the best Christmas of my entire life.”
“It isn’t over yet,” she whispered. “But as sweet as that is for you to say, how could it be the best of your life, William?”
He met her eyes. “I am not exaggerating. Never has a Christmas transcended this one, Elizabeth. And I do not refer to the incredible passion we have together, although that surpasses every fantasy my feeble mind conjured. And certainly that facet alone adds a delicious dimension to ‘celebrating’ Christmas that I never experienced before. But, at the risk of sounding woefully quixotic, my love for you enhances all aspects of my life to a degree that overwhelms me.”
“I adore my quixotic husband, so do not stop.” She pulled him in for a long kiss.
“Yes, most assuredly better than any of my dreams.”
“You dreamt of us celebrating Christmas?”
“Last year I was tortured, if you want to know the truth. I could not stop thinking of you, Elizabeth. It took me awhile but it was consistent dreams of us as a family that finally convinced me that I was in love with you.” And in gentle tones and vivid recounting, he told her of the visions that had haunted him.
“I wish I could say that I thought of you last Christmas, my love.”
He shook his head. “Do not be sad, dearest. We are together now and that is all that matters. Besides”—and he grinned, lifting his left brow—“you are thinking of me now, are you not?”
Lizzy laughed, nudging him until he rolled onto his back with her body draped partially over. “Indeed I am. Thinking quite seriously, as a matter of fact. I have promised to practice until an expert on the subject…”
“Then I shall pray you never become an ‘expert’ as I would not wish for the practicing to cease,” he interrupted.
“I am sure there is always something new to learn,” she assured him. “I am very clever, you know.”
“Yes, I know!”
“Do you still wish for serenity and composure? Or does a little fire and argument now exhilarate you, Mr. Darcy?”
“No and yes.” He wrapped his fingers within her hair, bringing her closer for an intense kiss. “I have repented of my foolish misconceptions. You may scorch me with your fire any time you wish, Mrs. Darcy.”
The antique clock of gleaming mahogany chimed through the midnight hour, alerting the busy occupants that Christmas Day had arrived. The final chime’s echo still rang when they were finally able to speak.
“Merry Christmas, my lover.”
“Indeed it is!” he rasped. “I knew it was unwise to give you access to the books if you can devise such methods all on your own. I think you may kill me!”
But Lizzy just laughed.
Christmas Toys
The mid-morning sun shone brightly through the wide windows lining the west-facing wall of the huge main parlor. Dustings of snow lay upon the terrace stones, but the fair weather and unobstructed sunlight had melted the bulk of it. It was cold outside, as one expected on Christmas Day, but the combination of blazing fire for interior warmth and golden rays from without created a false summertime atmosphere. The mood amongst the Pemberley inhabitants was as gay as one might expect at a spring picnic or festival. But rather than focusing on fine finger foods or catching butterflies, the adults were cheerily focused on one thirteen-month-old infant.
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
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
“Thank goodness it is only you two here this Christmas or we not only would never get through the gift unveiling, but we would also have a brawl on our hands. Jane may take exception to the ‘favorite’ appellation.” Lizzy spoke from her lounging location on the chaise, her voice weak and rough from coughing.
Darcy had returned from an eventful visit to London several days ago and discovered his wife extremely ill with a vicious cold. Darcy was still furious over not being informed of her illness. She was gradually improving under the care of their resident physician and her diligent husband, but remained lethargic and symptomatic. Yet, as sick as she was, Lizzy refused to lie abed for her son’s first Christmas of consequence, the prior one occurring when he was not yet a month old. Darcy understood—his attempts to dissuade feebly offered—but he was worried. He directed a glare at his uncle, who ignored the not-so-subtle reminder of his nephew’s irritation at not being notified, before closely examining his wife’s face for the slightest sign of increasing distress.
“Cease staring at me, William. I am fine.”
“Drink all your tea and then I will cease staring at you.”
Lizzy lifted the cup reluctantly to her lips, grimacing with each swallow. “This is exceptionally foul.” She shuddered, it now her turn to glare at the doctor.
“If medicine was delicious, people would stay sick,” George asseverated. “It is a psychological inducement to get well if the medicine is bitter and fetid.”
“Alexander’s medicine was a sweet, berry-flavored syrup,” she grumbled sulkily, already knowing his response since they had had this argument several times, the physician always winning and the tonics suspiciously
