A Christmas Scene from A Remedy Against Sin

Happy day-after Boxing Day! Am I allowed to wish you a happy Boxing Day even if I’m an American living in America who has never in her life celebrated Boxing Day? It’s one of those holidays that I’m sure I’ve romanticized, so if you do celebrate Boxing Day, I’d love to hear what the day was like for you!

No matter what holidays you call your own, I hope every one of you is having a lovely last few days of 2022!

Today I’m posting a scene from A Remedy Against Sin, the first book I published. Honestly, it has been so long since I wrote this book that I have forgotten some of the scenes! (I believe I began writing it in 2012 and finally published it in 2016—so long ago now that I feel as if that Christina Morland is quite different from this Christina Morland.) But I do remember this particular scene clearly, perhaps because I’ve thought a great deal about how new families must navigate different ways of celebrating holidays and traditions.

Like so many P&P variations, Remedy is an early-marriage scenario; there’s something fascinating about watching Elizabeth and Darcy figure each other out after they have married! This scene takes place the day after Christmas. Unable to sleep, Elizabeth wakes early and wanders the house, finding her way to Darcy’s study because — surprise! — he also cannot sleep. Poor kids; they’re so confused!

I’m not sure this qualifies as a “jolly” holiday scene, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Excerpt from A Remedy Against Sin

“Elizabeth?”  With the light from his study behind him, Darcy’s face was too dark to read, but his voice was gruff with sleep, and she saw that he, too, wore his robe and slippers. Had they both been wandering the house, escaping their separate bedrooms and finding their way to their separate sitting areas?

“I thought I heard your voice,” he said, coming into the sitting room. “What are you doing in here at this hour, and without a fire lit?”

“I could not sleep,” Elizabeth said.

“Neither could I.”

There was an awkward silence, broken only by Mary’s nervous cough.

“Come into the study until Mary has lit the fire,” he said, nodding to the maid and then ushering Elizabeth into the study.

Elizabeth blinked in the relative brightness of the room.  Between the blazing fire in the hearth and the Argand lamp on the desk, there was enough light to read and write even in the dead of night.

“My father has talked of purchasing one of these,” she said, going to his desk to examine the lamp. Then she caught sight of the open sketchbook next to the lamp and, without thinking, picked it up.

The creak of the floorboard brought her back to herself, and she spun around to face him. “Forgive me. I am prying.”

He smiled. “Yes, you are. But then I, too, have been known to pick up other people’s books without asking first.”

They laughed and looked away from each other.

Her gaze went to the sketchbook. “May I…?”

Darcy nodded and led her to one of the chairs by the fire before returning to his desk.  For the next quarter of an hour, they were silent, save the occasional scratch of his pen on paper.

As Elizabeth turned the pages of his sketchbook, she wondered how it was that she had not, in Hertfordshire, seen the artist who hid behind Mr. Darcy’s facade.  He was by no means a genius; few of the sketches were complete, and the lines of his drawings sometimes wavered when boldness would have served the picture better.  Yet there was life in each image.  Most of the sketches were of Pemberley or the grounds (or so she assumed, having had very little opportunity to explore the grounds herself).  There were also several of London, her favorite being a street scene with a man at the center, rigid and faceless, while the people about him seemed to be in mid-stride, hurrying this way or that.

There was only one portrait.

“Why have you not given this to Georgiana?” she asked, looking up at him.

He set down his pen but said nothing.

“This is your sister, is it not?” Elizabeth rose and went to his desk. “She appears so young.”

“She was ten in that sketch.” He paused and then added, “It was to be a birthday gift.”

“Yet you never gave it to her?”

“I… it was not meant for her, actually.  It was for my father, but he died before I could give it to him.”

“Oh, Fitzwilliam.” She stared blankly at the sketchpad.  “I am sorry.”

“It was long ago,” he said brusquely before turning back to his work.

Sighing, she returned to the chair by the fire. She had examined only one more sketch when he surprised her by coming to sit across from her.

There were several moments of uncertain silence before he said, quietly, “Have you seen the miniatures in the drawing room?”

Elizabeth shook her head, realizing then how little time she had spent in the drawing room. “There are so many rooms in this house, I think it may be years before I find myself knowing all of Pemberley’s treasures.”

“Ah, well, I would not call the miniatures treasures.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Then I can guess who made them, for I have learned in our near-fortnight of marriage that you are, for such a proud man, surprisingly humble. You painted them?”

“Yes, just before I left for Cambridge. In those years before I went to school, I imagined myself a portrait artist.  When my father gave them such a place of honor, I supposed that he was encouraging my interest in art. In fact he was attempting to soften the blow, for no sooner had I arrived at Cambridge than I received a long letter explaining that it was time to put away the pencils and the paints and focus on more serious matters. Gentlemen, he said, do not pursue art.”

“Well, he should have told that to Leonardo Da Vinci!”

Her exclamation produced from him a startled laugh.

“Let me amend my statement,” he said. “English gentlemen do not pursue art.”

“What of Hogarth or Gainsborough or —”

“Very well, I concede! It was not a suitable activity for this English gentleman.”

“Yet you sketched Georgiana after his admonition and even planned to give the sketch to your father. He must have relented.”

“No, and that is the worst of it.”

He fell silent for nearly a minute. Then, in halting tones, he said,  “I had returned from Cambridge, having done quite well for myself there, or so I thought.  Indeed, I was of the childish opinion that I deserved recognition, and when my father offered me no words of congratulations, instead lecturing me on all of my duties as the heir to Pemberley, I was, quite frankly, angry. Then I came across an old sketchbook and decided I would show him that I was capable of managing my duties without giving up art.” Darcy shook his head. “I am glad, now, that I did not have the opportunity to give him the sketch. It would not have been a gift but a slap in the face.”

Elizabeth frowned and said nothing for fear of insulting his deceased father.

Her disapproval must have been evident, for he said gently, “You must not think he was an unkind father. Indeed, I cannot imagine a better man. It is only that he understood the demands of running an estate. Only after he died and I became responsible for Pemberley did I truly understand his perspective. Painting and drawing take time when there is little time to be spared.”

“Did he disapprove all pastimes, then? Did he frown upon reading, sport, and cards, as well?”

“Reading, certainly not, for it served a greater purpose by improving the mind. He did not have much use for cards or sport himself, but he understood that other men were fond of those pastimes, and so he felt them necessary to navigating society.”

Elizabeth sighed. It was no wonder he held her own father in so little regard; the difference between their two sires was stark indeed.  Though she could see the sense in his father’s dedication to improvement and could recognize the error in her father’s disdain for convention, she could not bring herself to like his father or dislike her own.

“You are determined,” she said eventually, “to paint no more?”

He gave a curt nod. “It is a vain and idle pursuit for me.”

“But you cannot abandon sketching, it seems.”

“No,” he said, smiling a little. “I cannot. I tell myself that it takes less time, that in fact sketching helps to clear my mind when I am preoccupied.”

She was about to ask what had been preoccupying him on this morning when she realized that she might not want to hear the answer. So she turned back to the sketchbook, looking through several more pages until she reached the final, unfinished sketch.

“Is this Longbourn?”

He took the book from her and studied the drawing.  “I am surprised you can recognize it.  I could not remember all of the features. I thought — that column there, I do not think it is in the right place.”

“But you drew Longbourn. Thank you.”

He quirked an eyebrow.  “And who said it was for you?”

“Oh, forgive me, Mr. Darcy.” She laughed. “I have been presumptuous. You must have drawn it for yourself; I know how dearly you loved your time there!”

“I like Longbourn more than you think.”  He paused, and then asked, “Were you lonely here yesterday?”

“Lonely? I… what makes you ask that?”

“We are a small family, and I cannot help but think our way of celebrating Christmas must be unlike your family’s.”

Indeed it was. Both families attended services in the morning, but otherwise, they approached the day in very different ways.  Longbourn, though a comfortable estate by most standards, seemed far too small for all the merriment that rang through its corridors during the Christmas season. With the Gardiners, who came each December, the family filled the house with laughter, quarreling, chatter, and song.

At Pemberley, Christmas was a day for quiet reflection.  After church, Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley, who served not only as a companion but as an able instructor in French and drawing, had spent the morning in the library, absorbed in their work; Darcy had disappeared into his study.

Elizabeth had found herself alone in the sitting room, and at first, this solitude had felt rather like a gift, for when had she ever had so much time to do anything she wished? She could read an entire novel without once being interrupted by her mother’s complaints of nerves. She could write as many letters as she wished without fear that Lydia and Kitty would come barreling into the room, demanding that she serve as a mediator for their quarrels.  Only when writing to her father had she realized how much she missed the cacophony of  Longbourn, for even Mr. Bennet, who usually preferred solitude, spent Christmas enjoying the company of his family.

Not one for moping, Elizabeth had thrown down her pen, barged into the library, and pulled Georgiana away from her studies. “We must sing carols,” she had said, leading her new sister and Mrs. Annesley into the music room. For the next hour, Georgiana had played the piano while Elizabeth (and even, on occasion, Mrs. Annesley) had sung dozens of carols, though more often than not, Georgiana and Elizabeth had resorted to giggles when they could not remember the words or the notes of a song.

It had been during one of these fits of laughter that Darcy had made an appearance; standing in the doorway, he had watched them with the sort of half smile that she might once have considered condescending but now thought of as uncertain and bemused.

Before she lost her nerve, Elizabeth had marched up to him, taken him by the hand, and said, “You, too, must embarrass yourself by singing; it is a Christmas tradition!”

He had allowed himself to be pulled into the room. “I was not aware of this tradition.”

“It is a new tradition.”

“Then it is not tradition.”

“Well, all traditions must start somewhere. You will not argue yourself out of singing, Mr. Darcy.”

And to her surprise, he had not tried. He had gone without complaint to the piano, sat beside his sister, and in a hoarse and slightly out-of-tune voice, sung a carol.

Sitting across from him now, she said, “I had a lovely day.”

“Georgiana, too, enjoyed herself,” he said, smiling.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, “And you?”

But before she could speak, he added, “I have not seen her so happy in quite a while. Your kindness to my sister means a great deal to me.”

“Kindness? Oh, but it is self-interest that motivates me, for I enjoy Georgiana’s company.”  Elizabeth paused and thought to add, “I enjoy your company, too.” But then she met his eyes, and under the intensity of his gaze, there was, for a moment, no space for any thought or feeling save the memory of their nights together. She blushed to think of how he might interpret such a comment from her.

“It must be more than self-interest,” he said. “Georgiana told me how you gave her most of my mother’s jewelry.”

Elizabeth glanced up at him warily.  He had, on the second night of their residence, made a point of presenting his mother’s jewels to her.  She had been honored — and yet uncomfortable. She knew that, in some families, jewelry passed to the eldest son’s wife, and yet as a daughter herself, she wondered what it might feel like to watch all of her mother’s possessions go to a woman outside the family.

“You may disapprove,” she began, “but —”

“I was moved,” he interrupted quietly.

Blushing, she looked away. “I am glad. Truth be told, I suspect I upset Georgiana with the gift.”

“How so? She told me afterward that it was one of the kindest and most generous gifts she has received.”

“She once said something to me that I cannot forget. After I found your mother’s commonplace books, Georgiana said that reading through them had taught her how little she shared in common with Anne Darcy. This she admitted with great shame, as if she felt it was her duty to take her mother’s place in life. I wonder if, by giving her your mother’s jewelry, she felt that same compulsion to be someone she is not.”

“Georgiana has always suffered from a lack of confidence.  Her current happiness I attribute wholly to your influence, Elizabeth.”

“It will not do, sir, to give me so much praise, particularly this early in the morning, for I will be vain and unbearable for the rest of the day. So, let us turn to a topic that will make you glower and scorn me: my family.”

“Elizabeth…”

“You said that you wanted to know how we celebrate Christmas at Longbourn!” she continued with forced heartiness.  “It is true that our festivities are not so civilized as Pemberley’s, but —”

“I meant no offense at the comparison,” he said, frowning.

“Perhaps not, but knowing how little you approve of my family —”

“I only meant to suggest that Christmas at Longbourn, due to the greater number of people in the household, was likely to be livelier.”

She grimaced and then laughed.  “I am becoming as silly as my mother; it seems we both must take offense when you observe the confined and unvarying nature of certain gatherings.”

“That day at Netherfield feels so long ago,” he murmured.

“Yes, I suppose so.  A great deal has changed since then.”

“A great deal, and yet…” He glanced at her. “You are as quick as ever to think my primary aim is to insult you.”

“I think nothing of the sort.”

He leaned forward, pinning her with his gaze. “I make an innocuous comparison between Longbourn and Pemberley, and your first thought is that I intended to wound you.”

She shifted uncomfortably.  “I cannot forget your behavior toward my family and friends in Hertfordshire. Any comparison you make between Pemberley and Longbourn is bound to contain a degree of judgment.”

He looked as if he meant to argue, but then shook his head.

“Of course,” she continued, smiling a little, “having seen Pemberley, I am no longer surprised that you would turn your nose up at Longbourn and its inhabitants.”

She had meant the comment as a joke, and yet he frowned and looked away. Then, so swiftly that she hardly knew what was happening, he rose and returned to his desk.

“Mary has no doubt lit the fire now,” he said, taking up his pen and keeping his eyes on the paper in front of him.

For a minute, she remained where she was, too shocked by the sudden dismissal to move.  Yet why should she have been surprised? Less than a fortnight of marriage, and already she was too well acquainted with this trick of his, turning away and focusing his attention on something else — a window, a desk, his papers, anything — so that he would not have to look at her.  Had she any pride herself, she would have left the room and resolved to turn him away that night. She let herself imagine it, that moment when he came into her chambers and she refused to look at him. “Excuse me,” she would say, her eyes on her book, “but I am too busy this evening.”  Then he would know how it felt to be dismissed, to have to decide if he would play the fool (as she so often did by stealing chairs or otherwise refusing to leave) or if he would walk away with his dignity in tact. Yes, he would know how it felt, and then she would feel…

She would feel nothing, or certainly nothing better than this cold, bruised sensation that radiated from her chest and infected the rest of her body with a dull ache.

“No,” she said, propelling herself to her feet.

His pen halted, but still he did not look up, so she marched to the front of his desk and put her palms flat on the surface of it. He looked at her fingers, splayed across a pile of his papers, then at her arms, and then, finally, up at her.

“I will not,” she said, holding his gaze, “live in suspense, forever wondering what I have done today to upset you. If you are angry with me, do not hide yourself away in your study or bury yourself in your work but tell me so!”

A/N: Thanks so much for reading. Happy New Year to you all!