Yet Lizzy stared as if hypnotized, emotions assaulting her in a deluge. She did not see a shabby hair clip. She saw shiny, brilliant lavender daisies with centers of sparkling garnet nestled in a tiny velvet-lined box resting on a broad palm. She saw her father’s face caught between a loving smile and teasing grin as he said, “Lavender because it is your favorite color, Lizzy, and Michaelmas daisies because they mean ‘farewell,’ although in your case not because I am saying good-bye, but because I know you shall always fare well in your life. You are my brightest daughter and have the greatest potential.”
“I remember that clip!” Lydia’s slurred voice boomed from over Lizzy’s shoulder, shattering the echo of Mr. Bennet’s voice. “Papa brought each of us a flowered hairclip that year when he returned from Town. Mine was buttercups, if I recall, and Jane, yours was carnations. Or was it chrysanthemums?” She shrugged and took a hasty gulp of wine. “That was ages ago. I can’t believe you still have it. Look how tarnished it is!” She leaned over the sofa back and pointed to the splotched silver filigree leaves, and then hiccupped loudly, spilling a drop of red wine onto the end daisy. “Oops! So sorry…”
But Lizzy had risen to her feet, the flowered clip clutched to her chest. Her shimmering gaze swept over the expressions on the faces of the women sitting in a circle around her: Lydia annoyed that the abrupt action had caused her to step unsteadily backward and splash wine onto her bounteous exposed bosom, her other sisters sympathetic, and her mother baffled. Beyond their intimate circle of chairs the remaining family members carried on unaware, including Darcy, who was scowling intently at the chessboard located between him and George.
Yet Lizzy barely registered any of it, not even Charles Bingley’s questioning look. Focusing on any one person was impossible. A vise was tightening about her chest, making breathing difficult. She struggled viciously against the images of Mr. Bennet that slammed over everything in the room and the gruff timbre of his voice that drowned the laughing children. Her efforts were in vain and the Christmas merriment faded into a background shadow and murmur, yielding reality to the plethora of visions and conversations spanning years past with her father.
The final shred of hope that dignity might be retained was dashed when Mrs. Bennet declared with a disgusted sniff, “Why you would bother with that old piece when you have a closet full of jewels to rival a queen is beyond my comprehension. Mr. Bennet brought me one with roses along with you girls’. It was nice enough, I suppose, and he commented when I wore it, but my goodness, it was tarnished and bent! I couldn’t wait to part with it once he was gone.”
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.
Christmas Present
“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 singl
e 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.”
She was still smiling, an impish quirk to her brows as she stared into his gradually clearing eyes. She was not the slightest bit concerned about his dreams involving another woman, knowing with full certainty that even in his sleeping state, only she appeared.
He exhaled in a gush, blinked, and pressed two fingertips tightly against the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. He then brought the slim hand he yet held to his lips, kissing her wrist and palm, and finally opening his eyes to focus on her face. His naturally sapphire-blue eyes were dark in the shadows, but they were lucid, piercing her with his familiar intensity.
Now that he was fully awake he snorted at her teasing and draped his free arm around her shoulders until his fingers were entwined in the hair at the nape of her neck, the rest spilling over his arm. “Never,” he answered decisively. “Rather I was enduring a nightmare where you were not a part of my life. I was old and wrinkled, grayer than my uncle, shuffling my body arthritically through the empty corridors of Pemberley, depressed and lonely. It was horrible.”
“I am sorry for your nightmare, love,” she said with true sincerity. “You should not suffer unpleasant dreams of that sort. I am your wife now and always.” She played with his thick, brown hair, trailing her fingertips over his features as her rich voice caressed and soothed. “We are all here as we have been and will be for a long while to come.”
She paused for a long interlude of tender kisses, withdrawing to continue reassuring, only with a playful lilt to her voice. “And you, my darling, are as robust and healthy as the day I married you. I only see three or four grey hairs—”
“Each placed there by Michael, I am sure.”
“—and tiny laugh crimps at the corners of your eyes are the only wrinkles on your perfect body. Fifty-one is far from old and considering how active your uncle still is, I doubt your virility will be an issue for many years to come, if ever.”
“Well, when you clarify it in those terms, the nightmare fades into oblivion.” He pulled until she lay completely atop him with limbs entangled.
“Since it is Christmas morning, we have a tradition to uphold,” she reminded him.
“Breakfast with the family?”
“Before that.”
“Waking the children before they pound upon our door?”
She giggled. “You know they will head directly to the ballroom and the tree sparing no thought of their parents. Try again.”
He continued the teasing questions. “Bathing together so your back will be adequately cleaned?”
“Now that is a fine idea! What say we squeeze that in between dressing in our Christmas finest and attending to our customary private celebration?”
She wiggled her brows, Darcy erupting in laughter and flipping her onto her back. “You are insatiable. I love you, Elizabeth.”
“And I love you, Fitzwilliam. Now how about showing me your abiding devotion and passion.”
“As you wish.”
It was over three hours and one extended bath later when a whistling Darcy exited his dressing room. Hair trimmed, face shaved and splashed with cologne, and garbed in an impeccable, fashionable suit of dark blue wool, he exuded dignity and refinement. The jaunty spring in his steps as he headed toward the staircase flowed naturally and did not mar the aura of authority he wore. At the bottom of the stairs he paused, a wide grin spreading over his face before he quickly dashed to hide around the corner.
“Stop! Would you two listen to me? When I catch you there will be hell to pay! Are you listening to me?”
Darcy held his chuckle inside. His sister’s unheeded commands mixed with high-pitched peals of laughter and the stomp of small, running feet. The sounds grew louder by the second until two bodies barreled around the corner. Darcy shouted and leapt into their
pathway. They shrieked in unison, but smoothly veered to either side of his legs, their wild rush not slowed in the slightest as they raced by. “Happy Christmas, Uncle William!” floated on the air behind them as they plunged down the corridor, still laughing.
Georgiana rounded the corner seconds later, pulling up short before crashing into her brother’s much larger body. “You didn’t stop them?”
“I tried, but…”
“Never mind! Oh thank God. Richard! Harry! Grab those two ruffians please.”
Yells and laughter rang out as the two men jumped into the fray, making a grand procedure out of capturing the two five-year olds. With a kicking and squirming boy tucked securely under an arm, Richard and Harry walked toward Georgiana and Darcy.
“What is the penalty, Aunt Giana? Twenty lashes? The rack?”
“Mr. Burr was talking about a huge ant hill he discovered,” Richard offered with a wink not seen by the twins, who were now limp and quiet. “I hear that is an ideal form of torture.”
“Mama! We promise to be good!”
“We just want to see the tree!”
Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Everything is ‘the tree this’ and ‘the tree that.’ Whose idea was it to have a tree?” It was a rhetorical question, as the three men knew, and they all laughed. “Just take them to the dining room if you don’t mind.”
“But Mama!” They cried with identical whines and pouting faces.
“We will take you to the ballroom first, how about that? But you must promise not to try climbing the tree, agreed?”
“Yes, Uncle Richard.” Pledged in tandem, and after merry Christmas wishes and proper good morning greetings, Colonel Fitzwilliam and his son jogged away briskly with the cheered boys dangling from their hips.
A Darcy Christmas Page 21
