“Actually, she does,” said Darcy. “A rather time-honored reason: money.”
“Oho!” said John. “Fortunately, Woodhouse has more than enough.”
“She will likely laugh the idea to shame,” said George. “Any reasonable woman would.”
“I wonder,” said Darcy. “Her husband’s estate was entailed away, and she now lives the life of a lodger. It is especially grievous because she has two daughters to see established.”
“Woodhouse won’t mind. He likes having females about.”
“Yes, but if Mrs. Bennet does meet your father-in-law, she will think first of marrying him to one of them.”
John regarded Darcy with a fascinated eye. “How old are they?”
“You have children?”
“Yes,” said John. “Five.”
“The Bennet daughters are certainly younger than your wife.”
John turned to his brother. “Is that all you can do, George? Laugh?”
“This will never work. Not ever. We cannot force Mr. Woodhouse to propose. I salute you for a valiant and imaginative attempt, but no.”
Darcy knew he should agree with George Knightley and firmly change the conversation. And yet, something about this outlandish idea held appeal. Great heaven, why? Was it the port? He’d had only two glasses!
“While Mrs. Bennet is a silly woman,” Darcy heard himself say, “she is certainly good-hearted.”
“A point in her favor,” cried John. “So is Woodhouse.”
“She sets a generous table and is hospitable to guests. There was nothing stingy about Longbourn House while she was its mistress.”
“Better and better! Did you say she was sickly?”
“Not at all. She would take precious good care of Mr. Woodhouse’s health. But as your brother says, success is highly unlikely.”
George Knightley was now contemplating the contents of his wine glass. “And yet,” he said slowly, “although failure is certain, the two should be given the chance to meet. Then we’ll know.”
“Ha. You’re asking the man who laments the half-mile to Randalls to make a sixteen-mile journey to London?”
George did not reply. Suddenly he raised his eyes to meet Darcy’s. “Join us for Christmas,” he said. “All of you: Mrs. Bennet, her daughters, your wife—your entire family. Then we’ll know.”
Chapter 3
“Christmas?” scoffed John. “Why Christmas? Apart from the fact that it is only a month away—which I applaud—I cannot see the appeal.”
“Of all the holidays, Christmas is the most sentimental,” said George. “If there is a chance of their hearts softening toward one another, it will happen then.”
“How so?”
“Consider the wonder of the Christmas story: a young couple in desperate straits, through no fault of their own, who must depend on God’s intervention and provision.”
“In other words, a miracle. That’s what we’ll need to pull this off.”
George ignored his brother’s interruption. “The King of Kings, born in a lowly stable,” he said. “The promise of redemption, of life and hope.”
“Yes, yes,” said John. “We know all that.”
“Peace on earth, goodwill to men,” said Darcy quietly.
“Exactly. Moreover, there was, as you recall, no room at the inn. This drives home the sense of loneliness and isolation.”
“That’s romantic?” complained John.
“The word I used was sentimental. I do not expect Mr. Woodhouse to fall in love.”
John gave a snort of derision. “You can say that again.”
Darcy saw George eye his brother. “I see how it is. You’re put out because Christmas was not your idea.”
“Hardly,” cried John.
Darcy turned to his friend. “What your brother says has merit. No room at the inn could strike a chord with Mrs. Bennet. I have heard her liken herself to a stray cat who has no place to call home.”
John’s lips twisted into a smile. “Mind what Darcy says there, George. That’s what you are: a stray cat.”
“My point is this,” said George. “Christmas brings cold weather and wood fires and the fellowship of shared conversation.”
“It can also bring snow; have you thought of that?”
“We must therefore take care that Mrs. Bennet remains at Hartfield once the snow begins to fall. Your wife can see to that, Darcy.”
Darcy passed a hand over his eyes. “My wife. She’ll think I’ve run mad, spending Christmas away from Pemberley. She could very well be right.”
“George’s Emma will dislike it too,” said John. “As for Isabella, well. Once she finds out what we intend for her father, I’ll be in the suds and no mistake.”
“Then we must take care not to say too much,” said George mildly. “This isn’t precisely matchmaking. We’ll simply allow a friendship to develop of its own accord.”
“If they do not loathe one another at first sight. . .”
“How is this? It was you who came up with the idea, John. You cannot now play the role of advocatus diaboli and seek to dismantle it.”
“Oh, very well,” said John ungraciously. “I daresay you are right.” He raised his glass in mock salute. “To Christmas at Hartfield, gentlemen. May it bring about a solution to a dashed awkward dilemma.”
George Knightley knew better than to put off telling his wife about the change in plans. When he arrived home on the following day, he sought her out.
“Guests for Christmas?” she said absently. “But of course. John and Isabella’s summer holidays were taken up with sea-bathing for the children. We have not seen them nearly as much as we would like.”
Here was a promising beginning!
“Fortunately for us, the season for sea-bathing is over. They cannot cry off.” George paused and then added, “Will you mind too much if they stay not at Hartfield, but at Donwell?”
“At Donwell! Father will be disappointed.”
“Now that the children are older, they will not be in anyone’s way there.”
“As if they are a bother!”
“To your father, they could be. I’d dislike seeing them scolded for romping about and making noise.”
“Father would never!”
George gave her a look.
Emma sighed heavily. “You have a point. I’m afraid Father will not understand.”
“They have divided their holidays between Donwell and Hartfield before. Besides,” he added, “I have invited other guests to spend Christmas with us here.”
“Have you indeed?”
The expression on Emma’s face told George that he had put a foot wrong. What she said next confirmed it. “Do I know them?”
“Darcy is an old schoolmate of John’s; Cambridge, you know. His family estate is in Derbyshire. Pemberley, I believe it is called. He’ll be bringing his wife and sister and, er, his widowed mother-in-law and her two daughters.”
His widowed mother-in-law? Perhaps he shouldn’t have included that detail. Deceiving his wife was more challenging than he realized.
“Goodness,” said Emma. “So many?”
“Yes, well. . . that cannot be helped. I daresay you’ll enjoy them, as the wife and her sisters are about your age. We can look them up in Debretts; your father would like that.”
“Leave it to him to discover that we are related in some obscure way,” said Emma tartly.
This next part would be more difficult. “I—am considering hosting a ball at Donwell. What do you think? John is keen on the idea.”
“John? He despises everything about a ball.”
“He is interested now.”