Yuletide

by Joana Starnes

  Elizabeth yawned. “Speaking of sleep, let’s get you settled in the loft.”

  He fetched his hold-all from the boot, gathered quilt and lanterns, and hung onto Elizabeth for dear life as they trudged through icy snow.

  She demonstrated the pull-down staircase and showed him how to add logs to the wood stove. “The light switch is at the top of the— What? Oh, right. No power. Well, that’s it, then. Goodnight. I hope you’ll sleep well.”

  Don’t go.

  “Elizabeth, wait.” Flinging aside his armful, William filled the void with her, hugging her tightly and breathing “thank you” into her hair. Quitting the embrace, he reached for her hand, kissing her knuckles.

  Elizabeth looked everywhere but at him. Turning back, she told him he was a proper English gentleman after all. “And an old-fashioned one, at that.”

  “I feel rather old-fashioned tonight. What with no electricity and all…just good company, good food, children, and music.” A wistful smile came and went as he gazed around the dim barn. “It’s been one of the best Christmas Eves I’ve spent in a very long time. Maybe ever. Goodnight, Elizabeth, and happy Christmas.”

  After watching her go, he fed a few logs to the stove, plucked the lantern and duvet from the floor, and climbed the rickety steps to the loft. Shining the light around the tiny space, he spotted a patchwork counterpane on the turned-down bed and what looked like a Quality Street chocolate on the pillow. Twice, before climbing onto the mattress, he banged his head on the slanted walls.

  Alone in the dark, in the small—to him—double bed, William listened to the wind howling. Missing Georgiana, he longed to return to the cheery atmosphere next door.

  Most of all, he ached for Elizabeth. Unbidden, “All I Want for Christmas” developed into an earworm. ’Cause I just want you here tonight, holding on to me so tight. What more can I do? Baby, all I want for Christmas is you.

  He awoke to total silence, total darkness. Storm must have passed. His watch read 3:21. Flinging back the covers, he grabbed a torch. Shivering in only t-shirt and boxers, he plodded to the loo, cursing the cold floor. Someone said this place would be comfy. Hah! It’s as frigid as an ice-box. Donning casual trousers, Tom Ford checked shirt, and socks from his hold-all, he ran downstairs. Blast! The stove was stone cold; the barn had retained no warmth. What had been a cheerful place the day before was all bleakness and lifelessness. Because she’s not here. And she’d know what to do.

  Sitting in the SUV with the heat cranked, William jumped as someone rapped on the driver’s side window. At the push of a button, the glass disappeared, revealing the face that had become so precious to him.

  “What are you doing?” They spoke at once.

  “It’s a quarter to four in the morning, and some prat is sitting in his jalopy with the engine running beneath my bedroom window. What are you doing out here?”

  “I’m afraid I smothered the fire. It’s brass monkeys cold over there.”

  “Why didn’t you relight it?”

  He looked away, and she suppressed a laugh. “You don’t know how to start a fire, do you?”

  “At home, I simply press a button and—Poof!—the fireplace comes to life.”

  Elizabeth invited him into the house, saying he could sleep on an air mattress with Noah and Caleb—who was still convinced he was the son of God—or share the futon with Bill. “Just kidding! The boys can climb into bed with their parents for a few hours, and you’ll have an air mattress all to yourself. If I wasn’t doubled up with little Emily, you could have my bed. I’m wide awake now and won’t get back to sleep. It’s Christmas morning, after all, and I’ve got butterflies in my stomach.”

  “I’m wide awake, too. Join me?”

  Fidgeting with the climate control on the passenger side, Elizabeth asked about his family’s Christmas traditions.

  “Our traditions were just that—traditional. Our home was decorated with holly, ivy, evergreens, and kissing boughs. As children, we wrote to Father Christmas, but, instead of posting the letter, we fed it to the fire so our wish would go up the chimney. We dined on roast goose with all the trimmings, but the pièce de résistance was a flaming plum pudding with a silver charm baked in for good luck in the New Year. At three o’clock, we turned on Auntie Beeb and—”

  “Wait. You what?”

  He laughed at her shocked expression. “We turned on the Beeb—the BBC—for the Royal Christmas broadcast from the Queen. Nowadays, I spend the holidays with the Fitzwilliams, washing down KC caviar on dry toast with Lord Matlock’s finest Scotch. He’s the ‘Uncle Earl’ you heard abou—”

  His mobile rang, and William switched to hands-free mode. “Hello, Georgie!” To Elizabeth he mouthed, “My sister. Texted her a while ago. It’s nine over there.”

  His caller burst out with “I just have to ask… Did you find the jumper I wanted?”

  “Well, happy Christmas to you, too, brat. Explain to me why you need a jumper with peas on it. You’ve always hated peas.”

  “Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for Anne, who, by the way, woke up with a zit and is now convinced she’s dying. I miss you, big brother, and wish you were here. Like, really, wish you were here. While everyone slept, Owen and Michael crept down and unwrapped all the presents. Aunt Catherine keeps whacking the back of Gerard’s knees with her cane. He’s been into the Scotch already and is what Richard calls ‘legless.’ And Rich keeps pestering me to ask about some woman you’re crushing on, some Eliz—”

  “Whoa, whoa! Just a minute!” Slapping the mobile to his ear, William glanced to his right.

  Elizabeth’s shoulders were shaking, eyes laughing.

  “Sorry, Sis. We were on speakerphone. Yes, she is. Yes, but we’re in a parked car, not a— What? No, we’re not! Georgiana, stop laughing. Fine! I’m ending this call.”

  He stabbed the screen and tossed the phone onto the dash. “How do you survive with four of them? Sisters,” he muttered, drumming fingers on the console.

  “They can be trying. I was mortified when mine Googled your belongings. But I love them, warts and all, especially at Christmas.”

  “You’re fortunate to be surrounded by people you love and who love you.”

  “You’re making me all teary-eyed.” Sniffling, Elizabeth squeezed his hand. “It must be hard to be separated from those you love.”

  I’m not. You’re here. William shifted his legs, trying to move closer. A console separated them.

  “Wanna move to the backseat?”

  “Elizabeth Bennet! Did you just proposition me?”

  “Dream on. I asked if you wanted to get in the back. I’m fine where I am. There’s plenty of leg room up here, but you’re awfully tall. Back there, you could stretch out.”

  “If I wanted to stretch out, I’d return to the loft…and freeze. I’d much rather sit here with you and keep warm. Unless…” William waggled his eyebrows. “Wanna join me in the hayloft?”

  “Ha, ha. Nice try.” Elizabeth unzipped her parka, fished in her pocket for a tissue, and pulled out a spray of greenery. “Huh? Mistletoe? Don’t grin at me like that, mister. I didn’t put it there.” He continued his smug stare, and she huffed. “I swear, I didn’t!”

  Sliding the sprig from between her fingers, William held it above her head. “If we were lovers…” His low, husky voice, little more than a murmur, caught for a moment. “We’d be expected to kiss.”

  Leaning across the console, he caressed her jaw, turning her face towards his. Short, quick breaths mingled. Lips drew nearer and parted. Eyes closed. Hearts pounded…

  And they both jumped out of their skin. Someone was beating on the SUV’s fogged-up window. William let loose a barrage of expletives.

  “Will!” Bill Collins banged at the glass. “Will! You’re not leaving without saying goodbye, are you? I’m sorry about last evening. What? Open the window. I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

  “Just as well,” William muttered. “Sorry, Elizabeth. I don’t normally use such la
nguage in mixed company.”

  “You only said what I was thinking. Now I’m on Santa’s naughty list and will find nothing but coal in my stocking. We might as well go in. I need coffee but will settle for tea made on the stove.”

  The darkest hour was, indeed, just before dawn. William’s mood was black, his tea was black, and he was in Bill’s black books. Fine with me. But he’d best not speak a word against Elizabeth or I foresee a black eye in his future. She’s a bit of a spitting hellcat when riled.

  The thought made him smile. Everything about her made him smile.

  Propping his chin on his hand, he watched Elizabeth flit from cooker to counter to refrigerator—the latter fitted with tubs of icy snow. “What else are you baking there besides baked eggs and mushrooms in toast cups?”

  “Blueberry boy bait,” she said, peeking in the oven. “Then I’ll put the turkey in.”

  “Boy bait?” He sat back, smirking, stretching out his legs, hooking one arm on the back of the chair.

  “Haven’t you ever heard the way to a man's heart is through his stomach? If I don’t feed you, you’ll get—What’s the word?—in a strop. Can’t have that. The rug rats will be down soon, and you’d scare them away.”

  The sun rose at 7:11 a.m., as did the entire Bennet household. The lights blinked on, every digital clock flashed 12:00, and William finally got to see Elizabeth’s home in all its brightly-lit glory.

  By ten, the living room was a colourful shambles of wrapping paper, ribbons, glitter, and bows. Children and pets—sporting bits of sticky tape—romped through a chaos of toys, open boxes, and bubble pack. A Muppet Family Christmas played on the telly, and everywhere was laughter, hugging, and squeals of joy—except in the corner where Bill Collins sulked.

  “He’s just jealous, you know.” Elizabeth plunked herself next to William. “For a while I thought he was jealous of you because of me. Truth is, it’s quite the opposite. He wanted to be your friend, and I supplanted him. We are friends, right?”

  Bounding up, she waded through ankle-deep tissue paper and retrieved something from under the tree. She had changed out of her jeans and sweater into a burgundy velvet, wraparound dress, snug in all the right places. His eyes followed her until she handed him a festively-covered box—the kind that might hold a shirt or pyjamas. “Because we’re friends, this is for you.”

  “For me? How did you—? When did you—?” Folding back the tissue paper, he stared at a soft, shell-pink jumper with an embroidered “Peas on Earth” appliqué. It wasn’t an exact match to the photo on his mobile, but the differences were subtle.

  “Do you suppose it will fit?” Elizabeth bit on a cuticle, raising anxious eyes to his.

  Holding the fluffy creation against his chest, he sadly shook his head.

  “Ow!” Rubbing his arm, he told her she packed quite a punch for such a slight person. “It’s lovely, Elizabeth. Thank you. I’m sure Georgie and Anne will thank you. And I must thank Mrs. whatshername for relinquishing it.”

  “She didn’t.” Bending her head, picking at the troublesome cuticle, Elizabeth told him she had finished stitching it at three thirty that very morning. “It’s the sweater from the barn…the one you plucked from the clothesline and push—”

  In his authoritative, F. William Darcy tone, he addressed the room. “Excuse us a moment.”

  Standing and taking Elizabeth’s hand, he whispered, “Come with me?” At her nod, he led her to the front hall.

  Still holding her hand, he took a deep breath. “When I remember what I said yesterday and how I behaved around you, your sisters, and your neighbours, I am deeply, deeply ashamed. I don’t deserve that gift, Elizabeth, but I thank you for it. And I thank you for being the warmhearted, beautiful person I’ve come to admire and respect and…” He gulped.

  His words became more rushed. “I know it’s too soon. We haven’t known one another for even a full day. But I feel as though I’ve known you forever. I’ve been searching for you that long. But if you don’t feel the same, just tell me now. If it’s what you want, I’ll walk away and—”

  “Don’t!”

  Don’t? Don’t what? Don’t keep talking? Don’t walk away?

  Elizabeth sniffled. “Don’t walk away. Please.”

  Pulling her into his arms, he stroked Elizabeth’s hair, whispering, “I’m not walking away. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re going home, to England.” Her sniffles turned into sobs.

  “In a while…for a while, yes. But I not only have a watch with dual time-zones, I have dual citizenship. And a flat in New York. We’ll make it work, Elizabeth, I promise.”

  Digging in the pocket of his Zilli coat, he found the crushed sprig of greenery. Pathetic but still functional, I hope.

  Holding the mistletoe above their heads, he spoke in a low husky voice. “If we were lovers, we’d be expected to kiss.”

  Caressing her jaw, his lips drew nearer to hers and parted. Short, quick breaths mingled. Eyes closed. Hearts pounded as William and Elizabeth shared the snog of a lifetime.

  Two women spied on them from the living room door while “Feliz Navidad” played in the background.

  “They certainly seem to be having a good time out there.” Martha Gardiner smirked.

  Her sister-in-law nodded. “I love seeing young people so happy. Do you suppose that’s the same sprig of mistletoe I slipped into Liz’s pocket?”

  Part 3: It’s Going to be a Wonderful Life

  Free from tension and anxiety but impatient to arrive, William decelerated, and his red Range Rover SVAutobiography Dynamic exited I-95 North.

  His week had been nothing short of a whirlwind. Rearranging appointments, cancelling meetings, breaking the news to the Fitzwilliam odd-bods, visiting the jeweller to approve the bespoke engagement ring.

  The temperature rose above zero. Flurries turned to intermittent showers and fallen snow to slush as the sign welcoming him to “Merryton” came into view. Welcome sight, indeed!

  Just under a year ago, he had driven the same winding road, surrounded by bucolic scenery. But nothing—Nothing!—was so beautiful to him as the sight of Elizabeth and her family waving to him from the front porch of the farmhouse.

  Laughing as she slipped and slid her way to the driveway, Elizabeth hardly waited for the SUV to come to a complete stop before opening his door and flinging herself at him. But with her whole family watching, their reunion was more circumspect than he preferred. There’s always the hayloft, later.

  “Are you wearing it?”

  Rolling his eyes as they stepped through the slush, William unbuttoned his Zilli coat, revealing a reindeer jumper with a “You Sleigh Me” appliqué. “And you?”

  Unzipping her eggplant parka—“Ta-da!”—Elizabeth showed off her sweater’s embroidered patch which sported a reindeer with long lashes and red lipstick and the words “Olive the Other Reindeer.”

  “God, woman!” William wrapped an arm around Elizabeth’s waist as she lost her footing. “Careful of the icy patch! Why aren’t you wearing your boots?”

  “I was in such a hurry to greet you, it must have slipped my mind. I hope, though, that someone will catch me if I fall.”

  “It’s a bit of a role reversal for us, but turnabout is fair play.” Scooping her up into his arms and pointing out his new Timberland boots, William said, “I’ve already fallen for you…over and over and over again.”

  * * *

  J. MARIE CROFT is a self-proclaimed word nerd and adherent of Jane Austen’s quote “Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.” Bearing witness to Joanne’s fondness for Pride and Prejudice, wordplay, and laughter are her light-hearted novel, Love at First Slight (a Babblings of a Bookworm Favourite Read of 2014), her playful novella, A Little Whimsical in His Civilities (Just Jane 1813’s Favourite 2016 JAFF Novella), and her humorous short stories in the anthologies Sun-kissed, The Darcy Monologues, Dangerous to Know, and Rational Creatures. Unlike William and Elizabeth, Joanne lives in
Nova Scotia, Canada.

  The Season for Friendly Meetings

  Anngela Schroeder

  At Christmas every body invites their friends and thinks little of even the worst weather. —Jane Austen

  With the promise of her daughters being amongst eligible rich men, Mrs. Bennet had wasted no time in giving consent for them to accompany Mrs. Long and her nieces to Yorkshire for the Christmas holidays. Elizabeth Bennet was not one to discount her good fortune. Any opportunity to engage in society was something she relished, but even more as her favorite sister still nursed a broken heart.

  Had Mr. Bingley returned to Netherfield Hall after his London business was concluded, the tenuous circumstances in which we find ourselves would be immaterial.

  But he had not, and therefore, with no understanding between Jane and Mr. Bingley and Elizabeth rejecting a marriage proposal from her horrible cousin Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet was ready to exile her second daughter anywhere.

  With a peck on the cheek, her mother said, “I sincerely hope your Christmas may abound in the gaieties which the season generally brings, dear Jane. I daresay you will return to us engaged, if Mrs. Long has anything to do with it. And Lizzy, do not run on in a wild manner. Mind where you are.”

  The Long nieces had diverted Elizabeth and Jane Bennet every summer for as far back as the girls could remember. With their departure to the North before the single and wealthy Mr. Bingley departed Netherfield for London, they were only aware of Jane’s disappointment by letters from their aunt.

  Elizabeth looked about the ballroom in wonder. Swags of crimson fabric draped the columns with boughs of pine hanging from mantles and bannisters. Candles illuminated the mirrors set to reflect the light throughout the rooms. Mama would delight in the attention paid to the decorations.

  Her light heart froze at the sight of Jane, who was dancing with a smartly turned out officer in Regimentals. Hoping to see a bloom in her sister’s cheeks, she saw none. Instead, her sister’s countenance still showed signs of anguish. But only to me. I know her almost as well as she knows herself.