Carolyn Eberhart - A Darcy Christmas

Lizzy stifled a cry, wet, blazing eyes piercing her mother before she mumbled an apology to the group and rushed toward the exit.

“Darcy.”

“Hmm?”

“I think something is wrong with Elizabeth.” Darcy’s head snapped up at that, his eyes swinging to where she had been sitting last he looked. “No,” Bingley answered before his friend could ask, “she left the room visibly upset.”

Darcy reached the empty hallway, hesitating briefly, then taking a chance that she had headed toward their private chambers. His guess was correct, but his wife had halted midway up the sloping staircase. She was leaning into the wall, her body bent at the waist, arms hugging her torso as she shook with silent sobs.

He paused for a moment, his heart painfully twisted. He empathized wholly with her suffering, having lost both his parents and a grandfather who was dear to him. Yet he knew that it was not words she needed. Only his love and support. He took a deep breath, ascending to where she hunched, gathering her gently into his arms just as she released her pent agony in a keening wail and her knees buckled.

The final hours of their nineteenth Christmas as a married couple were spent alone in their bedchamber. Darcy held her before the fire, rocking gently until her gasps diminished, cries turned to whimpers, and speech lowered to levels a human could hear. Then the stories came. Lizzy related dozens of conversations with her father, humorous incidents from her youth, books they read and discussed, arguments and debates, their unspoken communications at the antics surrounding them, his earthy witticisms, and the numerous gifts he gave his favorite daughter.

“He hated Town,” she whispered, “yet every time he was forced to travel there he purchased presents for us.” She opened her hand, running one fingertip over the petals. “I was thirteen when he gave me this. I can’t say why it became so special to me, but I love it.” She glanced up at Darcy’s face, snuggling deeper into his firm chest and smiling softly. “Do you remember when I feared I had lost this at Caister-on-Sea? After we made love on the sand?”

“Of course,” he answered, cupping her cheek and rubbing the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. “That was a magical morning high on my list of special memories.” He bent to kiss her lightly. “And not only for the obvious reason. I knew how precious this clip was to you and I am glad I found it.”

“And also why you had the garnet replaced when it fell out. Did I thank you adequately for that, William?”

He chuckled. “Indeed. You profusely expressed your thanks. But only after sternly chastising me for stealing it away to surprise you, leaving you frantic that you had lost it. I believe that lesson is indelibly etched in my mind.”

“Well, I do like most of your surprises.” She smiled, pulling him in for a slow kiss and then looking back at the old clip. “It is odd how small, insignificant items become vital. The mundane happenings or casual remarks that now linger as momentous.” She inhaled, pressing knuckles against her trembling lips. “They are priceless now, and I wish…”

“What do you wish?”

“There were so many other… gifts. Trinkets that I did not value… gaps in my memory… words that should have been said… his personal effects that… Oh William! I do not trust Mama to…” She waved her hand frantically, breathless sobs falling faster between the gasps and sniffles as she tried to talk.

“Cry, dearest. You need to let it out. You are safe here with me to share your pain. Fret not over Mr. Bennet’s personal effects. I haven’t allowed anything to be touched until you are ready. The staff has orders.”

“What if I forget? I feel… already as if I…. have to force the memories. As if they are slipping from me and… all I see is his face…. His cold face lying there… How old he was!”

He tightened his arms as shivers raced through her body and the cleansing weeping continued. “Only because that was your last images, love. Trust me. That will fade in time as you grieve, to then be supplanted by images of your youth. All of your memories and devotion to your father will carry you through and be with you forever.”

And then he began to speak of his parents, his richly resonant voice and vivid remembrances reassuring and pacific. She listened, her weeping lessening gradually as his stories mingled with her own past remembrances. Sadness washed away with the tears he tenderly dried, and grief-coiled muscles released their tension. Finally, sleep claimed her.

He carried her to their bed, nestling close all through the night. And within his stalwart embrace, gentle caresses, radiant heat, and enduring love, her emotions began the necessary journey of settling into a balance of sorrow and joy.

“Ouch! Damn!”

The whispered curse forced her to burrow her face into the pillow, stifling the giggles that finally erupted after the past five minutes of listening to her husband attempt to sneak quietly about the dark room. He had already missed the chair back when tossing his robe onto it, the plop of heavy velvet hitting the floor surprisingly loud in the silent room. And the noises rendered by an ungainly one-legged hop and frantic rescue of the oil lamp that tipped when he lost his balance while taking off his shoes and stockings still echoed across the ceiling’s beams. She felt some sympathy for what she knew was a toe painfully jammed into the solid wood of the bed’s frame, but the humor of the situation overruled her pity. When would he learn?

“A single candle would have saved your poor foot, you know.”

After a long pause and bumbling search for where the edges met, the bed curtains parted and the vague outline of his head appeared in the gap. “Forgive me, dearest. I tried not to wake you.”

She laughed, rising up on one elbow to better see his face. “Amongst your many talents, stealth is not one of them. I would have thought that evident by now. Next time you choose to prowl about the halls in the middle of the night, please take a candle. I may still waken from the light but it will prevent damaged digits leaving blood on the carpets.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Darcy. Although in this case it is not the middle of the night but nearly dawn, and may I remind you that the halls of Pemberley are well lit? Only in here is it pitch dark.”

“What induced you to leave our warm bed at this hour anyway?”

“I wanted to ensure the tree had been properly erected in the ballroom as ordered.”

“And was it?”

“All twelve impressive feet of it. I daresay it is rather lovely and festive, despite my misgivings at the notion of a tree inside the manor.” The curtains opened further as he leaned in to kiss his wife.

“So now that you have satisfied your curiosity, how about you and your injured toes join me in bed?” But before he could answer, she balled her fists around the loose linen of his shirt and yanked him flush onto her body, a position he did not protest after the initial startled grunt.

After a long kiss he whispered huskily, “You are so demanding and impetuous, love. A trait I much admire although in this instance a modicum of restraint would have allotted me the chance to remove my clothing and join you under the blankets.”

“I’ll release you long enough for that task, but try not to injure yourself further.”

With a speed and precision at odds with his earlier clumsiness, he lit the bedside candles, disrobed, and was under the blankets nestled against her bare skin in record time. The faint glow of the rising sun mixed with the light from the candles, igniting the fiery red strands of her hair as he buried his fingers into the mass spilling over the pillow. He inhaled her scent and kissed the soft bend of her neck repeatedly.

“Happy Christmas, Alexander,” she murmured into his ear.

“I love you, Fiona,” he responded, burrowing deeper beneath the covers and preparing to establish their own Christmas tradition.

Far on the other side of the upper floor of the enormous manor house, the master’s chambers were silent. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the Master of Pemberley, was soundly asleep and dreaming.

Christmas was one of his favorite seasons of the entire year and this one promised to be particularly spectacular and joyous for a number of special reasons. This indisputable awareness was why a sliver of his unconscious mind recognized how odd it was that his dreams were troubled. As the unsettling dream escalated to a true nightmare, that sliver of consciousness began to exert more force, sending signals to his twitching muscles and pounding heart, urging him to wake up.

However, it would not be his own will that ended his sleep and shattered the disturbing images.

“Hmmm… You’re moving finally. Are you waking up, William? It is dawn and I tire of waiting for your touch and kisses.”

Even his distressed, sleep-fogged brain dimly perceived the moist, full lips raining kisses over his bare shoulder and up his neck while a small, firmly caressing hand traveled over his chest. The jumble of negative dream sensations and visions collided with the pleasant impression of a woman possessively touching his skin with the utmost tenderness.

“Elizabeth? Is that you?” His rough voice cracked, one hand grabbing the tiny fingers winding a determined path down his chest. With the other he scrubbed at his gummed eyes, turning toward the face that was now floating above him and laughing.

“After three and twenty years you expected someone else? For that, I should leave in a huff and make you suffer.” But she only laughed harder and brushed a kiss over his slack mouth. “I shall forgive you, my dearest husband, as I know what a deep sleeper you are. Unless, of course, you confess to dreams of another woman in our bed waking you with kisses? In that case your punishment will be severe.”