Carolyn Eberhart - A Darcy Christmas

The room vanished to be replaced by the nursery. Darcy and the Spirit were looking down at a peacefully sleeping baby. The Spirit tried to gently rock the cradle and was disappointed that her powers were not enough to make the shadows tangible.

The door opened. “Come meet your new sister, Fitzwilliam.” Both parents ushered him into the room. He approached the baby cautiously. He looked into the cradle and was not overly impressed.

“She was so small she hardly seemed human to me. At school, I was envied for being an only child, but in turn, I envied those who had brothers and sisters,” Darcy told the Spirit, looking over the shoulder of his younger self.

“And now you finally had one of your own.”

“Yes, but she was not quite ready to play cricket with me, now was she?” he replied in self-deprecation.

“I imagine not.” The spirit smiled.

His father said, “If you are gentle, you may hold her.”

Young Fitzwilliam was not sure if he wanted to touch the baby. “I would rather not. She appears too fragile, and I could break her.”

“Babies are sturdier than you think,” his mother told him, “but you should do what you think is best for your sister.”

“Yes, Fitzwilliam, it is your duty to look out for her and keep her from harm. You are her brother and protector.” His father placed a hand upon his shoulder. “I know I can rely on you to do so.”

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully and waved its hand, saying as it did so, “Let us see another Christmas!”

Darcy’s former self grew larger at the words. How this was brought about, Darcy knew not. He only knew that it was quite correct; that everything had happened so; that there he was, home from school for the holiday.

He watched as Christmas day passed again, his mother, his father, Georgiana, and himself enjoying Christmas dinner, presents, reading poetry, and just being together as a family.

It was in the evening, and Darcy saw his younger self hide a yawn. His sister was already asleep upon a sofa. He watched as Lady Anne sat down beside him on the sofa, saying, “Now, William, I want to read you the verse I gave you. It is my wish for you that you become such a man when you are grown.” And from The Canterbury Tales she began to read of the Knight:

As those words filled the room, Darcy knew this day. Unbeknownst to all, it had been the final Christmas he had shared with both his parents. After his mother death, his recollections of this time had him listening with keen interest to every word his mother spoke. Yet the evidence before him showed he had not attended the reading with anything more than a polite interest as his younger self tried to conceal another yawn. So he took the opportunity the Spirit provided to listen until the final words were spoken.

“Thank you, Mother, it is always a pleasure to listen to you read. I shall endeavor to live up to those expectations,” said his younger self.

“‘Vileness he shunned, rudeness he never said/In all his life, treating all persons right,’” quoted the Spirit. “You have not always lived up to those expectations.”

“No, I have not, I have come to regret it, ma’am.” Darcy frowned. He had not treated Elizabeth right, nor her sister Jane, nor his own friend Bingley. It had led to much misery for all parties.

He was walking up and down despairingly. Darcy looked at the Ghost, and with a mournful shaking of her head, the room changed to the one he had during his last year at Eton. He was pacing up and down the room in anticipation.

The door opened; the master said in a somewhat chilly voice, “Mr. Darcy, you have a caller, a female caller. As you know this is frowned upon, Mr. Darcy. However, in this case, I am prepared to make an exception for an exceptional young lady.”

A little girl, much younger than Darcy, came darting in, and putting her arms about his neck and often kissing him, addressed him as her “Dear, dear brother.”

“I have come to bring you home, dear brother!” said the child, clapping her tiny hands and bending down to laugh. “To bring you home, home, home!”

“Home, little Georgie?” returned the boy.

“Yes!” said the child, brimful of glee. “Father is awaiting you in the coach. I asked him if we might come and fetch you home, for the holiday will be much longer if we do not have to wait days and days for you to arrive. Papa said ‘Yes, we should,’ and sent me in here to bring you. And you’re to go Cambridge,” said the child, opening her eyes. “And are never to come back here; but first, we’re to be together all the Christmas long and have the merriest time in all the world.”

“You are quite a magpie, little Georgie!” exclaimed the boy.

She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head, but being too little, laughed again and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. Then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door; and he, nothing loathe to go, accompanied her.

A voice in the hall cried, “Bring down Master Darcy’s box, there!” and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who smiled on Master Darcy and shook hands with him. He then conveyed Darcy and his sister into his parlor. Here he produced a pot of tea and a block of curiously heavy cake, and administered installments of those dainties to the young people while at the same time sending out a meager servant to offer a glass of something to Mr. Darcy, who answered that he thanked the gentleman, but if it was the same wine as he had tasted before, he had rather not. Master Darcy’s trunk being by this time tied on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the schoolmaster good-bye right willingly and, getting into it, drove gaily down the garden-sweep, the quick wheels dashing the hoarfrost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray.

“Always a beautiful creature,” said the Ghost. “And she has a large heart!”

“So she has,” returned Darcy. “You are right. I will not gainsay it, Spirit. God forbid!”

“She is now a woman,” said the Ghost, “and will have, I think, many suitors.”

“She has had one suitor already,” Darcy returned bitterly, “but he only cared for her money. He never cared for Georgiana.”

“True,” said the Ghost. “Young George Wickham never cared about anyone save himself.”

Darcy seemed uneasy in his mind that the Spirit should know so much about his personal business and answered briefly, “Yes.”

Although Darcy and the Spirit had but that moment left Eton behind them, they now were in the thoroughfares of Cambridge, where shadowy strangers passed; where shadowy carts and coaches tumbled along the way, and all the other tumults of a city. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening and the streets were lighted up.

The Ghost stopped at a certain pub door and asked Darcy if he knew it.

“Know it?” Darcy was incredulous. “Why, I spent many nights here while at Cambridge! It is the Fuzzy Whig!”

They went in. An old gentleman in a Welch wig was standing behind the bar. If he had been two inches shorter, he could not have seen over the top of the bar.

Darcy cried in great excitement. “It is Old Peterson alive again! Many hours we spent in the pub, talking philosophy and literature…”

“And other fancies of young men?” asked the Spirit.

Darcy blushed and nodded, and looked over this memory.

Old Peterson laid down his polishing cloth and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands, adjusted his capacious apron, laughed to himself, and called out in a comfortable and jovial voice as the door to the taproom opened:

“Yo ho, there! Mr. Darcy! Lord Wilkins!”

Darcy’s former self, now grown to a young man, came in briskly, accompanied by his fellow classmate.

“Richard Wilkins, to be sure!” said Darcy to the Ghost. “Yes. There he is. He was so lively, it is hard to believe that he is already gone, killed in the Battle of Talavera.”

“Yo ho, boys! No more work for me tonight. Christmas Eve, Lord Wilkins. Christmas, Mr. Darcy!” cried old Peterson with a sharp clap of his hands.

Peterson held a party for all those fine young scholars at Cambridge, who, for whatever reason, could not make it home for Christmas. Darcy had not been particularly eager to join his father and sister in spending the holiday with his aunt, Lady Catherine. So he accepted Lord Wilkins invitation to stay in Cambridge during the holiday.

More students entered behind Darcy and his friend. Peterson skipped around the bar with wonderful agility. “Go on up, my lads, and enjoy the party!”

Up they ventured into the public room where everyone was gathering. The floor was swept, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the pub was as snug, warm, dry, and as bright as could be desired from a ballroom on a cold winter’s night.

In came the musicians with their music books and made an orchestra of one corner, tuning their instruments like fifty stomachaches. In came Mrs. Peterson, one vast smile, followed by the three Miss Petersons, beaming and lovable, and the six young followers whose hearts they held. In came the housemaid with her baker, the cook with her milkman, and the boy from over the way, who tried to hide himself from the girl next door who had caught his shy heart. More friends of the Petersons and more students arrived. In they all came, one after another—some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling—but they all came to the party.