Christmas at Pemberley

and cloaks and fancy hats.”

Mavis’s eyes grew larger. “Fancy dresses? I mean, fancier than the one ye be wearin’?”

Again, Kitty felt the disparity between her wardrobe and that of the Foxmours. “Very fancy,” she confided. “Fancy enough for Queen Charlotte herself.”

“I be,” Mavis gasped. “Would ye draw a fancy dress for me Gram? She be always sayin’ she jist once wanted a fancy dress of her own.”

Kitty’s eyes gleamed with a teary mist. “Happily so.” She reached for a pencil. “Let me see. How should it look?”

“Long sleeves,” Nell piped up. “Gram always be wearin’ long sleeves even in the hot months.”

Kitty began to sketch the outline of a matronly gown while three little girls crawled closer to watch each scratch of her pencil along the paper’s rough texture.

“Lace,” Nell whispered. “Gram likes lace. She be lookin’ at it every time we be goin’ to Lambton.”

“Then lace it is.” Kitty added the intricate details about the neck and cuffs. “It’ll be the grandest dress,” she said as little Tavia pointed to a place Kitty had missed. “Your grandmother shall love it because you’ve designed it especially for her.”

Darcy sat alone in a corner of the common room. Mr. Joseph had joined some of the other men in a friendly card game, and Darcy relished the few moments of solitude. Leaving for Pemberley tomorrow would be heavenly in more than one way. He anticipated enjoying his wife’s happiness when she, at last, saw her family at Pemberley, but having moments with Elizabeth without an audience would be better. For some eight and twenty hours, he and his wife had shared their quarters with the Josephs, and even though the situation had produced some awkward moments, overall, it had been an amiable solution.

“Here be the paper and pen you requested, Mr. Darcy.”

“Thank you, Nan.” Thinking of the quality paper at Pemberley, Darcy reached for the cheap foolscap the inn provided. With the maid’s departure, he took up the pen to tell his wife of his continual devotion.

22 December

My darling Elizabeth,

By this time tomorrow, we will be on our way to Pemberley, but a bit of Harrogate and Prestwick’s Portal will remain with us always. Within these walls, I have discovered another facet of the remarkable woman I have married.You are the portrait of everything of which I have ever dreamed. When I look in your eyes, I see the man I pray to someday be.

Yet, I sometimes wonder what you see in mine. Can you read what is there? In your opinion, am I more than I seem to be? I want you to know the man that I am — the one who would abandon everything for you. I would leave behind my honor. I would pay any price to have you as my wife. As we move forward with our lives, I offer you solace in my arms — my beautiful Elizabeth — the woman with a soul as beautiful as her face.

Our child grows within you, and I believe that God has given us a glimpse of our future happiness when we look into the Josephs’ faces. It is our time. That may be prideful, but I feel it is so. God placed you in my life to bring my faith home to Him. Like Moses wandering in the wilderness, I kept my faith in check. I would have returned to Egypt, keeping it as security in case the desert held too many dangers, but I have learned that I cannot love anything partially: not you, not Georgiana, and not our God. I must place all my faith in those I love, and then God will give me what I need. He showed me that fact when He placed you within my life.Yet, I doubted that God knew what was best, and in my pride, I disdainfully declared myself the wiser; and my heart suffered much for it.

Now, I do not fear that God will snatch happiness from my grasp. I have given Him the part of my heart that I can spare from loving you, and He has accepted my foolish soul as his own. So, yes, I am confident that our child will come to us in the spring. We will know no more sacrifice.

D

“Mr. Foxmour, your mother wants to see you and the children,” Mr. Winkler said softly from the draped doorway. Kitty stiffened. She and the girls had drawn pictures and had laughed, but now it was time to say their farewells to their grandmother, and Kitty saw the instant anguish on each of their faces. These children understood death better than she. Kitty did not remember her grandparents — being but a babe when the last of them passed.

“Choose the pictures you’ll share with Mrs. Foxmour,” she said to the children as she picked up the multi- colored pages. “Hurry, Girls.”

Mr. Foxmour stood stiffly. “Mavis, you three go first.” His voice held traces of his grief. “I’ll fetch Hugh.”

“Hugh be asleep, Papa,” Nell protested.

“I know, Sweet One.” Kitty and the girls watched Mr. Foxmour mechanically walk toward the other bedroom.

“Come, Children,” Mr. Winkler motioned them through the opening.

Tentatively, they entered the room, and Kitty could no longer control the tears streaming down her cheeks. As Mr. Foxmour carried the sleepy toddler through the room, Kitty reached for the boy’s arm, as she was unable to console the child’s father.

With the family in the small room, Mr. Winkler remained at the opening, and Kitty simply moved into his comforting embrace. Winkler kissed her forehead, and Kitty buried her tears in his waistcoat. “I’m sorry,” she sniffed when he handed her his handkerchief.

“I’m not disappointed,” he bent his head to whisper in her ear.

Kitty snuggled closer before turning her head to watch the family.

“Bring the children closer,” Mrs. Foxmour rasped in a hacking breath.

The three girls scrambled to the straw-stuffed mattress covering a wooden frame. “We brung pictures, Grandmother,” Mavis said slowly. The girl was obviously accustomed to tending the older woman. She positioned the other girls where the elder Mrs. Foxmour could see them in the dim candlelight. “Miss Catherine teached us.” The girl thrust the drawings into the gnarled hand.

“What be this?” the old woman’s gravelly words held tenderness.

“It be a horse,” Nell said proudly. “Good enough to win the Ascot. Miss Catherine say that be a fine race.”

“His name?” the old woman whispered.

The child shot a quick glance to Kitty, and Kitty gave the first name to come to mind. “Galahad. A real champion.”

“Galahad,” the child repeated. “A horse with a strong heart.”

“It be a fine animal. And this one?” Mrs. Foxmour shuffled the papers.

Tavia crawled closer. “Mine, Grandmother. A princess in a red dress.”

“She be pretty like ye, Child.” A rheumatic finger traced Tavia’s cheek.

“This one Miss Catherine drew, but we be tellin’ her what to add.” Mavis repositioned the papers in her grandmother’s grasp.

The woman’s hands began to tremble, and her nearly translucent eyes seeped with tears. “It be the most beautiful dress I’s ever seed,” she said softly.

Mavis leaned across the woman to kiss the wrinkled cheek. “It be yer dream dress, Grandmother.”

“That be true, Child.” All three girls surrounded the family’s matriarch.

“Here is Hugh, Mama.” Mr. Foxmour held the sleeping child.

She briefly touched the child’s head. “Ye have good children, Arthur.”

“Yes, Mama.”

The younger Mrs. Foxmour hefted the boy from her husband’s arms and motioned the girls to lead the way