘I shall write and tell Lady Catherine that we have made other plans for Christmas.’
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Elizabeth looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose from that she may infer that we shall be away from home for the festive period … But you have told me that she has friends in our neighbourhood, and they will surely keep her informed of our movements. If she hears that we have remained at Pemberley, I fear she will come and visit us anyway – ’
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‘Exactly. So I shall suggest that we visit her instead.’
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He watched his wife’s expression turn rapidly from calm reflection to unmitigated horror as she registered his meaning. ‘Go to Rosings for Christmas? Seek out the company of Lady Catherine – and, worse still, her faithful acolyte Mr Collins – in the season of peace and goodwill to all?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘My love, something must be ailing you.’
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He sighed. ‘If I am suffering from anything, it is the pangs of family duty. My aunt and I last met some months ago, when she informed me of her interview with you at Longbourn, and inadvertently gave me hope that your feelings toward me had changed. No doubt only our subsequent wedding, which she declined to attend, made her realise that her protestations were in vain. As you know, since then I have had an exchange of correspondence with her and we have begun to repair the rift. Her intention to visit us must arise from a genuine wish to make amends in person.’
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‘You are too generous, my dear. I suspect a completely different motive – she is anxious to visit Pemberley merely to see if, as she prophesied, its shades have been polluted through your association with my family. But let us defer that pleasure until the summer, when we can at least escape outside on a long walk each day.’
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‘It is agreed, then – I will write to my aunt immediately.’ He added, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘And perhaps to Bingley, too. Netherfield Park is conveniently situated to break the journey home from Kent, is it not?’
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Elizabeth jumped to her feet and rushed around the table to embrace him. ‘Stay with my most beloved sister and her darling husband? That is the best plan of all! Especially as we shall be close enough to Longbourn to give my father the comfort of seeing us as often as he likes.’
She hesitated, then went on, ‘And, you know, a visit to Rosings is not without its own delights. First, I shall enjoy seeing Charlotte Collins, despite her unfortunate choice of husband, and indulging in suitable raptures over her infant son. Next, since your dear sister Georgiana will be with us, I shall feel obliged to continue her education and instruct her in the dark arts of dealing with Lady Catherine. And last but not least, in view of our conversation just now, perhaps you and I can lay some ghosts.’ A pause. ‘The Collinses’ home was, after all, the scene of your first marriage proposal.’
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‘And Rosings itself the scene of my subsequent despair.’ He was silent for a moment, before saying bleakly, ‘Throughout the long night after you had refused me, I never imagined that we would one day return there as man and wife.’ His voice brightened. ‘Now, however, you have made me the happiest of men. I believe I could bear Hell itself with you at my side!’ His hand enclosed hers and brought it to his lips.
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When at last he released her, she darted an impish look at him. ‘Then let us spend the rest of today making our plans to enter the gates of Hell. But I implore you – do not prolong our stay. Three nights will be ample to remind Lady Catherine that you were a misguided fool to have married me.’
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*****
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Christmas Eve, and dusk was already veiling the bare fields and woods of Kent. As their carriage turned off the winding lane and rattled through the gates of Rosings, Elizabeth gently shook Georgiana awake. ‘We have arrived, my dear. Are you feeling better?’
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Georgiana gave a startled smile. ‘A little. I am not a good traveller, you know, but I am also apprehensive … Oh Elizabeth, I find my aunt to be quite alarming.’
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‘I should be amazed if you did not. She has had many years of practice.’
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‘It is such a relief to have you here. Anne is very dull.’
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‘I expect that was your brother’s only design in marrying me – to provide you with some amusement on your visits to Rosings.’
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‘Not at all, he –’ Georgiana stopped, and her cheeks flushed prettily. ‘I keep forgetting that you love to tease, dear sister.’
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‘And I keep forgetting that you are an even more ardent defender of Mr Darcy’s good qualities than I am.’ As she had done many times on this journey, Elizabeth glanced out of the window at the fine upright figure of her husband riding next to their carriage. In the dimming light she knew, rather than saw, how resplendent he looked in the coat that she had had made for him. Her favourite shade of blue – although, she suspected, rather too pale for his liking; yet he had insisted on wearing it. Of such small gestures was a happy marriage composed, she felt sure. And, in the loving intimacy of their bedchamber each night, she was learning others …
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With some effort she turned her attention back to the girl beside her. ‘But Georgiana, even I feel constrained at times by Lady Catherine. There is greater reward in teasing when the recipient can share in the joke. Nevertheless, over the next few days I shall do my utmost to entertain you.’
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By now they were clear of the park and approaching the house, with its forbidding façade of pillars and windows. Elizabeth recalled the first time she had seen it, nine months earlier. During that visit, she had been subjected to Mr Collins’s daily boasts on Lady Catherine’s behalf – the glazing alone at Rosings cost twenty thousand pounds, he had gleefully informed her – and Lady Catherine’s barbed questions about her family. She wondered if they would receive her any differently now that she was Mrs Darcy.
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The carriage drew up outside the house with a sort of shudder, as if anticipating the welcome within. Elizabeth watched Darcy dismount, straighten his coat and help first her, then Georgiana, down onto the gravel. He offered an arm to each of them – anxious, perhaps, to demonstrate a united front. Elizabeth slanted him a knowing smile; these next few days would test him more than any other occasion since their marriage.
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They were shown into the drawing room, where Lady Catherine was already enthroned in the grandest chair, surrounded by an impressive tableau of sculpture and statuary. Her daughter Anne and her companion, Mrs Jenkinson, sat to one side, like a pair of nervous pet rabbits on an invisible lead.
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Darcy cleared his throat. ‘Aunt, may I present my wife Elizabeth, and our sister Georgiana. I trust that you and Anne are well?’ He directed a warm smile at his cousin, who seemed to shrink into herself at his gentle address.
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Lady Catherine managed a regal nod in their direction. ‘I am in good health, although Anne feels one of her headaches coming. Now, since your journey must have been long and tiresome, I will have you shown to your rooms. Dinner is at the usual time, Fitzwilliam, and afterwards I will not rest easy until I have heard Georgiana play the pianoforte to my satisfaction.’
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Poor Georgiana! The prospect of being responsible for Lady Catherine’s digestion would rob her of any appetite at dinner. Elizabeth resolved to remind her that she need not worry unduly; their hostess would listen to the first note or two, then proceed to compete with the music by holding forth on a subject of her choosing.
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Lady Catherine continued, ‘I have given you my late husband’s quarters in the east wing, Fitzwilliam. It is a quiet part of the house and at some distance from the other apartments.’
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‘I am much obliged, Aunt.’ Darcy bowed, exchanged looks with Elizabeth and left the room. As Elizabeth and Georgiana made to follow, Lady Catherine called out, ‘Miss Bennet!’
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The first time Lady Catherine had spoken directly to her – and she had used her maiden name! Against her better judgement, Elizabeth turned and said quietly, ‘Yes?’
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‘Mrs Collins wishes you to call on them tomorrow, before church. She looked quite done in when I saw her last – I shall send her some of my special broth.’ A lugubrious shake of the head. ‘I fear she may not survive the winter.’
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Elizabeth, knowing that Charlotte was simply deprived of sleep, retorted, ‘Oh, I am sure that your special broth is not as bad as that.’
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A hard stare from those gimlet eyes. ‘You have deliberately misunderstood my meaning, Miss Bennet.’
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Elizabeth smiled coolly. ‘Just as you have forgotten my married name, Lady Catherine.’ Then she took Georgiana’s arm and walked briskly from the room. In the hall, she gave vent to a muttered but defiant ‘Insufferable woman!’ before following the servants who were waiting there.
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At the top of the stairs she and Georgiana were separated, and Elizabeth was led along a maze of poorly lit corridors. At last she was shown into her bedchamber. Its gloomy opulence instantly oppressed her, and she longed for the quiet joy of her husband’s embrace. Neither he nor his belongings were anywhere to be seen; across the room, however, she noticed what looked like a connecting door. She knocked on it – tentatively, then more firmly – and listened for any hint of movement on the other side. Not a sound. She tried the handle, and found it locked.
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Just then, the door from the corridor burst open to reveal Darcy himself, face flushed and eyes glittering. ‘It may have suited my aunt’s purpose to have Sir Lewis at the other end of the house, but it does not suit mine to be so far from you!’
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‘Surely we are both in the east wing – your room is just through here, is it not?’
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‘I am in the east wing, but you are in the west wing – and there is a veritable rabbit warren of passageways between us. It has taken me fifteen minutes to get here – and that was only with the assistance of directions from several footmen. If I have to undertake a similar expedition later this evening, I will need to lay a golden thread to guide me – like Theseus in the Greek myth!’
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Elizabeth could not help laughing. ‘That sounds as if you are comparing me to the monstrous Minotaur. I hope not, otherwise you may find that your journey tonight is in vain!’
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His face relaxed into a fleeting smile, then darkened again. ‘No, Elizabeth, I cannot jest about a matter so close to my heart. This is yet another attempt by my aunt to deny the existence of our marriage – and I am having none of it!’
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‘So I see,’ was all Elizabeth could find to say, her mind fully occupied with imagining her husband’s reaction to Lady Catherine addressing her as ‘Miss Bennet’.
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‘I shall have my belongings moved here immediately, whether she wishes it or not.’ He added, his voice softened by uncertainty, ‘If that is acceptable to you, my love?’
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‘Oh, Fitzwilliam, do you really need to ask?’ She crossed the room to fold herself in his arms, tilting her face up to his. ‘I fear this visit will try us both in different ways, and I want you near me … for all sorts of reasons.’
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His lips branded hers and for a moment they took refuge from the outside world and all its aggravations, lost in each other and the promise of what was to come – despite Lady Catherine’s best endeavours.
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At last Darcy released her, saying with a ragged sigh, ‘I must leave you to dress for dinner … What are you wearing, dearest?’
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‘My rose silk.’ She glanced up at him from under her lashes. ‘Does Mr Darcy approve?’
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‘Mr Darcy will spend the entire evening admiring the rose silk of your gown’ – his voice softened to a caress – ‘and anticipating the pleasure of removing it, in due course, to reveal the paler rose silk of your skin.’
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Their eyes locked, and a delicious shiver ran down her spine; but, conscious of the need to resist temptation until later, she recovered her composure and said briskly, ‘Let us hope that such romantic thoughts do not prevent you from holding a sensible conversation. I am relying on your support to parry any offensive remarks from our hostess, since I doubt we will hear a single word from our other dining companions.’
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Dinner, however, proved to be even more of an ordeal than Elizabeth had expected. While her husband’s temper improved with the alteration in his sleeping arrangements, Lady Catherine’s manners worsened accordingly. She indulged herself with liberal references to ‘Miss Bennet’ and thinly disguised insults about Elizabeth’s family. Darcy retaliated with a glowing account of his wife’s beneficence towards Georgiana, and invited them to play a duet. This allowed all three visitors to escape to the pianoforte, thus depriving Lady Catherine of the more discerning audience for her ill humour.
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After an hour of musical diversion, and the opportunities this afforded for private jollity, Darcy pleaded the fatigues of travelling on behalf of his party, and proposed that they retire to bed. He duly partook of the pleasure he had anticipated throughout dinner, and renewed his acquaintance with the pale rose silk of Elizabeth’s skin. If they revelled more than usual in their lovemaking, it was no doubt in recognition of how close they had come to forfeiting it.
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In fact, for the Darcys, Christmas at Rosings began in a far better way than Lady Catherine would have wished.
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*****
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The next morning arrived, crisp with frost and heavy with expectation. Christmas Day at Rosings, it seemed, was one long succession of activities designed to gratify secular tradition as much as religious fervour.
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Before church, Lady Catherine summoned them all on a tour of the estate to bestow greetings on its tenants – who, one suspected, would have preferred a more practical token of Christmas cheer. As the carriage approached Hunsford parsonage, however, Elizabeth asked to be set down so that she could visit Charlotte. She chose her timing with care, hoping that Mr Collins would be putting the finishing touches to his sermon and therefore unlikely to interrupt them.
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Charlotte was very pleased to see her, and even more pleased to show off her son. Elizabeth cradled him on her lap, relieved that – as yet – she could detect none of his father’s features. When they had exchanged all their news, Charlotte leaned forward in some agitation.
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‘You are going to church this morning?’
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Elizabeth assured her that she was.
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‘As you know, I am not well enough to go myself. So I have a small favour to ask. It is of no real consequence, but I cannot be at ease until I know …’ Charlotte hesitated, then went on, ‘Mr Collins has recorded little William’s birth in the parish register, and I would like you to tell me exactly what is written.’
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‘Of course!’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘That should not be very taxing, unless he has deliberately concealed the register and I have to turn the church upside down to find it.’ She paused, sensing that there was more to this apparently simple request. ‘May I ask for what purpose?’
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Charlotte studied the backs of her hands. ‘My mother’s maiden name was Lewes, and I agreed with Mr Collins that we would call our son William Lewes in her honour. But Lady Catherine thinks his middle name is spelled L-e-w-i-s, after her late husband.’ A rueful smile at Elizabeth. ‘We both know how loath Mr Collins is to offend Her Ladyship, but I would hope that on this occasion he has respected my wishes ahead of hers.’
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Privately, Elizabeth doubted it; she refrained from voicing her thoughts, however, and continued rocking Baby Collins until he was deep in slumber. Aware that time was pressing, she took her leave of Charlotte and hurried the short distance to the church.
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The path from the parsonage took her through a secluded part of the graveyard, so overhung with pines that she almost missed something crouching in the shadows to her left. She paused, trying to make out whether it was man or beast. But, as the creature straightened up, she saw that it was Lady Catherine: the bulky, cloaked figure and elaborate hat with its heavy veil were unmistakable.
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Elizabeth watched in astonishment as Lady Catherine marched across the frosted grass to join the path, and swept in front of her with a curt nod. They filed in silence to the church, where the rest of their party were already seated in the de Bourgh box pew. At their approach, Darcy glanced up from his meditations with a look of apprehensive surprise – as if, although he could not imagine two less likely confidantes, their entrance together might be a conspiracy. Against him.
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Elizabeth realised that, in a way, it was. She knew that Lady Catherine had been nowhere near her husband’s grave; Sir Lewis and other members of the family were buried in a more ostentatious plot, an imposing mausoleum near the entrance to the church. Exactly what Lady Catherine had been doing, and whether it was of any import, were a mystery. And Elizabeth’s dilemma was this: should she reveal to Darcy what she had just seen – or remain silent, and somehow complicit?
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For the moment, however, she could do nothing – since, as soon as his patroness had made herself comfortable, Mr Collins began the service. In his capable hands, the joyous miracle of Christ’s birth was transformed into a long and unedifying sermon on the nature of sin. Disregarding the barely stifled yawns of his congregation, he held forth for almost an hour until he had fully exercised his oratory powers.
At last it was over and the dazed congregation almost stampeded out of the church, unusually eager to enjoy the winter chill. Darcy drew Elizabeth to one side and murmured, ‘I would like us to forgo the carriage and walk back to Rosings – by the most circuitous route possible! What say you to such a proposal?’
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‘It is music to my ears, which is more than I can say for Mr Collins’s sermon.’ Elizabeth hesitated. ‘But first, I have a rather delicate errand to run for Charlotte. She has asked me to verify that her child’s middle name is entered correctly in the parish register. It is intended to be her mother’s maiden name, but Mr Collins may have written it differently to please Lady Catherine. Unfortunately, she thinks the boy is named after Sir Lewis, in homage to herself.’
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‘Naturally. My aunt is convinced that the whole world revolves around her needs and wishes. And so poor Collins is caught between the two of them –’
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‘“Poor Collins” indeed! He has a far better wife than he deserves.’ A mischievous glance at her husband. ‘Although that could be said of most men, could it not?’
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Darcy smiled broadly. ‘I expect that you and your father say it of me many a time – and you would not be wrong.’
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She laughed. ‘Be careful, my love. While I cannot accuse you of misplaced arrogance, I may yet bring a charge of misplaced humility! Now, do you know where the register is kept?’
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‘I do – or at least I did. Mr Collins’s predecessor used to keep it in the vestry. Shall we venture back inside and look for it there? It should be but the work of a moment, since Mr Collins is too busy prostrating himself before my aunt to notice us.’
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The vestry was little more than a closet, with such an abundance of shelves that Elizabeth immediately detected the hand of Lady Catherine at work. After all, nothing was too trivial to merit her attention; and shelf arranging was a particular favourite of hers, providing as it did plentiful opportunity to inspect the personal habits of all and sundry. Darcy soon identified a large black-bound tome as the parish register, and lifted it carefully down for Elizabeth’s perusal.
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She turned to the most recent entries and contemplated the page for several seconds in stunned silence. At last she said slowly, ‘Fitzwilliam, it will astonish you to know that Mr Collins has been remarkably clever. He has recorded his child’s middle name in such a way as to satisfy both Charlotte and Lady Catherine!’
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Darcy leaned over her shoulder to study the word in question. ‘I cannot tell if it ends in “e-s”, or “i-s”.’
‘Exactly. The second last letter is so ill formed – and is that the dot of an “i” above it, or simply a flaw in the paper?’ A wry chuckle. ‘Despite Mr Collins’s protestations of his son’s genius, the child is not yet ready to read and write. When he is old enough, it will be Charlotte’s task to teach him and she will ensure that he spells his name with “e-s”. By that time, I fancy Lady Catherine will have forgotten all about it in favour of other trials and tribulations.’
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‘Undoubtedly, and many of them her own doing.’ Darcy was about to close the book, when he stopped and said, ‘As a matter of interest, let us see how her daughter’s birth was recorded. Who knows, we may find a scandalous inaccuracy – such as Anne without an “e”!’
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They started with some entries in faded ink near the beginning of the register. ‘These dates are several years before Anne was born,’ Darcy remarked and made to leaf rapidly through the next few pages.
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‘Wait!’ Elizabeth stayed his hand, and pointed to one of the entries. ‘You never told me that Anne had a brother.’
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Darcy frowned. ‘That is because I did not know of his existence, until now.’
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‘Look – he was called Lewis, after his father,’ – her voice dropped to a shocked whisper – ‘and he died on the same day that he was born … Oh Fitzwilliam! The date was the twenty-fifth of December.’ She paused, recalling the graveyard and its crouching figure under the canopy of pines. A place of solitude and stillness, where the sun never shone … ‘Come with me, my love. I must show you something.’
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She led him out of the vestry, round the back of the church, and across the frosted grass to the far corner of the graveyard. There, in the shadow of the trees, they found a tiny rectangle of grey stone in the dark decaying earth. The words on the stone echoed those that they had just read in the register: the name of Lady Catherine’s first-born, and the brief span of his life in its awful symmetry. Underneath the words lay a single bloom, its wide waxy-white petals framing a cluster of delicate yellow stamens.
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Elizabeth tightened her grip on her husband’s arm. ‘This is where I saw your aunt earlier this morning, from a distance. I did not understand why she was creeping about, but she must have been visiting her son’s grave.’
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‘As she has probably done for the past thirty Christmases. God knows how frightened she must have felt when she was carrying Anne, in case this child too was taken from her! This explains so much, Elizabeth … Her preoccupation with Anne’s fragile health … Even, perhaps, her removal of Sir Lewis to the east wing, since bearing more children might lead to further grief.’ He gave a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘And I always believed her devoid of compassion – how I have misjudged her!’
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‘You cannot blame yourself, Fitzwilliam – she hides her feelings all too well under a crust of unpleasantness.’ Sensing his growing self-reproach, Elizabeth steered him back to the path, saying, ‘That flower – I seem to remember it is called the hellebore, or Christmas rose, and it grows in the woods at Pemberley.’ And thus, as they walked, did she direct the conversation to his beloved home, and lighten his spirits again.
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Every cloud has a silver lining. If, thanks to their hostess, Mr and Mrs Darcy found that Christmas at Rosings was not without its provocations, it also laid a stronger foundation for their life together. To them the Christmas rose became an annual symbol of hope and renewal: a reminder, in the depths of winter, that the rose of summer will return.
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The End