Carolyn Eberhart - A Darcy Christmas

Darcy put a stop to their guesses by saying, “We have already decided on the name. She will be Elizabeth, like her mother, but we will call her Beth.”

“Well, to be sure, that is as good a name as any,” Mrs. Bennet conceded. For, having given it to her own daughter, she could hardly disagree. She gave a happy sigh and looked around the room with glossy sprigs of holly tucked behind the mirrors and red berries glowing in the candlelight, then letting her eyes come to rest on the cribs. “What a Christmas this is turning out to be. Three daughters married and now two grandchildren. If only Captain Collins should happen to call in the next few hours and ask for your hand, Kitty, my dear, my happiness would be complete.”

He set the painting onto the sofa, assuring it was well supported before stepping away. He gazed at the canvas, a smile spreading as he looked upon his family. His family. The family created by him and his wife, just as he had dreamt for so many lonely years. They stood on the portico of Pemberley flanked by their precious children on the steps. All of them were smiling at the artist. A sentimental man by nature, he silently examined the newest portrait of his family and lost himself in happy memories. Unsurprisingly, since it was Christmas Day, his reminiscences focused on holiday celebrations of the past. So lost was he in quiet contemplations that he did not hear his study door opening. But he did smell the lavender water habitually worn by his wife and extended his arm without averting his attention from the painting. She slipped under his arm, nestling against his side as naturally as a bird takes to its nest, her arms encompassing his waist.

“I plan to hang it there,” he nodded toward the wall above the settee. “As much as I love Gainsborough’s landscape, I would prefer to have you and our children watching over me as I work. Someday it can join the others in the Portrait Gallery, but not yet.”

She nodded in agreement. “I concur. We look wonderful here. It is an amazing portrait, arriving at a perfect time.”

“How true. It induced me to reflect on Christmases past. All of them have been wonderful since you came into my life.” He looked at his wife then, his blue eyes tender and inundated with love.

“All of them?” she repeated, teasing and meeting his eyes with the same intense emotion.

“Even those Christmases that were sad or difficult were special, my heart. My life is complete since we married and I would change nothing. This Christmas is the most recent in a long line of incredible memories.”

“It is not over yet!” she reminded him, both of them laughing as they returned their gazes to the painting.

Silently, in sweet harmony, they admired the canvas testimonial to what they, through God’s grace, had achieved in the long years of their marriage. They studied the painted images, each beloved beyond measure. The portraitist had easily identified the individual characteristics, capturing them brilliantly. Especially manifest was the love, unswerving commitment, and supreme happiness verily shining from their faces as proud parents to the next generation of Darcys. Memories of Christmases together flowed through both their minds, time seeming to halt as they reminisced.

She broke the quiet contemplation, tugging gently on his waist. “Come, love. Our family awaits and I have a special present for you.”

“I thought we were finished exchanging gifts this year.”

“It is something special I have held in reserve.”

“Secrets?”

“Of course! It is Christmas after all!”

With laughter and a final glance at the mute and fixed images, they exited the parlor to rejoin the boisterous reality.

The snowflakes drifted slowly downward. They were enormous flakes and floating so delicately on the air that, even in the inky darkness behind the thick glass with only the faint glow of lamplight reflecting, Fitzwilliam Darcy could visualize the minute crystals and unique geometry of each flake. It was mesmerizing and oddly calming to his tumultuous thoughts. He sipped the cocoa that was now lukewarm, watched the snow fall and gather into piles on the panes, and struggled to stir up the Christmas cheer one was supposed to enjoy on Christmas Eve.

It was not working.

He couldn’t readily recall the last Christmas that was truly joyous. Surely it was before his mother died, but the memories were faded and supplanted by so many years of forced gaiety. Oh, they exchanged presents and decorated the house and went to church and delighted in a lavish feast. Often they visited Rivallain for the day, the estate of his uncle and aunt, the Earl and Marchioness of Matlock, and once or twice they had dwelt at Darcy House in London for the holiday activities there. But like all festivities since his mother’s passing, and now his father’s, the celebratory atmosphere was muted.

Of course he strived to celebrate the day for his sister Georgiana’s sake, understanding that a child needed the merrymaking. And lauding the birth of their Savior was indeed a commemoration he took very seriously. Yet personally, he often felt that the entire season could easily pass by without him noticing or caring.

Darcy had grown so accustomed to the attitude that it hardly registered any longer. Even while plotting and planning for Georgiana and purchasing gifts—that a delight he truly did enjoy—his internal zeal for Christmas was dim. He did not dread the holiday nor was he particularly gloomy over it; he just did not care all that much.

So why was this year so different? Why did he feel a melancholy blanketing his soul? And why did the dreams continue to invade his sleep? Why was she persistent in burrowing into his mind and hea…? No! He refused to even think it! This Christmas of 1815 was no different than the previous twenty-seven.

He sighed unconsciously and continued with his rapt contemplation of the falling snow and abstracted sipping of the cooling cocoa.

Georgiana Darcy sat on the sofa near the fire. She had been reading aloud but halted several minutes ago when it became clear that her brother was not listening to her. Now she studied him in perplexity. Georgiana was well aware that Christmas was not exactly a period of crazed jubilation for her brother, but he usually showed some enthusiasm. He never failed to create a special atmosphere for her and showered her with expensive gifts. Since she knew no different, it honestly never occurred to her to yearn for more. Georgiana was a girl quite complacent and content in her life. Her only desire was to please her family, that being primarily her adored older brother. Thus, she was disturbed by his current distraction and somberness.

None would refer to Fitzwilliam Darcy as gregarious or buoyant, but the private man was one of tender humor and affection. That he was overwhelmingly devoted to his sister could be denied by no one, especially Georgiana. She held him in tremendous awe and respect, but also took his love and playful teasing for granted. Yet ever since his return from Town and the sojourn in Hertfordshire with Mr. Bingley, he had been… odd.

She shook her head. It made no sense whatsoever. Naturally it distressed her. Not for her sake but because she loved him too much to think of him as being in pain. Yet, with the overconfidence of youth and the towering admiration of a worshipful younger sister, she shrugged it off. In her mind, her brother was fearless and capable of solving any dilemma.

So she smiled and rose to bid him goodnight. He smiled genuinely in return and held her close for several minutes, wished her sweet dreams and gave a teasing reminder not to wake him at the crack of dawn, and after a tender kiss to her cheek, she retired to her room no longer fretting over her complicated sibling but losing herself in dreams of presents.

Darcy watched her gracefully exit the parlor, his heart surging with happiness as it always did when considering his sister. But as soon as she left, seemingly taking the light and music and laughter with her, the pensiveness drenched him once again. It was late and he felt simultaneously weary and jittery. He stared at the faint light beyond the doorway, imagined the shadowy corridors between this chamber and his suite of cold and empty rooms—Where did that thought come from?—and actually shuddered.

Then, just as abruptly as the sadness, he was jolted by a flare of anger. He muttered a harsh curse, strode briskly to the low table where the tea and snacks sat, and placed the drained mug onto the silver tray with a plunk. He squared his shoulders, straightening to his full and considerable height, and marched purposefully from the room.

His thoughts were darker than the illuminated hallways. What was it about Elizabeth Bennet that had bewitched him so? He truly felt as if under a spell that consumed him and made no sense whatsoever. She was so completely unsuitable! She was infatuated by George Wickham, for goodness sake. That spoke volumes. And her family? He shuddered anew.

Oh, but she was beautiful. Indeed, so very beautiful.

He paused outside his dressing room door, one hand on the knob as his throat constricted and heart lurched with longing. He cursed again, a habit that was quite unlike him normally but lately seemed to be occurring frequently, and reached to loosen the cravat that was strangely now choking off his air supply. He pivoted and entered his bedchamber. For tonight, he would manage to undress himself. Facing the calmly professional presence of his valet Samuel while he was in what could only be termed “a mood” was intolerable!