Yuletide

by Joana Starnes

  At long last, Fitzwilliam was brought home and made comfortable in the sitting room he had so tempestuously quitted, and Old Mr. Allen came to prod his ankle and declare it was not broken, just very badly sprained. Nevertheless, that foot should not bear any weight for at least a se’nnight, so Mr. Darcy should employ a pair of crutches or countenance making use of his late father’s Bath chair.

  “A se’nnight in a Bath chair,” Fitzwilliam observed when the physician was gone, having left draughts for the pain and instructions on how they should be taken. “I expect you will say ’tis just what I deserve,” he ruefully added with a sheepish glance towards Elizabeth, who was busying herself with placing another cushion under his elevated foot and then wrapping a quilt around him.

  Yet, as he spoke, she lost all interest in her employment. She released the edges of the quilt and, careless of Georgiana’s presence, she reached to cup his face in her palms and leaned down to kiss him almost savagely.

  “Do not dare give me this sort of fright again!” she said in a fierce whisper and kissed him once more, whereupon Georgiana saw merit in swiftly retreating, a warm smile on her lips and the sting of tears in her eyes.

  Yet it was a long way to the door, and she could not fail to hear the earnest words that followed: “This is what matters, Fitzwilliam. This,” Elizabeth whispered between kisses. “Love—however long we are allowed to keep it. There are no certainties in life. But all of us should be permitted to grasp love with both hands if we are fortunate enough to find it.”

  Needless to say, Elizabeth’s words of wisdom had once again borne fruit. His concern and reservations notwithstanding, Fitzwilliam had given his consent. A month later, Georgiana was betrothed to her beloved Henry.

  And yes, her brother was in the right as well—she had not drawn an easy breath until the end of the gruesome conflict on the Continent. Yet, if she had to choose all over again, she would not have chosen differently.

  With a start, Georgiana brought herself back to the present. The game of bullet-pudding had come to an end and, with their parents’ assistance, the children were busily dusting off the flour. Henry’s conversation with Mr. Gardiner had come to an end as well. He came to sit beside her and took her hand.

  “Are you growing tired?” he asked with great solicitude.

  Georgiana shook her head and smiled. A month ago—nay, a mere fortnight—she would have said he could not possibly love her more, nor could he be more mindful of her comfort. She could see her error, now that Henry knew she was with child.

  Her husband returned her smile as he settled back into the cushions, at her side.

  “I imagine I would do well to start taking instruction from your brother. Or at least watch and learn. It will stand me in good stead one day.”

  “True,” she said, squeezing his hand.

  She glanced at Fitzwilliam just as he relinquished a wriggling Anne from his hold. He set her down and came to sit beside Elizabeth on a nearby sofa, only to find their second daughter scampering towards them.

  “Can I take my cousins to the music room, Mama?” she eagerly asked. “Would anyone mind if I played a carol for them?”

  “Not at all, my love,” Elizabeth assured her, and Georgiana could not fail to wonder yet again at her namesake’s delightful confidence and willingness to play and sing in such a large gathering.

  Not in the least daunted by the prospect, her second niece turned to her cousins.

  “Come! Mama says we can,” she chirped and led the way through the large, wide-open doors into the adjoining music room.

  She dragged the seat closer to the instrument and cast a winning smile towards the footman who had obligingly fetched her a cushion. With the man’s assistance, she perched herself upon it while her young relations gathered round, some standing beside her, others huddled together on a sofa or sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  The older members of the audience sat up to listen too. They were soon rewarded with rather faltering but not discordant notes and a clear voice that did not falter:

  Lo, now is come, our joyfulest feast!

  Let every man be jolly,

  Each room with ivy leaves is drest,

  And every post with holly,

  Though some churls at our mirth repine,

  Round your foreheads garlands twine;

  Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,

  And let us all be merry.

  Now all our neighbours’ chimneys smoke,

  And Christmas blocks are burning;

  Their ovens they with baked meats choke,

  And all their spits are turning.

  Without the door let sorrow lie,

  And if, for cold, it hap to die,

  We’ll bury it in a Christmas pie,

  And evermore be merry.

  The appreciative claps could not quite drown out Lady Catherine’s disapproving sniff.

  “Hm! I find it highly inappropriate that a child of eight—that a young lady, regardless of her age—should sing about drowning one’s sorrows in a cup of wine or burying them in a Christmas pie,” she declared, glaring at her nephew and her niece by marriage.

  As wise as ever, Elizabeth feigned selective deafness and kept her eyes averted from their imperious relation as she whispered to her husband so quietly that Georgiana could scarce hear her.

  “Oh dear. I hope Georgy will not take it to heart. I should have advised her to keep to God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen or some such traditional carols.”

  “Nothing can daunt her,” Fitzwilliam replied, his voice just as low but unmistakably filled with affectionate pride. “She takes after you, thank goodness.”

  Still keen to have her say, Lady Catherine scowled.

  “I wonder who has taught her this unbefitting song,” she enunciated, but Elizabeth knew better than to rise to the challenge, least of all on Christmas Day.

  “Not me,” she informed her husband in another whisper. “For once, I am utterly blameless. It was Mrs. Reynolds,” she resumed, in response to his diverted glance. “I heard them singing it in the pantry together the other day when they were making ginger biscuits.”

  “I always knew the dear lady was worth her weight in gold,” he replied, reaching up to brush some specks of flour forgotten on Elizabeth’s cheek.

  From her own seat, Lady Catherine spluttered.

  “Really! Is that the example he is setting? Disgraceful conduct in a man his age, and moreover in company!”

  But to Georgiana’s way of thinking, her brother was setting an excellent example to the assembled company, children and grown men alike, when—commendably undaunted indeed—Georgy moved on to play another tune. He cast a warm glance towards his second daughter, then stroked Elizabeth’s hand with his thumb and cheerfully exclaimed:

  “Ah, the Barley Mow. Whoever can resist it? May I have the pleasure, Elizabeth?”

  With her smiling concurrence, they rose and, still holding hands, they sauntered towards the music room, only to find the youngsters haphazardly pairing and joining them in the dance with little skill but great enthusiasm. Promptly, Mr. and Mrs. Bingley joined them too, and Richard and his wife soon followed. Georgiana arched her brows towards her husband, teasing challenge in her eyes.

  “If you should wonder, no, I do not think this is too sprightly, and I would dearly love to dance—if only anyone should ask me.”

  He had no need to be told twice, and they left the drawing room together—yet Georgiana did not miss Lady Catherine’s second splutter:

  “I beg your pardon? Why, the very notion, Mr. Bennet! I most certainly shall not!” she exclaimed with energy as she tossed her head back, making her long feathers flutter. From that, Georgiana concluded that Mr. Bennet had kindly asked her to stand up with him for the sake of family harmony and was unceremoniously refused.

  Not in the least put out, the older gentleman shrugged.

  “Well, that is that. What say you, my dear, shall we?” he asked his wife instead, and before long the drawin
g room was left to Lady Catherine, Miss Bingley, and the Hursts; even Anne had chosen to walk into the music room and eventually came to partner her own namesake and join her relations in their gambols.

  Georgiana cast an almost pitying glance over her shoulder towards the three ladies who had chosen to remain in the drawing room in stony silence, lips pursed and countenances set in frosty dignity. Yet a fraction of a second later, their collective air of poise and good breeding was completely lost. Georgiana very nearly chuckled to see them jump and scowl when Mr. Hurst suddenly awoke from his habitual after-dinner slumber.

  “Aye, and a damn fine evening too, what, what?” he exclaimed—ill-advisedly, given the sacred day and the company of so many children—then sat up and drained his glass of port.

  “Oh, Mr. Hurst…” said his wife, her dramatic sigh barely audible over the cheerful tune that still filled the music room mingled with a great deal of good-humoured chatter.

  * * *

  JOANA STARNES lives in the south of England with her family. Over the years, she has swapped several hats—physician, lecturer, clinical data analyst—but feels most comfortable in a bonnet. She has been living in Georgian England for decades in her imagination and plans to continue in that vein till she lays hands on a time machine. She is the author of eight Austen-inspired novels: From This Day Forward—The Darcys of Pemberley, The Subsequent Proposal, The Second Chance, The Falmouth Connection, The Unthinkable Triangle, Miss Darcy’s Companion, Mr Bennet’s Dutiful Daughter, and The Darcy Legacy, and one of the contributing authors to The Darcy Monologues, Dangerous to Know: Jane Austen’s Rakes and Gentleman Rogues, and Rational Creatures.

  The Wishing Ball

  Amy D’Orazio

  Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience—or give it a more fascinating name: call it hope. —Jane Austen

  December 2014

  If it had been up to him, the whole ordeal of decorating for Christmas would have been delegated to the designers who had recently redone his office complex.

  His younger sister Georgiana wouldn’t stand for it, though. She insisted on a fire in the fireplace, cookies in the oven—okay, not actually cookies but a cookie-scented candle—and Mariah Carey wailing about all she wanted for Christmas.

  And now there was a present in his hand. Fitzwilliam Darcy looked down into the Georgiana’s eager face and felt that sinking feeling that he had already missed his mark. Was he supposed to have gotten a present? Now? Almost an entire month before Christmas?

  “Well!” he said with as much forced joviality as he could muster. “What is this, Georgie?”

  Georgiana beamed with delight. “It’s a wishing ornament! You use it to wish for the upcoming year,” she explained with all the earnestness of a teenage girl who still believed in happy endings. “Cara put one on her tree last year and she got a boyfriend, like, two days later. And she hasn’t had any acne since!”

  He gave the box a cursory glance, noting the words “genuine silver plate” emblazoned on the side. “Well, who could doubt the mystical powers of something purchased at Things Remembered?”

  Georgiana’s face fell, and she snatched it away from him. “I know it’s stupid.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m sorry, I’m in a terrible mood.” He took it back from her. “This is really sweet, honestly. Thank you. I love it.”

  “It’s just…don’t you ever wish we had more?”

  He felt it, that familiar guilt and worry welling up within him. When their parents died, he was left as her guardian and had invited her to live with him to keep her from having to go off with some distant relative. He knew he did well in terms of seeing to her education and making sure she was fed and protected and watched over…but it was her happiness that he had no idea how to ensure.

  “Sweetheart, we have it great. Look around us. We live in an amazing city, in a beautiful home without any of the cares and worries—”

  “We have money,” said Georgiana flatly. “It’s not the same. I just wish things were more…busy and bustling sometimes.”

  He knew exactly what she meant. There was a reason that depression rates soared around the holidays. It was that endless niggling that everyone else was out having a wonderful time with family and loved ones while you gamely tried to make things look special. “It’s hard to bustle with just the two of us.”

  “I know. Anyway, it’s late. I’m tired.”

  “No, wait a minute,” he protested. “Let’s do the ornament thing. What do we do with it?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s no big deal.” She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “This was fun.”

  He didn’t stop her, feeling as though he had messed up enough this night. He stood there until he heard the shower turn on a few minutes later. He left the great room then, making a brief stop in the kitchen for some hot chocolate laced with a liberal dollop of peppermint rum and then retiring into his study.

  The ornament remained with him, still enclosed in its box. He decided to open it. It took some doing—the box had been closed with one of those clear cellophane stickers that were invented to secure Fort Knox—but eventually he was able to tear the box open around it and extract the ornament.

  It was heavier than he had expected it to be, a silver orb comprised of two hinged halves that opened to allow the wish to be inserted. It had been monogrammed already with his own initials, making him shake his head. Georgie had made such an effort, and he’d treated her so dismissively.

  The shower was off now, so he went up to her room, knocking gently on the door.

  “Come in.” She was seated at her vanity when he entered, her hair wrapped in a towel.

  “Hey, I just wanted to say sorry for being a grumpy jerk about this ornament. I saw how you got it monogrammed—it’s great. The perfect addition to our decorations. Want to go put it on the tree together? Maybe put our wishes inside of it?”

  “Monogrammed?” She gave him a look. “I didn’t have it monogrammed. What, like a D or something? They probably all came with an initial on them and I just happened to grab the D.”

  He looked down at the ornament again, puzzled. “No, not just a D. FGD, my full monogram is engraved on this thing…in a manly font, no less.”

  “Let me see.” She rose from the vanity and came to take the ornament from him, examining it closely. “Whoa. That’s so weird.”

  “Come on. You know you did it.”

  “I didn’t!” She looked at him, eyes wide. “Ask Cara. She was with me when I bought it.”

  “You really didn’t?”

  “I promise,” she said. They both stared at it for a minute until Georgiana added, “I guess it’s a mystery.”

  Darcy looked down at it again, recalling his difficulties in opening the box. It had been sealed rather tightly, hadn’t it? But what else could explain the fact that his monogram was on it?

  “Are there any wishes inside of it?” she asked. Her tone turned teasing. “That would be really weird. Like maybe someone wrote, ‘Dear Wishing Ball. This is Will Darcy, and I haven’t had a date in five years. Please, please, have mercy on me!” She giggled.

  He was glad to see that her melancholy had dissipated, and he didn’t mind her teasing a bit. He played along, giving her a little shove with his elbow. “I’ve been busy, okay?”

  Darcy pressed on a little clasp to pry it open, revealing a blue velvet interior. It was surprising —and yet not—to find a scrap of paper enclosed, folded into the smallest square possible.

  “Oh my gosh! There is a wish in there already! What does it say?” Georgiana was practically salivating with the delicious peculiarity of it all.

  Darcy unfolded it slowly. Truth was, it was starting to weird him out. “Probably some general sort of message, like a fortune cookie. They probably all come with something in there about fortune in the new year or something.”

  “Do they all come engraved with FGD too?”

  He didn’t deign to reply to that. Surprisingly, w
hat was written had been written by hand.

  “Wow, that even looks like your writing!” Georgiana exclaimed. “Now I am freaking out!”

  “It just looks like a man’s writing,” he said. “Any man’s penmanship. Not necessarily mine.”

  “No,” she insisted. “Look at the I. That’s how you do I’s, and I’ve never seen anyone else write that way.”

  He scowled. “Dad taught me that way. I guess…the schools in England teach it like that, but here…they do it differently here.”

  “So some other man…another man, with the initials FDG and a tendency to make the letter I like he went to prep school in England, bought this ball, wrote a wish, placed it inside, then sealed it up, and returned it. Then I, your sister, just happened to come along and buy it? That’s your hypothesis?”

  Georgiana stood, her hand on her hip, shaking her head. “Uh-huh, Will. Doesn’t hold water. Face it—it’s fate. Fate is coming after you.”

  “You’re being silly,” he told her, trying to ignore the small voice inside him that agreed with her. There were too many coincidences here. But no—there had to be a logical explanation. Richard playing a joke maybe? Was Bingley somehow involved?

  He supposed that actually reading the message might shed some light on the subject. If it said something on the order of, “Beware the woman in orange!” he’d know it was Richard, teasing him that Caroline Bingley’s pursuit of him was heating up again.

  He unfolded it and read it, scratching his head after he did so.

  “Read it out loud,” Georgiana said. “I can’t see it.”

  “It says”—he cleared his throat—“‘I wish it would happen for me.’”