A DARCY CHRISTMAS BY SHARON LATHAN

The snowflakes drifted slowly downward. They were enormous flakes and floating so delicately on the air that, even in the inky darkness behind the thick glass with only the faint glow of lamplight reflecting, Fitzwilliam Darcy could visualize the minute crystals and unique geometry of each flake. It was mesmerizing and oddly calming to his tumultuous thoughts. He sipped the cocoa that was now lukewarm, watched the snow fall and gather into piles on the panes, and struggled to stir up the Christmas cheer one was supposed to enjoy on Christmas Eve.

It was not working.

He couldn’t readily recall the last Christmas that was truly joyous. Surely it was before his mother died, but the memories were faded and supplanted by so many years of forced gaiety. Oh, they exchanged presents and decorated the house and went to church and delighted in a lavish feast. Often they visited Rivallain for the day, the estate of his uncle and aunt, the Earl and Marchioness of Matlock, and once or twice they had dwelt at Darcy House in London for the holiday activities there. But like all festivities since his mother’s passing, and now his father’s, the celebratory atmosphere was muted.

Of course he strived to celebrate the day for his sister Georgiana’s sake, understanding that a child needed the merrymaking. And lauding the birth of their Savior was indeed a commemoration he took very seriously. Yet personally, he often felt that the entire season could easily pass by without him noticing or caring.

Darcy had grown so accustomed to the attitude that it hardly registered any longer. Even while plotting and planning for Georgiana and purchasing gifts—that a delight he truly did enjoy—his internal zeal for Christmas was dim. He did not dread the holiday nor was he particularly gloomy over it; he just did not care all that much.

So why was this year so different? Why did he feel a melancholy blanketing his soul? And why did the dreams continue to invade his sleep? Why was she persistent in burrowing into his mind and hea…? No! He refused to even think it! This Christmas of 1815 was no different than the previous twenty-seven.

He sighed unconsciously and continued with his rapt contemplation of the falling snow and abstracted sipping of the cooling cocoa.

*  ~  *  ~  *

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 crafted 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.”

*  ~  *  ~  *

Darcy grunted. “Be that as it may, what I am curious about is how you two seem to be catching so many clandestine kissers under mistletoe. Wandering the halls freely after escaping your nannies?”

“Yep!” They declared simultaneously with nary a hint of remorse. “We saw Aunt Mary kissing Uncle Joshua. Caleb kissing Miss Cassie. Aunt Giana kissing…”

“Very well,” Darcy dryly interrupted the flood, “I believe we get the idea.”

“And Uncle George showed us the hidden passageway behind the King Arthur tapestry!”

“Oh did he now?” Darcy growled, Lizzy bursting into laughter.

“Be calm, dearest. It only leads to the music room so no harm can be done. I have never understood what the purpose of that secret route could be.”

“Mysteries of Pemberley aside, you two are hereby forbidden to evade your caretakers and wander the halls, understood?”

“Yes, Papa,” they quickly agreed, heads nodding in unison.

Lizzy chuckled under her breath and Darcy briefly closed his eyes, both knowing the admonishment would be as ignored as the promise. Prim Alexander sat on his father’s lap through the whole commentary with his lips pressed tightly together and brows knitted. Lizzy ruffled his curls, leaned for a kiss, and whispered for his ears only, “Occasional misbehaving is healthy, Alexander. You should give it a try now and again.” But he truly looked aghast at the idea, Lizzy only laughing harder and pulling her firstborn onto her lap for a snug embrace.

“Can we go now? Please!” Michael and Noella pleaded, bouncing on their knees, for once not irritating each other in their agreement over Christmas entertainments.

“I am hungry.”

“And I have Christmas presents and birthday presents and cake!”

“It’s not fair that she gets more presents,” Michael grumbled, the truce obviously over as he glared at his sister.

“It’s my birthday!” Noella smugly declared, smirking as she added, “Christmas is my special day, not yours.”

“Christmas is everybody’s special day. It’s Jesus’ day, not yours, silly!”

“Today is God’s day first,” Lizzy interrupted what promised to be full-scale war. “But we will manage to celebrate both special events. Just as Alexander’s birthday falls on mine and your papa’s anniversary and we always celebrate both.”

“But…”

“No ‘buts’ young man,” Darcy caressed the thick brown locks so like his. “Look at it this way, son: You have a birthday all your own. A day not shared with any other holiday or person.”

“So can we open presents now?” Noella asked, ignoring Michael’s cheery expression and protruding tongue.

“Your birthday will be celebrated later today, after church and Christmas.”

“But I am three!” she wailed, tears instantly forming.

“Technically you will not be three until late this afternoon, Noella, because that is when you were born.”

“But, Papa! That is silly. Today is my birthday and today happened at midnight!”

“You cannot argue with that logic,” Lizzy murmured with a smile.