I stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes, Bennet, the most precious things come from the most inauspicious beginnings.” I tilted my head toward Miss Bingley, who was still speaking with her aunt across the room. “If you truly love her, if you believe in your heart that she is meant for you, then give her that brooch at the stroke of midnight.”
He looked down at the tarnished pin in his hand, his brow furrowing. “But… why?”
“Because, son,” I said, my tone growing solemn, “that brooch is bound by an old vow, one meant only for those with steadfast hearts. If you pledge yourself to her with it, if you promise to come back to her in this life or the next, that promise will hold you to it.”
Bennet glanced up, uncertainty in his eyes. Elizabeth reached out, brushing a hand over his cheek. “Do you love her, my son?” she asked softly.
The young man snapped his gaze to hers, resolve flaring in his eyes. “Yes, Mother. More than life itself.”
“Then know this—such a vow can be a curse, or it can be a blessing. For me, it has been nothing but blessing.” She nodded as if reassuring herself as much as him. “And I am certain it will be the same for you.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Go on, Bennet. No time to waste. And do us proud.”
He hesitated only a moment, clutching the brooch tightly in his palm before he took a steadying breath and nodded. “Thank you, Father. Mother.” With one last glance between us, he turned, his shoulders squared with purpose as he made his way toward Miss Bingley.
Elizabeth and I exchanged a quiet, knowing smile, watching as he wove through the crowd, finally reaching her and leading her toward the doors to a quiet corner of the hall. The glow of the ballroom faded as he took her hand and guided her, both of them sneaking glances back, their laughter hushed in excitement.
The clock began to chime, marking the approach of midnight.
Beside me, Elizabeth slipped her hand into mine, her fingers warm and her grip as sure and steady as it had ever been. I turned to her, the light in her eyes reminding me of every year we’d shared, every Christmas since that first, wild ball that had bound us in ways neither of us could have ever foreseen. She tilted her head, her eyes brimming with emotion.
“Do you think,” she whispered, her voice just for me, “that Ewan McLean would be proud?”
I chuckled, drawing her closer. “I think he’d be insufferably smug.” Then, more tenderly, I added, “But aye, madùrachdan. I’d wager he’d be right proud.”
The final chime of midnight rang out, echoing through the hall. From across the room, Bennet’s laughter mingled with Eliza Bingley’s as he slipped the brooch into her hand, sealing his promise.
“Merry Christmas, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth whispered.
“Merry Christmas, my love,” I replied, holding her close, feeling the blessing of our shared life wrap around us, warm and sure as ever.
