Carolyn Eberhart - A Darcy Christmas

When he opened them again, he was conscious of being alone, exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. He gave the pillow a welcoming squeeze as he crawled into bed; and he had barely time to lie full on the bed before he sank into a heavy sleep.

The Ghost appeared beside the bed. Gently, it brushed a lock of Darcy’s hair away from his forehead. He mumbled in his sleep and the Spirit disappeared.

Waking suddenly and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Darcy had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of one. He felt that he was restored to consciousness in the nick of time for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger dispatched to him. But, finding that he dreaded the thought of not knowing which of his curtains this new specter would draw back, he put every one of them aside with his own hands and, lying down again, established a sharp lookout all round the bed. He did not wish to be taken by surprise and made nervous. Darcy wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its appearance.

He was ready for a good, broad field of strange appearances, and nothing between a baby and a rhinoceros would have astonished him very much.

Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; the bell struck one and no shape appeared. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All this time, a blaze of light streamed upon the clock as it proclaimed the hour; and which, being the only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant. At last, however, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and went to the door.

The moment Darcy’s hand touched the lock a familiar voice called him by his name and bade him enter. He obeyed.

It was his sitting room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green that it looked a perfect grove. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light. A mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were poultry, great joints of meat, mince pies, plum puddings, red-hot chestnuts, fruits, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, which perfumed the chamber with their delicious steam.

In easy state upon a couch, there sat Georgiana, glorious to see: bearing a glowing torch, in a shape not unlike a horn of plenty, and holding it up, high up, to shed its light on Darcy as he came round the door.

“Come in!” exclaimed the Ghost. “Come in, and know me better!”

Darcy entered rapidly, “Georgiana, what is the meaning of this? Why are you not at Matlock House?” he demanded.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the Spirit. “Look upon me!”

Darcy did so. She was clothed in one simple green dress, bordered with white fur. Her feet, observable beneath the gown, were bare, and on her head she wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with burning candles. Her blonde curls were long and free, her face was genial, her eyes were sparkling, her hands were open, her voice was cheery, her demeanor was unconstrained, and her air was joyful. Except for her more outgoing manner, the Spirit looked just like Darcy’s sister.

“You have never seen the like of me before!” exclaimed the Spirit.

“Every day of my life, I have seen your likeness,” Darcy made answer to it.

“You have never seen the like of me before!” repeated the Spirit.

“If you say I have not,” agreed Darcy, “then I have not.”

The Ghost of Christmas Present rose.

“Spirit,” said Darcy, “conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson, which is working now. Tonight, if you have aught to teach me, let me learn it.”

“Touch my gown!”

Darcy did as he was told and held it fast.

The greenery, food, and punch all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, and the hour of night, and they stood in the city streets on Christmas morning. Darcy and the Spirit began to walk down the road, where the people made a rough but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings.

The people who were shoveling away were jovial and full of glee, calling out to one another from the sidewalk and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball—better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest—laughing heartily if it went right and not less heartily if it went wrong.

Darcy and the Spirit passed a fruit stall. As some girls went by, they glanced at the hung-up mistletoe and giggled. Darcy looked at it also; he had not understood the appeal of the plant.

“Mistletoe was sacred to the Nordic goddess of love. She decreed that whoever should stand under the mistletoe, no harm would befall them, only a kiss, a token of love. Is it any wonder that those young woman wish to indulge in the tradition?”

“I suppose not,” Darcy replied as they walked on. The blended scents of tea and coffee, cinnamon and other spices filled the morning air. Darcy took a deep breath, letting the scents fill his mind. He had not taken the time to indulge in such a small but glorious pleasure in a long time.

Soon the steeples called all good people to come to church and chapel, and away they went, walking through the streets in their best clothes and with their brightest faces.

In time the bells ceased, and there emerged from the scores of bye-streets innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers’ shops. The sight of these poor revelers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for she stood with Darcy beside him in a baker’s doorway and, taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from her torch. There was a genial foreshadowing of all the dinners and the progress of their cooking in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker’s oven and where the pavement smoked, as if its stones were cooking too.

It was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, she shed a few drops of water on them from it and their good humor was restored directly.

“It’s a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day.”

“So it is! So it is! Have a Merry Christmas!”

Away the former combatants went, feeling that all was right in their world.

“Is there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle from your torch?” asked Darcy as they resumed their walk.

“There is. It is my own special spice.”

“Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?” asked Darcy.

“To any kindly given. To a poor one most.”

“Why to a poor one most?” asked Darcy.

“Because it needs it most. My spice makes each dish taste its absolute best. It will cause the food to linger on the tongue and in the belly much longer.”

“Spirit,” said Darcy, after a moment’s thought, “I have done what I could to relieve the suffering of those in my sphere who are more unfortunate than I. No one at Pemberley ever goes hungry,” said Darcy.

“Indeed not!” cried the Spirit. “You oversee those on your estate well, and though it is not wrong to concentrate your goodwill in one place, the world is larger than your estate.”

The good Spirit led Darcy straight to the Gardiners; for there she went and took Darcy with her, holding to her gown, and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled and stopped to bless Edward Gardiner’s dwelling with the sprinkling of her torch.

Mrs. Gardiner, dressed in a fashionable gown that was festooned in ribbons, laid the tablecloth, assisted by Belinda Crachit, the second housemaid, also dressed in her holiday best. The oldest boy, Master Robert Gardiner, plunged his fingers stealthily into the sugarplums, surreptitiously stuffing the sweets into his mouth whenever his mother’s back was turned.

And now the smallest Gardiner, a girl named Alice, came tearing in, screaming, “I smell the goose, I smell the goose!”

“I can smell it also, my dear, there is no need to shout,” Mrs. Gardiner remonstrated as Alice danced merrily around the table. Taking a deep breath, the luxurious scents of sage and onion filled her senses. “Robert, if you do not stop eating those sugarplums, you will have no room for the goose, which means there will be plenty more for the rest of us. Stoke the fire so a more cheerful blaze greets your father.”

Robert swallowed the last of his treats, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Whatever can be keeping your father?” Mrs. Gardiner wondered aloud as she left the dining room. “And your brother, William? And Kate is also late by half-an-hour!” Kate had gone for a walk in the park with her best friend. It was the best way to show off the pretty red coat and furry white muff she received as gifts.

“Here’s Kate, Mother!” As the door opened to let in the older daughter Alice cried, “There is such a goose, Kate!”

“No doubt your special spice is on that goose,” Darcy remarked.

The Spirit smiled, “The little one is in no need of it. She already has all the season she needs.”

“Why, my dear, how cold you are!” said Mrs. Gardiner, rubbing her daughter’s hands. “I thought you would be warm enough in that new coat.”