Read A Private Performance for Free Online Page B

wondrous recovery from her gloom to write again to her mother.
    From Miss Catherine Bennet to Mrs. Bennet
    Pemberley
    Dearest Mama
    We have been at Pemberley for five days and I am just beginning to know my way about the main part of the house. The east wing, which has fifteen bedrooms, is closed off for the winter, and still they burn half a ton of coal every day.
    I have tried to do something for Lydia and Wickham, but the merest mention of their names makes everyone cross. Wickham will have to find his own way to increase his income.
    I have met a frightfully ugly clergyman who would do well for Mary. She ought come to Pemberley in the summer and see if she can get him. I daresay no-one else will have him. His name is Mr. Turner. Lizzy says he has an excellent living in a place called Kympton.
    I shan’t have to look at him on Christmas Day, for we shall go as usual to Lambton church. The vicar is so ancient that he hangs on to the edge of the pulpit for dear life and I amuse myself wondering if he will fall out.
    All the carriages have been dragged out of the coach-house in readiness for the tenants’ Christmas party. I declare that the farmers’ families will have more laughs than I, for we will be a solemn party on Christmas Day: Mr. Darcy and Lizzy, Miss Georgiana and me, my aunt and uncle Gardiner and two old clergymen’s widows (I know not why Lizzy asked them). The vicar will come if he has strength left after his sermon. Only my little Gardiner cousins will afford me some amusement. Think of poor Kitty!
    We are going out to pick holly now, so I must put my letter in the tray. I do hope you will have a joyous Christmas. I send my duty to you and to Papa,
    Your affectionate daughter,
Kitty
    P.S. My love to my sister Mary.
    They came in from holly gathering, glowing with cold and exhilaration. Mrs. Reynolds uttered a soft “ouch” as she took the holly from Elizabeth, who stepped first over the threshold.
    â€œPrickly, was it, Reynolds?” asked Darcy.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    When they were seated and awaiting tea, Darcy said: “There’s a belief in this part of England that the first holly brought into the house determines who rules for the coming year. If it is smooth, the mistress; if prickly, the master.”
    â€œI’ve never heard of this before,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “I do believe you just invented it.” Her dark eyes sparkled with challenge. His eyes smouldered back darkly, but there was a smile in their depths.
    â€œOh, no,” said Georgiana, “Fitzwilliam would not tell a lie. It really is true … well, people do believe it … the uneducated, that is.”
    â€œKnowing of your formidable education, I imagine you mean to imply that you don’t believe it,” replied Elizabeth.
    Georgiana fell silent.
    â€œIt is my belief,” Elizabeth went on, “that these superstitions only affect those who believe them. What think you, truly, Georgiana?”
    â€œIt is not for me to determine,” she replied, close to tears. She worried for the next hour that she may have implied the unthinkable: that Fitzwilliam might not rule. She missed the spark that passed between her brother and his wife.
    Elizabeth had a measure of Darcy’s power, but fancied her own strength against his. This was a moment of mere play, however. Had they been alone, he would have taken her in his arms, she knew. What fun it would be to slip out of them and dance across the floor ahead of his pursuit!
    The door opened, and the tea tray was brought in. Elizabeth’s aunt and uncle followed.
    â€œSuch a lot of holly you have gathered!” cried Mrs. Gardiner.
    After tea, Elizabeth followed Georgiana into the music room to play a duet on the pianoforte.
    â€œHow I love to hide behind your talent, Georgiana. You are so clever.”
    â€œNot very clever. I wish I could be half so clever as you in conversation.”
    â€œBy clever, I am