Christmas at Pemberley

Part 6

Darcy examined his ledger with care, adding his figures once, twice, three times, before signing off the page with a flourish. His eyes strayed from his work on more than one occasion to a smudge on one cuff, then to the clock on the mantel, then to the window. How was it, he wondered, that Pemberley, which had had always been his sanctuary and escape from the society he found most draining, now seemed too quiet to him? It was too empty without his wife and sister.

The clock seemed to tick too loudly, the wind blew too fiercely against the window and he was aware of every single creaking floorboard, every soft step and muffled word of his servants which ordinarily drew no notice from the young master of Pemberley.

Passing over one book, he turned to a sheaf of letters and began to look through his correspondence, which had been sorely neglected in the chaos of preparing for the first Christmas he and Lizzy would be spending as husband and wife. Chuckling to himself as he reread a letter from Bingley, who seemed to be adjusting to married life at Netherfield with as much enjoyment as Darcy had been in Derbyshire, he reached for a clean sheet of paper and his own pen and ink. Before he could strike the first word, though, a flurry of activity in the corridor distracted him from his task.

He stood, anticipating the return of his wife, and was surprised, instead, to be interrupted by the introduction of a visitor, not a member of the family.

"A Mr Lambert has come to call, sir. The new curate. Shall I show him in?"

"Yes, certainly." Darcy had managed to rearrange his features into some approximation of a smile just in time for the mysterious Mr Lambert to make his appearance.

"Mr Darcy." The young man clad in sober black dipped in a neat bow, before stepping forward to shake Darcy's outstretched hand.

"Mr Lambert." Darcy frowned, wondering where it was he had heard the name before. Clearly, the man was not acquainted with him, judging by the formality of his polite introduction. Yet the name was not unfamiliar. He cast a glance down at the pile of papers he had begun working through, sifting through it with one hand until he located a card. Before he could strive to examine it more closely, though, the man had spoken again.

"I hope you do not mind my calling on you, Mr Darcy. I do not doubt you are busy with your own preparations for Christmas." The man reached up to smooth his hair, dark and tousled from often having been raked through. It made him appear far more youthful than his years, and Darcy's lips quirked, reminded in some strange way of Charles Bingley. Clearing his throat, he spoke, eager to put his guest at his ease.

"Not at all, not at all. Do sit down, Mr Lambert," he said, taking the opportunity to slide back behind his desk and extricate the card. Mr Daniel Lambert, curate. His breath caught. Of course! Pemberley's small parish church had been expecting a new curate for quite some time. The older minister in residence had, at last, stepped down, handing off the small church and all the parish obligations to a younger man, the very fellow who was shuffling awkwardly into a seat opposite Darcy at this very moment. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance at last," he said, surprised to recognise the truth of his statement.

"Thank you," Mr Lambert muttered, the ghost of a smile flickering across his pale face. He nodded, repeating the words for good measure. "Thank you, Mr Darcy. I have been meaning to call on you since my first arrival in the post, but -"

"You must be quite busy at this time of year, I imagine," Darcy said, kindly. He liked this man, recognising some of his own awkwardness around strangers and wishing to put him at his ease. "I cannot imagine it is an easy task to take up the position of curate at the church's busiest time of year!"

"No," Lambert admitted, surprised and a little relieved to have his position so clearly and immediately understood. He shook his head, his voice ringing with amusement. "No, it is not. I have been ably introduced by Mr Carter, but it is never easy to find one's feet in the midst of such chaos. This is the reason I made it my goal to call on at least a few of the first families of the village before Christmas, so at last, I may make a few acquaintances."

"What a pity you should choose to call now, in that case!" Darcy remarked, seeing, too late, the effect of his words on the nervous young curate, whose face fell. "You misunderstand me, Mr Lambert. I am not unhappy to make your acquaintance. Indeed, I am glad to do it, and to welcome you to Pemberley, and to Derbyshire on behalf of my friends and neighbours." He smiled. "We are not an unwelcoming community and I hope and trust you will find a home here. I merely mean that it is unfortunate you should call today, at this hour, and find me here alone. My wife and sister are not presently at home and I know that they would have liked to meet you." He nodded around the room. "I confess you should receive a far warmer welcome were they here."

Mr Lambert smiled a little awkwardly as if unsure what to say in response to this.

"And yet, I believe I have a suggestion that may aid us both!" Darcy clapped his hands, delighted that the notion should come to him now, while the man was sitting before him, and knowing that his wife would certainly applaud him for his initiative. "In a day or two, my wife and I are hosting a small dinner to celebrate the arrival of my wife's aunt and uncle. A few neighbours will be in attendance and you, sir, are most welcome to join us."

Mr Lambert's eyebrows lifted, and he did not speak at first, as if struggling to find the correct response.

"Will you come?" Darcy prompted, and the young curate nodded, once, feebly, then a second time.

"Thank you, Mr Darcy." His smile grew, and Darcy felt his own expression lift. "I will."