Yuletide

by Joana Starnes

  He and Elizabeth hadn’t really talked about it yet; they were still practically on their honeymoon, and Elizabeth hadn’t really given any indication that she was ready to move on to parenthood.

  But… there were a few nights where ideas of birth control had been tossed to the wind. The pill made Elizabeth sick, so she’d stopped taking it but planned, in a somewhat vague way, to try something else. They were going to use condoms in the meantime, but there was that one night in the living room when he hadn’t felt like going upstairs to get one, and she had just laughed and suggested that they roll the dice.

  He was sure nothing could have come of it though. It was only once or twice…three times, tops.

  With growing excitement, he pried the ornament open, all the while wondering if there was any brand of those pregnancy sticks which would somehow fit into a three-inch sphere. There wasn’t; instead, the ball contained a piece of paper, folded up. He undid it, staring at it in bafflement.

  It was black with a small white blob in the middle of it. Elizabeth leaned over his shoulder, staring at it with him. “Is that…?” He asked in confusion. “What is this?”

  “It’s an ultrasound,” she told him, happy tears shining in her eyes. “That’s a baby, our baby. We’re going to be parents!”

  “We are? It is?” He held up the picture to stare at it more closely. “Is it…it’s a boy, right?”

  “They can’t tell yet. It’s very early on. I had no idea. I thought I was just coming down with a cold or something.”

  Chills raced over his skin as he looked at the little white blob. Jaz. I know it’s you, Jaz. How are you doing, buddy?

  A strange tightness came into his throat as he looked at the little blob, imagining the years of trains and soccer balls and birthday parties, kissing boo-boos…teaching him to drive, warning him not to smoke, showing him how to tie his tie… He could hardly wait to get started.

  “Are you happy?”

  “Am I happy?” He pulled her close to him. “I’m ecstatic.”

  December 2025

  “Daddy…Daddy…Daddy…Daddy! Watch me! Daddy! Daddy, are you looking? Daddy! Daddy, look at my cartwheel!”

  He turned, watching as four-year-old Ivy carefully put two hands onto the floor, kicked one leg up dramatically, and then stood, flinging her hands into the sky with all the flair of an Olympian. “Taa-daa!”

  “Very good, sweetie,” Darcy replied automatically.

  He couldn’t find the wishing balls, which was strange because they always put them in exactly the same box for storage. He began to dig, once again, through the tinsel.

  “No, it wasn’t good,” said six-year-old Jack, a.k.a. the Snowman. “It was stupid. Cartwheels are supposed to have both legs in the air like a wheel.”

  “You’re stupid,” said Ivy as she launched into a series of pirouettes. “I can do cartwheels how I want, and how I want is with one leg.”

  “Kids,” said Darcy absently, “don’t call each other stupid.”

  “But Dad, she doesn’t even do it right,” Jack said, clearly aggrieved.

  A bit of a dust-up ensued, ending with Darcy giving all the kids ice cream and calling Lizzy on her cell phone to find out when she would be coming home.

  She was at a bit of a reunion: her friend Charlotte—the one whose bachelorette party had been going on in Florida that fateful night so long ago—was finally on the happier side of a long, bitter divorce battle. From the sounds on the phone, it seemed the ladies were re-creating their more bawdy memories from that night.

  An hour later, the kids settled into a sugar haze in front of the television, Darcy resumed his search, but the wishing ornaments were not to be found. When Elizabeth arrived home an hour later, he had nearly torn the attic apart and still hadn’t found them.

  He went to her, kissing her and noticing how tired she looked. “Too much party, love?”

  She gave him a look. “I don’t really know, to be honest. I spent most of my time in various discreet locations nursing Lilly. She must be going through a growth spurt. This is the quietest she’s been all night.”

  He looked down at his fourth child, his second daughter. Two daughters, two sons. The joy that they and their mother brought him was unfathomable, immeasurable. There was nothing he’d found in life that could compare to the sweet feeling of having their small hands enclosed within his or feeling their limp bodies deep in sleep against his chest. That thought in mind, he picked Lilly up, snuggling her to his chest while smiling apologetically at Elizabeth’s protests.

  “So, I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find our wishing ornaments,” he told her. “They’re nowhere to be found.”

  “They’re in with the crystal snowflakes. I distinctly remember putting them in there.”

  “Nope.”

  He detailed for her all the various placed he’d looked. She looked concerned but soon changed her clothing and joined him in another search. Lilly obligingly remained asleep while her parents undertook their fruitless task.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Elizabeth finally admitted. “They should be right here. I remember putting them here myself when we took the tree down last year.”

  “But they’re gone.”

  Both of them stared, baffled, at the storage box until Elizabeth shrugged. “Oh well. I think Red Envelope still has them. We’ll get new ones.”

  “I—” He stopped himself.

  Elizabeth never knew about that weird night over a decade ago when he’d seen their sons and her and the life he knew was out there for him. He had never wanted to influence things or push things in a direction that they weren’t meant to go but, so far, it had been exactly as he’d seen it.

  He and Elizabeth had dated, fallen in love in the usual way—well, maybe not completely usual, but close enough.

  It had been Elizabeth’s idea to name their firstborn Jasper. “Old fashioned names are hip,” she told him. “And it’s in your family.” It had been Elizabeth’s youngest sister Lydia who first called him Jaz. Lydia had a very irritating habit of shortening everyone’s name (Elizabeth was Liz, Jane was Juicy-J, Bingley was Bing…eleven years later and she still called him Fitz or F-schizzle despite his many reminders to stop). In Jaz’s case, however, it was cute and fitting, and so it stuck.

  Having been born in November, Jack had an early and intense love of snowmen. He had Frosty the Snowman read to him obsessively, he had a stuffed snowman he took with him wherever he went, and his first word was even “snowman”. It was Elizabeth’s friend Charlotte who came up with the idea for the snowman picture; she painted his little belly and face and took the photograph to promote her burgeoning photography business.

  But now his ornament was gone. What could it mean?

  Elizabeth laid her hand on his arm. “No big deal. We’ll get new ones.”

  “New ones?”

  He considered it. After all, he’d never really purchased the first one, had he? He liked to believe that it found him somehow. Getting another one seemed pointless.

  In any case, what more could he wish for? He looked around him. A beautiful home, a loving wife he adored beyond reason, and four wonderful children. There were things to hope for, certainly, but wishes?

  “No, I don’t need another one.” He smiled down at his Elizabeth. “You don’t need a wishing ornament when all of your wishes have already come true.”

  * * *

  AMY D’ORAZIO is a former scientist and current stay-at-home mom who is addicted to Austen and Starbucks in equal measure. While she adores Mr. Darcy, she is married to Mr. Bingley, and their Pemberley is in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She has two daughters devoted to sports with long practices and began writing stories as a way to pass the time spent at their various gyms and studios. She firmly believes that all stories should have long looks, stolen kisses, and happily-ever-afters. Like her favorite heroine, she dearly loves a laugh and considers herself an excellent walker. She is the author of The Best Part of Love and A Short Perio
d of Exquisite Felicity.

  By A Lady

  Lona Manning

  And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no better language to describe them in. —Jane Austen

  You grumble, old fellow, merely because you have heard other husbands do so, and you assume you must do likewise. You think it belongs to your station in life.”

  Fitzwilliam Darcy raised his eyebrow at his cousin, either in exception to being called “old” or to signify his disagreement that he had nothing to remark upon in the behaviour of his wife.

  “I merely said that some patience was required when Elizabeth visits her favourite bookstore. We ought to have been on our way by now.”

  “The servants and your children set off two hours ago and will be at Hunsford well before sunset,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. “As for you and I and Elizabeth, why be in a hurry for our reunion with Aunt Catherine?”

  “I enjoy a looking around a bookstore as much as the next person, as you know, but once we have begun a journey, I like to complete it.”

  “Seriously, Darcy, if this is all you have to complain of in married life, you have nothing to complain of at all. I have stayed with you at Pemberley often enough to bear witness that your wife does not nag you, she never keeps you waiting when dressing for dinner, and she remains as lovely to this day as when you wed. And to crown it all, she is shopping for second-hand books, which pleases my sense of thrift, at least.”

  Just then, Elizabeth reappeared from the throng in Lackington’s bookstore, looking well pleased and holding a few volumes in her hands. At the sight of her dark eyes sparkling with pleasure and her smiling face, Darcy abandoned any pretense at impatience. After four years of marriage, she still had the power to enchant him.

  “Nearly ready, gentlemen! Just look at my finds! A first edition of Evelina, with the most elegant binding! It has such beautiful endpapers! And this!” She held out a neatly-bound volume. “The history of Lady Jane Grey! And look at the author’s name—Theophilus Marcliffe!” She laughed and repeated the name with emphasis: “Theo-philus Mar-cliffe! I picture an earnest old Scots divine with a nose like a parrot’s beak sitting in his untidy study with books piled high all about him.”

  “But a minister would be certain to append Doctor of Divinity after his name,” said Darcy. “I fancy Theophilus Marcliffe is a pen name. The author may be an impoverished university student or even a lady.”

  “Oh, I shall be so disappointed if there is not really a person named Theophilus Marcliffe!” replied Elizabeth, although her eyes twinkled as she smiled up at her husband. “I shall make my purchases and let us be gone, then.”

  “Only these two?”

  “Heavens, no!” Elizabeth turned, and Darcy beheld an older man standing behind her, holding a tottering pile of books so tall that he had to peer around them to see where he stepped.

  “So many?” asked Darcy as they all made their way to the sales counter in the middle of the main floor. “Where do you propose to keep all these books, my dear? Are you going to have them sent to Pemberley?”

  “And send some coals to Newcastle, while you are at it,” put in the Colonel. “You have a splendid library already at Pemberley.”

  “No, dear, they are coming with us to Rosings. I need all these books if we are to spend a fortnight there,” Elizabeth replied. “Rosings has an extensive library, but I suspect Lady Catherine has not added a single volume since your uncle passed away. I know from my first visit that no novels pollute the shelves, so I must bring my own supply! Was your cousin Anne forbidden to read novels as a girl?”

  “I am afraid that I cannot answer your question,” said Darcy.

  The older man reached forward and deposited the pile of books on the counter just before they threatened to topple over.

  “Sir, thank you again for coming to my aid.” Elizabeth smiled. “You are so very kind.”

  “My pleasure, madam,” came the response. “And if I may observe, madam, it is generally known in the publishing trade that ‘Theophilus Marcliffe’ is the pen name of a well-known philosopher whose writings do not earn enough to keep his family.”

  “Books on philosophy are a thing I always mean to read but never buy,” said Elizabeth. “No wonder he must take up his pen to write popular histories.”

  “If it is any consolation, ma’am, the philosopher in question does have a most prodigious nose.”

  “I am satisfied,” declared Elizabeth. “I shall forgive him on account of his need…and his nose.

  Darcy seconded his wife’s thanks and cordial introductions were exchanged. Elizabeth’s benefactor was discovered to be James Montgomery, a publisher of children’s books.

  “Children’s books!” exclaimed Elizabeth to Mr. Montgomery. “I quite forgot—I wanted to get a picture book for our son William. Something to help him learn his letters.”

  “As it happens, ma’am,” interposed the older man genially, “Lackington’s has some of my books. Would you allow me to make a gift—one moment, if you please—if you would do me the honour…” and he dashed off to an upstairs gallery while Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged wary smiles. Elizabeth did have that effect on discriminating gentlemen.

  The picture book was obtained, the bill was paid, and Darcy was finally able to bundle his wife into the carriage for the trip to Rosings.

  Darcy noticed that Elizabeth was quiet and thoughtful during the ride, and he was not surprised when she raised the topic of Anne de Bourgh again once Colonel Fitzwilliam had composed himself for a nap.

  “My dear, I will confide in you that I intend—it is my hope, at any rate—to become better acquainted with your cousin Anne. You said that you did not know if she reads novels. What do you know of her? After all this time, all I know is that she does not play, or paint, or draw—so what does she do? I have resolved that getting to know her better shall be my special undertaking this Christmas.”

  “This is very good of you, Elizabeth. My poor cousin leads a sadly constrained life. When she was a child, she was not allowed to run about the lawn, or ride, or swim. She was not permitted to own a kitten or a puppy. But what has inspired you to undertake this benevolent mission?”

  “Because I harbour an uneasy conscience as regards her.”

  “Why in the world should that be, Elizabeth?”

  “I shall confess it to you: on first acquaintance, I saw she was sickly and cross-looking, and I held her in something very like contempt.”

  “Whilst I observed you at Rosings, my dear Elizabeth—and you know how I was watching you most carefully,” he said, taking her hand in his, "you showed the utmost courtesy to my cousin. And your fearlessness with my aunt went a long way to causing me to fall in love with you.”

  “My conscience does not reproach me on the score of what I did,” Elizabeth whispered, “but of what I thought. I was uncharitable. I was unkind. I looked down upon her. You were not there when I first dined at Rosings, for example. Anne sat beside me and, because she said not a word to me, I said nothing to her. I derived more pleasure from disliking her and building on my prejudice than in trying to draw her out. I could easily have made the attempt. Instead I told myself she was stupid, dull, and haughty.”

  “I would describe Anne as shy rather than haughty. Of course, she is Lady Catherine’s daughter, so one can hardly wonder that people assume Anne is proud rather than merely reserved,” said Darcy.

  “It is possible to be both! Both proud and reserved, that is,” Elizabeth laughed softly, giving her husband a meaningful smile followed by a peck on the cheek. “My point is, my own character held me back from understanding hers. When I was one-and-twenty, I believed that someone who says little must have little to say. I know better now. What if your poor cousin does have thoughts, and hopes, and wishes? And, as we know, her mother wished that you and she….”

  “My dear, have I not assured you that Anne felt nothing for me in that way? I am certain of it.” Darcy’s voice dropped
to a husky whisper: “We were only cousins to each other, nothing more.”

  “In the first place, she might guard the secrets of her heart, and you would be none the wiser,” his wife murmured back. “I thought I saw her smile once when Mr. Collins dropped a hint about ‘a much-anticipated and well-matched union.’ But a smile could mean anything. She might find Mr. Collins’s manner of speaking to her mother as ridiculous as I do.

  “Even granting the assertion that a woman could know you and not fall in love with you—which I have ever found to be a ridiculous supposition—surely Anne must want for something more in life than to go for airings in her phaeton with her old governess and sit every evening with her mother. She would be a total imbecile if she did not want something more.”

  Darcy squeezed her hand sympathetically. “Your anonymous philosopher might say that many people would gladly change places with her to be the heiress of Rosings.”

  “The heiress of Rosings she may be, but she is more like the prisoner of Rosings…while I am the happiest creature in the world,” Elizabeth murmured, cupping her hand against his cheek. Life has blessed me immeasurably, my darling. I have you, and little William, and the baby, and a beautiful life. Therefore, I have resolved, since Lady Catherine has been gracious enough to extend the olive branch and invite us all for Christmas, the least I can do is make an effort to befriend her daughter.”

  “I see, and what better way for Mr. Bennet’s favourite daughter to show friendship than through books and reading?” Darcy murmured, pulling at the lap robe which lay over his wife’s skirts and tucking it more firmly around her against the winter chill. “Now I understand why you insisted on buying so many books.”

  Elizabeth sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. “Perhaps they can form some basis for conversation between us for, if they do not, I do not know how I shall penetrate her reserve.”