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The day had turned suddenly blustery and cold, and Fitzwilliam Darcy was in a bit of a temper about it. He was not fond of chilly weather at any time, but he could manage it quite well while sitting in front of a roaring fire, sipping a steaming cup of tea. Most unfortunately for him, however, this was the day he had set aside to visit with his tenants, hearing their concerns and helping them with their problems, and so as the sun disappeared and the children began running to their houses, he was right out in the open, eyeing the steely-gray sky with growing distrust.
It was the wind he hated most, he thought, scowling against it as it whipped against his face. One could deal with cold temperatures, no matter how unpleasant; it was the wind that found its way in, biting at every inch of exposed skin, chilling one to the bone. His nose and the tips of his ears already felt raw; his eyes were streaming; he felt pathetic and miserable. He wanted very much to wrap himself up in a blanket, book in hand, and instead he had to stroll around in the increasingly squally weather, pretending to be robust and strong and manly for the tenants. Sometimes being the master of a great estate was more trouble than it was worth.
And now fat drops of rain were starting to fall, dotting his hat, his shoulders, his boots, like evil, icy little bullets sent specifically to torment him. He glared again at the clouds and took a direct hit to his eye. He blinked the water away irritably, cursing his luck.
“If it stays this cold, I would not be shocked if it snows,” said Mr. Sullyard.
“Nor would I,” Darcy replied, trying not to sound as petulant as he felt.
“That would be a fine sight for your little ones, Sir.”
He agreed; that thought, at least, was a cheering one. Darcy might nurse a vehement grudge against the cold, but his wife and children enjoyed every snowflake that blew into Derbyshire. He was glad that he was heading home now, his duties performed; happy to be out of the weather himself, of course, but also anticipating the enjoyment of watching his family wait for any sign of snow, their faces pressed to the window, cheering gleefully as the world turned a little whiter. He smiled to himself; it gave him the strength to face the rapidly changing conditions when he thought about all to which he was returning.
The girls met him at the door, breathless with excitement.
“Mama says there will be snow!” said Anna, giggling as he scooped her up and kissed her.
“Lots and lots of snow!” added Jane. Darcy loosened her grip on his knee so he could kiss her, as well.
“I hope Mama finds that she has been foolishly overconfident in that prediction,” he said, meeting his wife’s gaze and grinning. Elizabeth, holding Young Fitzwilliam in her arms, gave a bright laugh.
“I am sorry to say, Mr. Darcy, that I am quite convinced that we will have snow tonight,” she said, coming toward him so that she and the baby could receive their kisses, too.
“Then I am sorry to say, Mrs. Darcy, that I will be situating myself in front of a fire and not straying from it until all of your snow melts.”
“Have no fear, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered to him. “ I will keep you warm.”
Perhaps the weather was not so joyless after all.