Darcy had done what he could to restore respectability to the wayward girl. No, Darcy thought, he had done what he could to restore Elizabeth’s peace of mind. He cared naught of Lydia’s reputation—only that the loss of it caused pain to Elizabeth.

Darcy had seen Elizabeth perhaps a dozen times since taking care of Lydia’s folly. The most awkward was when he had accepted her thanks for his actions but could not bring himself to speak further. The most painful occasion had been when he and Elizabeth met at the altar during the nuptials of Bingley and Jane. He had been best man, while Elizabeth was maid of honor. He wanted to be the one exchanging vows before God. On both occasions, he had almost renewed his addresses to Elizabeth but he had not. The memory of the hurt and anger he experienced at her first rejection had kept him silent. And yes, his damnable pride had also held his tongue. Now, with Christmas fast approaching, his hope for a future with Elizabeth had almost withered away.

Christmas Eve dawned with cold, bleak, biting weather and a fog settled over the city like a gray greatcoat. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without that the houses opposite were mere phantoms. When the mantel clock had only just gone three, it was already quite dark, for there had barely been light all day and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighboring houses, like shining beacons upon the palpable white mist. Few people ventured into the street outside Darcy’s door, the weather keeping them inside or hurrying from warm houses to carriages where blankets and hot bricks awaited.