His eyes moved across her to the cot beside the bed. In it was a baby, red and crumpled, but for all that, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.
He heard a slight stirring beside him and turned to see that Elizabeth had awoken. He went over to her and kissed her again. She sat up and he put the pillows behind her to make her more comfortable, then she reached towards the baby. Eager to prevent her overtiring herself, he picked up his daughter and then wondered what he had done, for he had no idea how to hold her and he was suddenly afraid she might break. But she settled into his hands trustingly and he carried her over to Elizabeth. As he put her into Elizabeth’s arms, he thought he had never known a moment so perfect.
“There remains just one question to be answered,” said Elizabeth with a smile. “Is she your Christmas present to me, or is she my Christmas present to you?”
Darcy remained with Elizabeth all day and, despite the protestations of the nurse, he refused to move. Elizabeth further scandalised the nurse by talking of going downstairs after dinner. Her robust constitution had stood her in good stead and she had recovered quickly from the birth, so that Jane had no qualms about seconding Elizabeth’s determination. And so it was that Elizabeth joined the rest of the party that evening.
Lady Catherine declared herself scandalised and Mr. Collins agreed with her, saying that his own dear Charlotte had remained in bed for every day of the accustomed lying in period.
Elizabeth, knowing Charlotte’s nature, doubted it, but she was too happy to argue with him.
“Well, Lizzy, this is a joyful Christmas,” said Mr. Bennet. “Two daughters married and two cribs by their sides.” He turned to Mary, who was playing the pianoforte. “Excellent, my dear, a wonderful sonata, but today we want something different, I think. Play us some carols if you please.”
Mary determinedly finished her sonata, but once it was done she obliged the company by playing a selection of carols and the festive strains mingled with the crackling of the fire to create a cheerful scene.
“Another grandchild,” said Mrs. Bennet, smiling dotingly at the new baby.
Kitty and Maria were cooing at the two babies.
“And have you decided on a name?” asked Mr. Bennet.
“Something festive, in honour of the occasion,” said Caroline. “Carol, perhaps, or”—as though she had just thought of it—“Caroline. That would suit the occasion very well.”
Mr. Hurst said, “Humph,” from his place, reclining on the sofa, but Mr. Bennet said, “An excellent idea!” He twinkled at Elizabeth. “Or perhaps Catherine,” he added.
Lady Catherine looked graciously pleased.
“Oh, yes, a most illustrious name,” said Mr. Collins at once. “If I may say so, any child would be fortunate, nay graced, by so noble a name.”
“Or Lady Catherine,” said Mrs. Bennet.
Elizabeth laughed, but her father, never slow to indulge his wife’s follies, remarked, “True, Lady Catherine would be a fine name. But I believe there might be some little difficulty about christening the child with a title she does not possess.”
Darcy put a stop to their guesses by saying, “We have already decided on the name. She will be Elizabeth, like her mother, but we will call her Beth.”
“Well, to be sure, that is as good a name as any,” Mrs. Bennet conceded. For, having given it to her own daughter, she could hardly disagree. She gave a happy sigh and looked around the room with glossy sprigs of holly tucked behind the mirrors and red berries glowing in the candlelight, then letting her eyes come to rest on the cribs. “What a Christmas this is turning out to be. Three daughters married and now two grandchildren. If only Captain Collins should happen to call in the next few hours and ask for your hand, Kitty, my dear, my happiness would be complete.”
Sharon Lathan
A Darcy Christmas
Prologue
He set the painting onto the sofa, assuring it was well supported before stepping away. He gazed at the canvas, a smile spreading as he looked upon his family. His family. The family created by him and his wife, just as he had dreamt for so many lonely years. They stood on the portico of Pemberley flanked by their precious children on the steps. All of them were smiling at the artist. A sentimental man by nature, he silently examined the newest portrait of his family and lost himself in happy memories. Unsurprisingly, since it was Christmas Day, his reminiscences focused on holiday celebrations of the past. So lost was he in quiet contemplations that he did not hear his study door opening. But he did smell the lavender water habitually worn by his wife and extended his arm without averting his attention from the painting. She slipped under his arm, nestling against his side as naturally as a bird takes to its nest, her arms encompassing his waist.
“I plan to hang it there,” he nodded toward the wall above the settee. “As much as I love Gainsborough’s landscape, I would prefer to have you and our children watching over me as I work. Someday it can join the others in the Portrait Gallery, but not yet.”
She nodded in agreement. “I concur. We look wonderful here. It is an amazing portrait, arriving at a perfect time.”
“How true. It induced me to reflect on Christmases past. All of them have been wonderful since you came into my life.” He looked at his wife then, his blue eyes tender and inundated with love.
“All of them?” she repeated, teasing and meeting his eyes with the same intense emotion.
“Even those Christmases that were sad or difficult were special, my heart. My life is complete since we married and I would change nothing. This Christmas is the most recent in a long line of incredible memories.”
“It is not over yet!” she reminded him, both of them laughing as they returned their gazes to the painting.
Silently, in sweet harmony, they admired the canvas testimonial to what they, through God’s grace, had achieved in the long years of their marriage. They studied the painted images, each beloved beyond measure. The portraitist had easily identified the individual characteristics, capturing them brilliantly. Especially manifest was the love, unswerving commitment, and supreme happiness verily shining from their faces as proud parents to the next generation of Darcys. Memories of Christmases together flowed through both their minds, time seeming to halt as they reminisced.
She broke the quiet contemplation, tugging gently on his waist. “Come, love. Our family awaits and I have a special present for you.”
“I thought we were finished exchanging gifts this year.”
“It is something special I have held in reserve.”
“Secrets?”
“Of course! It is Christmas after all!”
With laughter and a final glance at the mute and fixed images, they exited the parlor to rejoin the boisterous reality.
Christmas Loneliness
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.