Carolyn Eberhart - A Darcy Christmas

And he bowed, hand lying against his heart. Applause burst forth, Darcy shouting “Bravo!” as loudly as the rest.

“In honor of that resourceful Oxford student and the subsequent tradition, or, if you wish, in remembrance of our Anglo-Saxon ancestry with their Norse rituals in sacrificing a boar to Freyr for blessings in the coming year, or perhaps Saint Stephen whose feast day centers on the mightiest of men slaying the savage boar, this year I give you”—he swept his hand toward the front entrance and lifted his voice to a booming roar—“the head of the boar felled by my son!”

A blast of trumpets heralded the procession of four servants carrying an enormous, ornately designed silver platter upon which rested a massive rosemary and bay garnished boar’s head with a gleaming red apple stuck in its mouth. Mr. Haversmith’s eldest son stood, his expression proud as he gazed upon the soused head, initiating the boar’s head carol in a clearly heard chant:

On the heels of the boar-toting servants came a roisterous troupe of mummers costumed elaborately, as everything from animals to medieval characters and from royalty to peasants. They pranced about, banging hand-held drums and clashing cymbals, and pantomiming comically until the platters were safely placed and the food served. Then, once silence reigned, they acted their allegorical play for the enraptured audience. Always in rhyming verse, sometimes serious and ofttimes humorous, they spun a unique offering of the standard theme of triumph over death and the battle between good and evil.

The Darcys spent about two-and-a-half hours celebrating with Mr. Haversmith’s tenant farmers and staff before Watson arrived to inform his master that Mr. Anders had returned with the other carriage, after thoroughly inspecting all undergear for potential problems. Lizzy continued to fret over Thomas being asleep before they arrived home, and Darcy fretted over her unhappiness, but they both pushed the worst of their emotions aside. The entertainments were too varied and delightful not to enjoy and the food too delicious not to partake of.

They arrived home to discover Thomas happily playing with Alexander’s castle in the playroom. The collection of soldiers now numbered in the hundreds and included Prussian troops, Napoleon’s Armée du Nord, a handful of Spartan warriors, Royal Scots infantryman, medieval armored knights complete with lance and horse, the odd Celt and Viking and Mongol, and a partial regiment of Crusaders to augment the dozen different English regimentals. Alexander had no problem sharing the castle with his siblings and even managed to bite his tongue when the pretend wars did not follow the truth of history! Grandfather Bennet and George sat in the midst of fallen soldiers as Thomas proceeded to kill every last one of them with his lone Spartan.

In fact, King Leonidas had to complete the job ere Thomas would allow his parents to carry him into their bedchamber and lavish him with kisses and hugs, whereupon he promptly fell asleep in his mother’s arms. Whatever entertainments Darcy may have planned for that particular Christmas Eve were left undone. Even the obligatory reading of the Biblical first Christmas was rendered hastily before they collapsed in exhaustion, after rehashing the day’s events.

“You are beautiful, dearest,” Darcy spoke from the doorway, gazing at his wife where she stood before her mirror.

“I should wear black, but I just cannot bring myself to do so on Christmas day.” Lizzy’s voice trembled, her hands unsteady as they clasped the ebony earrings in place.

Darcy entered her dressing room, pausing beside her. “Your father would understand. He would not wish his daughters to be grief-stricken to the point that Christmas was not celebrated properly.”

“I know.” She sighed, smoothing the fabric of her dark blue gown over her slim waist. “But it feels wrong nevertheless. Black is appropriate for my current mood, but I rather hoped the blue would cheer me slightly.” She smiled weakly at his reflection. “It is not working thus far.”

Darcy said nothing, choosing instead to gently caress her back and bestow a tender kiss to her brow. He watched her closely, waiting for the flood of tears and heavy sobs he had been expecting for weeks now.

Lizzy’s eyes moistened but her whisper was restrained, “Two weeks, Fitzwilliam. If only he had lived another two weeks, he would be here now as we planned.”

“I know, love. I know.”

“But, as you have rightly said, we were all here before the end. That meant so much to him. He was happy, was he not?”

“Very happy. He knew his girls were here, and all his grandchildren. He even bested Uncle at chess just days before.”

Lizzy chuckled lightly. “I believe George forfeited.”

“Perhaps. But they argued and taunted as ever. Mr. Bennet gave it his all, called Uncle a cheat, and gloated the requisite number of hours.” He paused, both of their thoughts affectionately resting upon the departed Mr. Bennet. When he again spoke, it was softly but with a hint of reproach. “He spent several wonderful years with us, Elizabeth, and was pleased to do so. Pemberley was home. His grandchildren from you and Jane were a daily part of his life, and Kitty and Mary visited frequently. The previous two Christmases were here with the bulk of his family. He was content and, I believe, ready to go, waiting only until all of his daughters were with him to say his good-byes. We must grieve, naturally, but life does move on.”

“He told us to lift our wassail to the heavens and sing a special carol just for his ears.” She smiled, brushing the escaped tear from her cheek. “Ridiculous, really, since he was not particularly religious.”

He withdrew his handkerchief, daubing at her face. “Whether he hears or not is irrelevant. He was telling you to celebrate. Celebrate this day and celebrate his life. I sometimes think the Irish have the wiser attitude in holding a raucous wake to remember the departed loved one.”

“My father would love that idea!” She took a deep breath, shook her head, swiped irritably at her watery eyes, and straightened her spine.

Darcy continued to observe her face, wishing she would finally succumb to her sorrow and have a long cry, but also recognizing that this moment was probably not the best time for her composure to be lost. They had a house full of family, Christmas and Noella’s birthday to celebrate, and church to attend.

As he expected, Lizzy regained control and gave her appearance a last brief inspection in the mirror before turning fully toward her husband. “Very well. I cannot promise to laugh in utter joy, but my sisters and I will take advantage of our time together and toast the memory of our father. Shall we, Mr. Darcy?”

He offered his arm, Lizzy linking through the bend of his elbow, and leaned down for a thorough kiss. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Darcy. Did I yet tell you that you are beautiful?”

Lizzy smiled, steering him toward the door.

The manor had been decorated with a lesser degree of glittering opulence than in year’s past due to the shadow of mourning, but it was far from somber. Darcy and Lizzy had agreed to restrain the quantity of greenery, festive candles, and multi-hued ribbons, but not erase all indications of the holiday. The heirloom pieces were in place and of course the presents that had grown in number over the years were colorfully wrapped and glittering.

It had been a number of years now that these gatherings were relegated to the massive formal dining room in the north wing. The immediate Darcy family could comfortably fit into the smaller dining room, but Pemberley so often played host to visiting relatives and friends that the once dusty, disused larger chamber was frequently utilized throughout the year. This year the guest list only included Lizzy’s mother, aunt and uncle, and four sisters with their families. However, even that added up considering how prolific the Bennet girls were! This fact also made it utterly impossible to maintain an atmosphere of mourning, children not typically able to remain downcast for long.

Nevertheless, all except for the youngest children knew their beloved grandfather was dead. Voices were hushed, laughter dimmed, and indoctrinated manners frequently ignored were flawlessly expressed on this day. The latter miracle may have been commented upon, but it remained difficult to jest amid the sadness.

Jane’s tears, freshly rekindled when greeting Lizzy with an embrace in the upper hallway, pooled in the corner of her blue eyes. Mary sat at the tiny pianoforte playing a light but solemn tune. Kitty performed the motherly duties of assisting one child with cutting a slice of ham while shoveling steady spoonfuls of mashed squash into her baby’s mouth, but with an occasional wipe of a handkerchief to an escaping tear. Even Lydia, still wayward and egotistical after three marriages and a dozen personal imbroglios, was sitting sedately and absently chewing a slice of jam-smeared toast.