A Darcy Christmas

by Amanda Grange

  Did he love Elizabeth Bennet?

  He crawled under the counterpane, the cold linen upon his flesh a sharp contrast to the imaginary fever he felt flowing over his skin while dreaming of her. The flames of passion and tranquil warmth of affection were so incredibly real. Yet, he did not know the answer to his question. Did he love Elizabeth Bennet? Or did he merely desperately crave a connection that presently eluded him? Was he simply weary of searching and being alone?

  He no longer knew. But as the tendrils of sleep claimed him, he recognized that his anger and disgust were a sham. The edges of his unconscious mind accepted the love he refused to acknowledge in broad daylight. He reached for the dreams, however they would come to him on this night, Christmas Eve, as an intoxicant that he wanted and required.

  “Elizabeth,” he whispered as sleep overtook him, not even aware that he had done so.

  And eventually the dream came.

  This one was different, as they all were, although the essence was the same.

  He walked down the main floor corridor toward the parlor with a spring in his step that was utterly inconceivable in his real world but completely normal in this imaginary world. Happy voices, laughter, and singing reverberated down the hall, growing in volume as he neared the gaping portal. He distinguished each one of them, placing names to the individual tones with warm, deep emotion attached. Many of the names would escape him when he woke—this he knew on some level—but in his dream they were dear and intimate.

  There was Richard and Georgiana, his Aunt Madeline and Uncle Malcolm, even Jonathan and Priscilla. These were not a surprise. But as he turned the corner and crossed the threshold, his eyes instantly scanned the room and alit upon the one voice dearest of all.

  Elizabeth.

  He always knew she would be there, somewhere in the midst of those he loved most in the world, belonging there as surely as he did.

  She stood next to Richard laughing at some joke his cousin had made. Her ringing laugh, the one he insisted annoyed him while in Hertfordshire but he knew never had, was now the sweetest music. It filled him to bursting with a joy unlike anything he had ever experienced. Even not directed at him, her happiness was a profound balm to his soul, and the smile that had been forming before entering the room grew wider.

  Then she noted his presence and turned in his direction, her glorious eyes engaging his. And there quite simply were no words in the English language to describe what passed between or to relate how he felt. Yes indeed, it was magical, and the enchantment feared in his waking moments was wholly understood in this visionary place as the purest form of bonded love.

  He accepted it. He relished it. He claimed it. And he returned it wholeheartedly.

  He took a step toward her, intending to enfold her into his arms and press her against his heart, but his legs were abruptly engulfed.

  “Papa! Papa!”

  The dreaming Darcy was not the slightest bit surprised by the chaotic assault of several tiny arms and piping voices. In fact, his spirit soared higher, the missing pieces of his puzzled real life snapping together instantly, into a masterpiece depicting earthly paradise. A booming laugh launched from his mouth and he knelt to administer hugs and kisses to the surging mass of children clamoring to accept his love.

  Then Elizabeth was there. His wife. He stood, gazing at her with his entire soul visible in his eyes. She smiled simply, raising one hand to lightly touch his cheek, and said, “Happy Christmas, William.”

  On some level his rational mind knew it was fantastical, as the number of offspring defied what was physically possible unless Elizabeth had birthed triplets once a year! But of course, dreams have a way of melding reality and allegory. Besides, it was the emotions attached to the fabricating dream that counted. The power of hearing her utter his name, the shortened name only those dear to him used, was so strong. Add to that the intensity of affection from a multitude of quarters and his sleeping mind was soothed as it never was in his waking life.

  The dream proceeded as all dreams do. It flipped incoherently from scene to scene, some bizarre in their content and hazy while others were crystalline. The strange mingling of credible specifics—such as Georgiana a grown woman and the heirloom Christmas decorations adorning the Manor—with points impossible—like his parents conversing with Elizabeth—seemed normal within the boundaries of the dream.

  It wasn’t the details that resonated but the themes of family and love. And as happened every night, he jerked awake before the final consummation of expressing his love to his wife. The ache of need with heart pounding and perspiration rapidly chilling his skin brought on tremors and groans.

  He lurched to his feet, crossing the room to stir the smoldering logs. He stared into the flames, his body warming as he tried to make sense of it. The questions flashed through his brain as they did every night. Why her? Was it possible to love in such a way? Was it fated for him as he hoped? Had he childishly imagined his parents possessing such a love? Would he ever have a family of his own? Was he a romantic fool destined to be disappointed?

  Did he love Elizabeth Bennet?

  And then it dissolved, as it inevitably did. The cold air restored his clarity, the fuzzy sentiments dissipated, his rational intellect reinstated, and logic took over. It was only because he was lonely. It was due to the nature of the Christmas holiday focusing on love and felicity leading to nonsensical musings.

  He could not be in love with the lowborn, argumentative, fiery Elizabeth Bennet!

  The dreams were nice, pleasant, and passionate, but harmless. Just enjoy them while they last, he thought to himself. Why not? They will pass. You will never see Miss Bennet again. God will bring a suitable mate to you. The years will unfold sensibly and composedly. Indeed, serenity will prevail, as it should.

  So with that comforting thought conquering the turmoil, his mind calmed and heart beat a regular rhythm. He returned to his bed, his slumber, and his dreams.

  Christmas Honeymoon

  A year after the torturous dream-filled weeks of 1815 presented a Christmas Eve as different as night is from day. Pemberley was adorned with a wealth of green vines and branches with candles both large and small flickering in nooks and creatively decorated crannies. The holiday family heirlooms were repaired and now graced their customary locations, mistletoe ornaments lurked at practically every hallway junction, and the aromas of savory food wafted tantalizingly from the kitchen. Guest rooms once layered with dust were inhabited by visitors from afar, increasing the lights and laughter blazing from the game rooms and music chamber. Topping it off was the enormous Yule log burning in the main parlor’s hearth.

  Happiness, deep love, and Christmas cheer echoed down the lengthy corridors and invaded every chamber of the Manor. But in none were these positive emotions as high as in the Master’s chambers on the upper floor of the south wing.

  You see, this Christmas was Darcy’s first as a married man. A newlywed of less than a month, in fact, and to his indescribable joy, his wife was Elizabeth. The numerous questions of the prior Christmas were answered beyond his wildest imaginings. Any delusions or doubts were erased.

  Was he in love with Elizabeth Bennet, now Elizabeth Darcy?

  Yes! A resounding yes, and to a depth that continually staggered him.

  She was amazing in every definition of the word and astounded him at every turn. Celebrating Christmas in an unrestrained manner was her idea, the planning begun days after entering the house as its Mistress and executed flawlessly. Darcy quickly recognized that his newly found joy would not have allowed for the quiet commemorations of the past even had he wished it, which he did not. His heart was simply too full. Thus, the festivities had started several days ago with visitors and music, the perpetually smiling and laughing Darcy surprisingly loving each moment and always with Elizabeth Darcy at his side.

  However, it truly was the private holiday observances that topped his list. Sharing his bride with others was not as painful as it might have been sin
ce they ensured special time alone. So far today, Christmas Eve, they had kissed under the hanging mistletoe, cuddled in the library, ice skated, and then explored the delights to be found in bathing together—the latter an extremely pleasurable activity they agreed must be repeated as often as possible!

  After a wonderful evening involving fine dining, games, and singing with their guests, they retired to the chamber they shared and sat before the fire on the newly acquired, exquisitely tanned hide of a brown bear, propped against a dozen down-stuffed pillows with her body nestled between his legs. The legs still weakened from the shocking but blissful gift given to him in her dressing room! Her frank, verbal proposal of precisely how she wished for her husband of one month to love her—in her dressing room—all while unveiling her gorgeous body, was quite simply the best gift he had ever received in his entire life. He was yet reeling, but in a completely satisfied manner.

  The glow yet flushed their skin as they cuddled, sipped wine, shared an abundance of tender kisses, and talked. Darcy read aloud from Lord Byron’s The Corsair, the melodramatic poem of love and pirates additionally thrilling when rendered in his resonant, storytelling voice. Lizzy, absently toying with the bookmark that had kept their place since last evening’s reading, was mesmerized by his surprisingly expressive face.

  “Be careful not to fray the fabric. That bookmark is precious and I wish it to remain intact forever.”

  She stayed her fidgeting fingers, holding the bookmark in question up for close inspection. The wide strip of fine silk with a quilt backing had been a gift from Lizzy to her then fiancé upon his twenty-ninth birthday. She had embroidered two linked hearts bearing their names with a verse from Genesis above. The promise of their future as one soul was a treasured possession that Darcy kept in whatever book he was reading.

  “It is undamaged, but I apologize. Of course, you know that it cannot endure forever?”

  “I intend to ensure it does,” he countered stubbornly, ignoring Lizzy’s chuckle and reaching under a nearby pillow. “Speaking of gifts, I have an early Christmas present for you.”

  He handed her a small, ribbon-tied box contained a key that belonged to a locked cabinet filled with his personal journals and mementoes. Lizzy laughed when she saw the key, because also hidden behind the secured doors was a collection of sexually instructive books that were a source of continual jesting between them.

  Elizabeth, of course and to his never-ending delight, had to tease.

  “Books? How sweet of you, William. Always desiring to improve my mind. I promise I shall apply myself diligently and will practice as often as feasible.”

  “You minx!”

  He drew her against his chest, reclined onto the warmed fur, and opened her robe all in one smooth motion. They kissed and caressed, enjoying the tactile sensations and hearts beating in time while the longcase clock in the corner ticked a regular rhythm.

  “This is vastly superior to every dream I had of how Christmas with you would be. In fact, this is undoubtedly the best Christmas of my entire life.”

  “It isn’t over yet,” she whispered. “But as sweet as that is for you to say, how could it be the best of your life, William?”

  He met her eyes. “I am not exaggerating. Never has a Christmas transcended this one, Elizabeth. And I do not refer to the incredible passion we have together, although that surpasses every fantasy my feeble mind conjured. And certainly that facet alone adds a delicious dimension to ‘celebrating’ Christmas that I never experienced before. But, at the risk of sounding woefully quixotic, my love for you enhances all aspects of my life to a degree that overwhelms me.”

  “I adore my quixotic husband, so do not stop.” She pulled him in for a long kiss.

  “Yes, most assuredly better than any of my dreams.”

  “You dreamt of us celebrating Christmas?”

  “Last year I was tortured, if you want to know the truth. I could not stop thinking of you, Elizabeth. It took me awhile but it was consistent dreams of us as a family that finally convinced me that I was in love with you.” And in gentle tones and vivid recounting, he told her of the visions that had haunted him.

  “I wish I could say that I thought of you last Christmas, my love.”

  He shook his head. “Do not be sad, dearest. We are together now and that is all that matters. Besides”—and he grinned, lifting his left brow—“you are thinking of me now, are you not?”

  Lizzy laughed, nudging him until he rolled onto his back with her body draped partially over. “Indeed I am. Thinking quite seriously, as a matter of fact. I have promised to practice until an expert on the subject…”

  “Then I shall pray you never become an ‘expert’ as I would not wish for the practicing to cease,” he interrupted.

  “I am sure there is always something new to learn,” she assured him. “I am very clever, you know.”

  “Yes, I know!”

  “Do you still wish for serenity and composure? Or does a little fire and argument now exhilarate you, Mr. Darcy?”

  “No and yes.” He wrapped his fingers within her hair, bringing her closer for an intense kiss. “I have repented of my foolish misconceptions. You may scorch me with your fire any time you wish, Mrs. Darcy.”

  The antique clock of gleaming mahogany chimed through the midnight hour, alerting the busy occupants that Christmas Day had arrived. The final chime’s echo still rang when they were finally able to speak.

  “Merry Christmas, my lover.”

  “Indeed it is!” he rasped. “I knew it was unwise to give you access to the books if you can devise such methods all on your own. I think you may kill me!”

  But Lizzy just laughed.

  Christmas Toys

  The mid-morning sun shone brightly through the wide windows lining the west-facing wall of the huge main parlor. Dustings of snow lay upon the terrace stones, but the fair weather and unobstructed sunlight had melted the bulk of it. It was cold outside, as one expected on Christmas Day, but the combination of blazing fire for interior warmth and golden rays from without created a false summertime atmosphere. The mood amongst the Pemberley inhabitants was as gay as one might expect at a spring picnic or festival. But rather than focusing on fine finger foods or catching butterflies, the adults were cheerily focused on one thirteen-month-old infant.

  A pile of presents surrounded Alexander Darcy, the heir to Pemberley, who accepted the ridiculousness with his typical stoicism and intense concentration. He did not quite seem able to grasp that something special lurked inside the package. He was perfectly content to look at, play with, or chew upon the ribbons, wrapping, or box itself. The adult assistants allowed this for about two seconds before impatiently “helping” him open the gift to reveal the treasure within. Alexander tolerated the interruption to his play with extreme forbearance, continually amazed when a new toy was miraculously revealed. Then he would squeal with glee, bouncing and waving his arms in the air, and joyfully clutch the prize to his chubby chest.

  It was a lengthy process, mainly because Alexander had just recently learned how to walk proficiently. His stumbling early steps and need to hold on to a solid foundation were gone in the wake of new maturity. He was quite proud of his skill and also well aware of just how much more of the world he could explore on two legs that functioned fairly well most of the time. Suddenly sitting on his bottom confined to a small space was wholly untenable! Alexander was an oddly complacent child, but even he grew cranky and annoyed at being compelled to stay put. Luckily he was easily distracted, as most infants were, and readily calmed when a new sparkling bauble was thrust under his nose.

  The loving adults thought it was the greatest fun ever.

  “Here, Alexander,” Dr. George Darcy said as he loosened the ties holding the maroon and yellow cloth concealing the spongy item inside. “Jharna’s son, Nimesh, had this made for me. It is a hoolock gibbon, my favorite of all the primates in India.” George, younger brother to Darcy’s deceased father, freed the exquisitely c
rafted stuffed animal from its wrappings, grandly plopping it onto the toddler’s lap.

  “Uncle! He is remarkable.” Darcy leaned forward from his cross-legged perch behind his son to finger the soft brownish-black fur. “This is incredible taxidermy. Are you sure you want Alexander to drool and chew on such a masterpiece?”

  George waved his hand dismissively. “It is well preserved. Allow him to play with it for a while, then perhaps it can be put aside temporarily to extend its life. But I wanted it for a toy. See how the long arms wrap around you, Alexander. He is bigger than you so will be great for cuddling.”

  Alexander was mesmerized. He pressed the black bead eyes, ruffled the thick white fur rings around the eye sockets, pried open the toothless mouth to peer inside, squeezed the thin arms, and wiggled the long toes. He looked up at his father, smiled widely, and released a string of nonsense intermingled with “papa” and a smattering of intelligible words as he proudly showed off his newest animal.

  Darcy smiled, pulling his son onto his lap for a tight hug. “You are assuredly the only child in Derbyshire with a stuffed gibbon, my sweet.”

  “Papa, see? M’key? Mine, Unc Goj?”

  “Yes, he is yours and ‘monkey’ will do, I suppose. Your Uncle George spoils you.”

  George snorted. “Somebody has to. Poor baby would have no toys to play with if not for his favorite uncle.”

  Georgiana laughed. “Yes indeed. Nothing to play with! Poor Alexander. Now, open this one from your favorite auntie, my precious.”

  “Thank goodness it is only you two here this Christmas or we not only would never get through the gift unveiling, but we would also have a brawl on our hands. Jane may take exception to the ‘favorite’ appellation.” Lizzy spoke from her lounging location on the chaise, her voice weak and rough from coughing.

  Darcy had returned from an eventful visit to London several days ago and discovered his wife extremely ill with a vicious cold. Darcy was still furious over not being informed of her illness. She was gradually improving under the care of their resident physician and her diligent husband, but remained lethargic and symptomatic. Yet, as sick as she was, Lizzy refused to lie abed for her son’s first Christmas of consequence, the prior one occurring when he was not yet a month old. Darcy understood—his attempts to dissuade feebly offered—but he was worried. He directed a glare at his uncle, who ignored the not-so-subtle reminder of his nephew’s irritation at not being notified, before closely examining his wife’s face for the slightest sign of increasing distress.