Carolyn Eberhart - A Darcy Christmas

“Indeed. Perhaps they are having a Christmas celebration. Good eye, princess.” He bent to pick her up, holding securely to his chest. “I have Audrey. Nathaniel, Alexander can carry you.”

“No, Papa! I can walk!”

Lizzy chuckled. “Of course you can. But mama insists you hold Noella’s hand. No letting go. Boys, grab those baskets. If we are going to barge in on a party the least we can do is bring a gift.”

And thus the small company of marooned travelers walked into the shadowy farmland, thankful for the moonlight when it appeared in the cloudless sky. It was difficult to discern in the growing twilight, but as they neared the structure indicated by Audrey, it was obviously not a barn but a large assembly hall. It was also obviously the site of a gathering of merrymakers! The festive scene unfolded before their dazzled eyes, far removed from the more sedate and spiritual celebrations offered to the Pemberley tenants on a yearly basis.

Enormous three-foot logs split down the middle and crisscrossed in a stack burned within a stone ringed pit, the bonfire blazing in a clearing before the wide-open doors. The snap of fiery pitch, reek of rising smoke, and heat of hungry flames was evident from yards away, yet did not deter the bustling bodies moving in a flood of enthusiasm between the dirt expanse and inviting building. The flickering illumination of candles and fireplaces glowing from within promised additional warmth from the steadily chilling air.

Children dashed amongst the adults, laughing and chasing one another while blowing whistles, ringing bells, and banging drums. Folks of all ages circled the flames, dancing and singing in time with the rollicking music filling the air. The sound of lutes, guitars, fiddles, and assorted pipes brought an instant grin to Michael’s face, but they all unconsciously responded to the lively rhythm as they drew closer.

The scene of merrymaking outside the assembly hall was a preview to the play visible inside. From holly-draped wall to mistletoe-adorned corner, the Darcys absorbed wonders.

Six musicians were upon a wooden dais, some sitting and some standing, feet stomping and heads bobbing to the beat they created. The line of dancing couples only vaguely remained straight as frequent errors in the steps or exaggerated twirls led to unrestrained laughter. Other couples did not even bother with the line, dancing together in whatever free space was available. One old gentleman in well-worn breeches and shirtsleeves danced a jig all by himself, the circle of cheering observers clapping out the tempo.

Clusters gathered along the walls playing an assortment of games. A group of eight played blind-man’s bluff to the right with an animated charades tournament a few feet away. At a line of tables and chairs to the left sat people playing loo, whist, and gleek. Other coveys segregated into ages were talking, laughing, and flirting, especially those near the mistletoe.

It was a sea of humanity joyously commemorating the season.

One body separated from the overwhelming whole, noticing the new arrivals just as Michael spied an entertainment more intriguing than anything he had ever seen.

“Mr. Darcy! What a surprise! What brings you to my lands?”

“Mr. Haversmith,” Darcy greeted the rotund, flushed, and sweating man before him with a slight incline of his head. “I apologize for barging in uninvited. Our carriage broke an axle and we sought shelter until a replacement vehicle can arrive from Pemberley.”

Haversmith was already waving away Darcy’s explanation with a hearty welcome and shouted orders to bring mugs of ale and spiced cider to their honored guests. Elizabeth was greeted with profuse flattery and hand kissing—Darcy and Alexander hiding identical frowns of irritation—as they were herded toward a raised platform with a trio of white-linen covered tables. The Haversmith family, mostly male and liberally partaking of the wassail, tipsily received the newcomers, shuffling chairs and place settings amid raucous laughter and Christmas best wishes.

The baskets containing pies and Rivallain feast remains were taken amid generous thanks, but it was instantly apparent that food was not lacking. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted turkey and pheasant, haunches of beef and mutton, mince pies, plum-puddings, wooden bowls of wassail, casks of malt-brewed ale, loaves of grain breads, rounds of cheeses, freshly roasted chestnuts and apples, cakes decorated with fruits and berries, and dozens of platters heaped with steaming vegetables.

Space for seven Darcys was readily made and platters of steaming food plopped down by smiling servants before the introductions were complete. The merriment continued unabated and such was the tumult that no one noticed the missing Michael.

Michael Darcy, thirteen, mischievous, and curious, had slipped away to investigate the activity taking place on the far side of the room in a darkened corner.

Resting on a crude wooden table was a shallow, wide-mouthed bowl filled to the brim with brandy, almonds, and large raisins. The brandy was ignited, the eerie blue flames flickering and dancing over the surface of the amber liquid as the raisins glistened and swelled and the almonds sizzled. Brave lads approached the fiery bowl while the girls observed with tense excitement. Their faces illuminated dramatically as they rapidly reached into the bowl and snatched a burning raisin. Quickness was the key. One must grab the fruit and pop it into the mouth to instantly extinguish the flame. Fingers had to be licked clean as well or the brandy would continue to burn. But for a split second the strange blue fire engulfed the fingertips, highlighting eyes that were wide and sparkling devilishly, the boys’ faces demonic in the play of shadow and flame.

The awed onlookers cheered and clapped. After the first daring trio snatched their plump, hot raisins without major mishap, several others stepped forward. Their eyes glittered and waves of bluish light swept over their cheekbones as they searched for a gap in the flames. Someone in the growing crowd of spectators began a song that was rapidly taken up by all:

Michael did not hesitate for a second, stepping boldly up to the fiery bowl and unerringly plucking an almond from the middle. He watched the capering flames lick over his fingers for a span of heartbeats before extinguishing behind his lips, chewing the crispy nut with delight. Two girls inched toward the bowl and Michael wasn’t the least bit surprised to note that one was Noella. She glanced to her brother, her grin and dark eyes fey in the lambent light, and proceeded to shoot both hands into the flames, grabbing not one but two raisins from the bowl! She made sure he saw her catch, only then popping them into her mouth. The barest tightening at the corners of her eyes was the only indication that the hot fruit scorched her palate.

Michael threw back his head and laughed. Contending with his sister was second nature, and he would gladly suffer stinging burns to prove he was braver and tougher than she, but secretly he knew that the main reason he so enjoyed taunting Noella was because of her fearlessness.

The game was on! Snapdragon competition raged for a good while. Fresh batches of fruit and nuts were added as more people, young and old, entered into the contest. Alexander was content to retrieve an almond once, just enough to prevent ceaseless jibs of “coward” from his younger siblings, before moving on to more sedate entertainments. Lizzy flatly refused to allow Nathaniel to play, earning his deep displeasure for the remainder of the evening.

At an appointed hour, all activity and music stopped and everyone in the hall was called to order by Mr. Haversmith. His deep bass reached each ear, his speech of welcome and praise to God for Christ’s birth delivered in practiced oratorical tones until the end, whereupon he turned to Darcy with a devilish twinkle in his eye. “And now if those Cambridge alumni among us will pardon the boasting, we here on Haversmith lands yearly uphold a tradition this Oxford man holds dear to his heart.”

He paused, inclining his head humbly in Darcy’s direction. Darcy laughed out loud and lifted his tankard of ale as a salute. “Carry on, Mr. Haversmith. We Cambridge men can appreciate traditions, even those with dubious origins.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy. However, all who walk the hallowed halls of Queen’s College in Oxford know the legend to be true.” And abruptly his voice dipped into a dramatic timbre with a perfected storyteller fluency that would rival Dr. George Darcy at his best. “It is a well-known fact that in 1341, an Oxford student walked through the forest of Shotover on his way to Christmas mass, innocently reading Aristotle as he strolled, until”—his voice rose on the last word, a smattering of gasps heard in the spellbound crowd—“suddenly he was viciously attacked by a wild boar! The slathering beast bore down upon the hapless youth, all snarling maw and sharp tusks designed to maim and kill. The unarmed man was doomed. Then, inspiration struck! With outstanding presence of mind he slammed the huge, metal bound tome shut and rammed philosophy into the open mouth of the advancing animal. He held on tight, pushing with all his might, bravely ignoring the wrenching strain to his arms, until the book was securely lodged. Then he leapt away as the raving monster thrashed about, tearing apart bushes, gouging the turf, and knocking over trees as he choked to his death. It was a fair kill. The courageous cadet shared his bounty in a Yuletide feast with the boar’s head dressed and displayed in honor. It is this event commemorated yearly to this day at my alma mater.”