“How are Mr. and Mrs. Lathrop accepting the arrangement? The two are quite young.”

“Indeed, Mr. Daniels, you are correct. At this juncture we are maintaining our peace. None of us have any misgivings to the match. In fact, it is delightful to think of our children married. However, they are far too young.”

“In years Alexander is young, yet he has ever been mature for his age. A serious and tenacious lad as I have never seen. I was not at all surprised when Lizzy wrote us that he insisted on enrolling at Cambridge at sixteen and after only two years at Harrow. I surmise this is a young man with a goal in mind, and that may not just be to co-manage Pemberley with his father.”

Darcy frowned at Mr. Gardiner’s comments. “Alexander’s studies at University keep him too occupied to dwell upon affairs of the heart.”

“So you hope.” George winked, his grin downright salacious. “I tend to agree with Mr. Gardiner as to his diligent application. The sooner he pleases his parents and himself with all that book learning, the sooner he can please other appetites.”

“Precisely why Lathrop is keeping Fiona at home. Alexander may be starry-eyed, but his sense of propriety is more rigid than mine. She, on the other hand, is fiery like her mother.” Darcy shook his head. “God knows I adore her, but we all feel it best to limit contact to censored letters for now, as distressful as that was for Lathrop to allow for his un-betrothed daughter. Elizabeth reports from Mrs. Lathrop that the pleading was fervent and highly dramatic. Poor Stephen was doomed to acquiesce.”

“Seems we have our fair share of headstrong women in this family, with the probable exception of your three daughters, Mr. Daniels.” The solicitor blushed, but appreciatively inclined his head at the General Artois, who then turned to Darcy, continuing with a smile. “I overheard Noella exuberantly sharing with her cousins a recent encounter with Mr. Pomeroy. I daresay it was highly embellished, but the females were appropriately swooning.”

Darcy shook his head and grimaced. “My stubborn daughter has her mind so set, and Hugh pays her scant heed. I truly do not know how she will cope when he finally marries. At least that does not seem probable any time soon, according to Richard. Hopefully she will mature out of her infatuation and set her sights on another, since he apparently quite enjoys his bachelorhood.”

“Well,” George declared with a deep breath and broad grin, “all this youthful zeal and drama keeps us young, yes?”

“Indeed it is amusing. Quite difficult to wallow in sorrow when the children persist in theatric entertainments. Now I think it is time I play my part as disciplinary figure before the teasing turns to physical blows. By now I am certain the playful harassment is bordering on provocation. Alexander is losing his composure and as proud as I am of my eldest’s strength, he is no match for Michael in a brawl.”

“This you know from experience, I take it?”

Darcy grunted, pouring more coffee as he answered Kitty’s husband. “Years of experience. Michael applies equal commitment to athletics, especially pugilism, as Alexander does to books. I fear that only on a horse would he prevail over Michael.”

“They could joust.”

Darcy lifted a brow as the men laughed at Artois’ sally. “Not a bad idea. I shall suggest it.”

The Christmas hours ticked by with standard events transpiring alongside the unusual. First, church at the Village chapel with the requisite Scripture readings followed by a nativity themed play starring the children of the community and orphanage. The opening of gifts was barely finished before luncheon at one o’clock.

A somber walk to the Pemberley cemetery followed.

The ancient family burial ground was situated to the southeast, beyond the maze and rock pond, in a gated greensward surrounded by trees. The gardeners kept the flowers blooming as long as possible, although there were few to be found in December. Still, the sacred area was immaculate and oddly peaceful, even in the midst of winter’s gloom. Mrs. Bennet broke into loud sobs before they opened the gate, leaning heavily on Lizzy and Jane as they wound past the desultory plots, to where Mr. Bennet was buried. The fresh mound of overturned dirt was lightly dusted with snow, the marble gravestone glaringly recent compared to all the others. Sniffles and coughs were plentiful, a few weeping anew, but none as strident as the widow. Soothing Mrs. Bennet required every ounce of Lizzy’s absorption, and the flood of lamentation Darcy both dreaded and hoped for did not occur at this predictable moment.

Noella’s birthday celebration overshadowed the previous hour of woe. Mr. Bennet’s portrait traveled into the orangery where the party was held, his grandfatherly gaze cherished as an angelic onlooker, before being permanently hung in the portrait hallway with due pomp. The late afternoon passed in outdoor activities. The younger children napped or played together in the playroom under the supervision of their nannies while the adults walked Pemberley’s gravel pathways zigzagging the manicured gardens and hedged maze. Noella on Cleo led the adolescents on a vigorous ride across the moor, returning to the warmth of the manor well after sunset.

Through it all, Lizzy fulfilled her role as the perfect hostess. Darcy kept one eye upon her, but she never once lost her composure. Finally, as darkness fully enveloped the land, and with stomachs filled to bursting with Mrs. Langton’s fine cuisine, their guests retired to the largest parlor for subdued conversation, music, and games, and he relinquished his vigilant concern.

Of course it was then, to the surprise of all, that Lizzy’s grief would overwhelm her.

“Aunt Elizabeth? Forgive me for forgetting to return this to you as soon as we arrived. It was in with my other hair combs, wrapped safe in your handkerchief. Thank you for lending to me. I was the only girl at the Michaelmas banquet with Michaelmas daisies adorning. It was perfect.” Deborah stammered to a stop, glancing toward her mother in confused concern. “Aunt Lizzy? I am sorry…”

“Lizzy?” Mary leaned forward, touching her immobile sister lightly on the knee. “Deborah was careful with it, I assure you. She meant no disrespect in her delay to return it…”

“No,” Lizzy choked, shaking her head and rapidly blinking her eyes to clear the sting of hot tears. “Deborah, dear, it… it’s fine, truly.” Her voice cracked and she swallowed a dry gulp. All moisture had vacated her mouth and throat, traveling, apparently, to her palms and lachrymal ducts.

Stupefied, the seconds stretching, she stared at the white linen draped over her trembling hands and the item cushioned therein. The four-inch long hairpin was silver, embedded with tarnished spots that were impossible to polish, aiding the appearance of antiquity. The cluster of lavender Michaelmas daisies covering the top were exquisitely detailed, but the color was faded in places with tiny chips in the porcelain petals and one of the yellow garnets set in the center of each flower was newer and scratch-free. It was a lovely hair accessory, obviously well used and finely wrought, although a close inspection by anyone moderately familiar with jewelry would reveal a piece of no great worth.

Yet Lizzy stared as if hypnotized, emotions assaulting her in a deluge. She did not see a shabby hair clip. She saw shiny, brilliant lavender daisies with centers of sparkling garnet nestled in a tiny velvet-lined box resting on a broad palm. She saw her father’s face caught between a loving smile and teasing grin as he said, “Lavender because it is your favorite color, Lizzy, and Michaelmas daisies because they mean ‘farewell,’ although in your case not because I am saying good-bye, but because I know you shall always fare well in your life. You are my brightest daughter and have the greatest potential.”

“I remember that clip!” Lydia’s slurred voice boomed from over Lizzy’s shoulder, shattering the echo of Mr. Bennet’s voice. “Papa brought each of us a flowered hairclip that year when he returned from Town. Mine was buttercups, if I recall, and Jane, yours was carnations. Or was it chrysanthemums?” She shrugged and took a hasty gulp of wine. “That was ages ago. I can’t believe you still have it. Look how tarnished it is!” She leaned over the sofa back and pointed to the splotched silver filigree leaves, and then hiccupped loudly, spilling a drop of red wine onto the end daisy. “Oops! So sorry…”

But Lizzy had risen to her feet, the flowered clip clutched to her chest. Her shimmering gaze swept over the expressions on the faces of the women sitting in a circle around her: Lydia annoyed that the abrupt action had caused her to step unsteadily backward and splash wine onto her bounteous exposed bosom, her other sisters sympathetic, and her mother baffled. Beyond their intimate circle of chairs the remaining family members carried on unaware, including Darcy, who was scowling intently at the chessboard located between him and George.

Yet Lizzy barely registered any of it, not even Charles Bingley’s questioning look. Focusing on any one person was impossible. A vise was tightening about her chest, making breathing difficult. She struggled viciously against the images of Mr. Bennet that slammed over everything in the room and the gruff timbre of his voice that drowned the laughing children. Her efforts were in vain and the Christmas merriment faded into a background shadow and murmur, yielding reality to the plethora of visions and conversations spanning years past with her father.

The final shred of hope that dignity might be retained was dashed when Mrs. Bennet declared with a disgusted sniff, “Why you would bother with that old piece when you have a closet full of jewels to rival a queen is beyond my comprehension. Mr. Bennet brought me one with roses along with you girls’. It was nice enough, I suppose, and he commented when I wore it, but my goodness, it was tarnished and bent! I couldn’t wait to part with it once he was gone.”