A Darcy Christmas Page 3

  “Miss Gordon, on this most joyous of days, will you do me the very great honor of consenting to become my wife?”

  Her eyes filled with tears and her lips trembled, “I would be most happy to accept your proposal, Mr. Annesley.”

  A snowball hit the church wall just above young Darcy’s head. Startled he looked around to see George Wickham running away with a smile on his face. No longer interested in his tutor’s doings, he ran after the boy.

  The older Darcy watched as the young couple approached his parents.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Annesley, Miss Gordon. We were hoping that the two of you would find happiness together, and lately we have only been wondering when the announcement would be made.” His father shook the tutor’s hands.

  “To chose this time to do so will only add to pleasures of the day,” proclaimed his mother.

  The Spirit touched Darcy on the arm, and he found they were now in his old schoolroom. He watching from the window as servants below loaded up a carriage.

  “Why does Mr. Annesley have to go just because he is getting married?” the younger Darcy asked his father.

  “It is not only his marriage, my boy, but soon you will also be going away to school.”

  “Cannot I go to his school?”

  “No, indeed, for it would not do. He will be teaching at a school for the sons of the local tradesmen and shopkeepers. It is not the company you should be keeping. At school you will be among your peers, those whose situation in life is the same as yours.”

  “Is George Wickham to come to school with me or attend Mr. Annesley’s school?”

  “Neither, I will see that he is educated in a manner that is complementary to his position in life. Every man has his own station in life, from king to lowest beggar, and knowing where your place is amongst others is most important. You are descended from some of the oldest, most prominent families in England; be proud of that, of who you are: a Darcy of Pemberley.”

  Darcy looked out the window as the last of his tutor’s belongings were loaded in the coach. In a few short weeks, he would also leave Pemberley. He was not looking forward to it and mentioned this to his father.

  “Pemberley will always be here for you. You will be happy at your school, Fitzwilliam, just as Mr. Annesley will be happy in his new position. The school is pleased to have him and I have no doubt that he will be headmaster there before long.”

  The room vanished to be replaced by the nursery. Darcy and the Spirit were looking down at a peacefully sleeping baby. The Spirit tried to gently rock the cradle and was disappointed that her powers were not enough to make the shadows tangible.

  The door opened. “Come meet your new sister, Fitzwilliam.” Both parents ushered him into the room. He approached the baby cautiously. He looked into the cradle and was not overly impressed.

  “She was so small she hardly seemed human to me. At school, I was envied for being an only child, but in turn, I envied those who had brothers and sisters,” Darcy told the Spirit, looking over the shoulder of his younger self.

  “And now you finally had one of your own.”

  “Yes, but she was not quite ready to play cricket with me, now was she?” he replied in self-deprecation.

  “I imagine not.” The spirit smiled.

  His father said, “If you are gentle, you may hold her.”

  Young Fitzwilliam was not sure if he wanted to touch the baby. “I would rather not. She appears too fragile, and I could break her.”

  “Babies are sturdier than you think,” his mother told him, “but you should do what you think is best for your sister.”

  “Yes, Fitzwilliam, it is your duty to look out for her and keep her from harm. You are her brother and protector.” His father placed a hand upon his shoulder. “I know I can rely on you to do so.”

  The Ghost smiled thoughtfully and waved its hand, saying as it did so, “Let us see another Christmas!”

  Darcy’s former self grew larger at the words. How this was brought about, Darcy knew not. He only knew that it was quite correct; that everything had happened so; that there he was, home from school for the holiday.

  He watched as Christmas day passed again, his mother, his father, Georgiana, and himself enjoying Christmas dinner, presents, reading poetry, and just being together as a family.

  It was in the evening, and Darcy saw his younger self hide a yawn. His sister was already asleep upon a sofa. He watched as Lady Anne sat down beside him on the sofa, saying, “Now, William, I want to read you the verse I gave you. It is my wish for you that you become such a man when you are grown.” And from The Canterbury Tales she began to read of the Knight:

  A Knight there was, and that a worthy man,

  Who, from the moment when he first began

  To ride forth, loved the code of chivalry:

  Honor and truth, freedom and courtesy.

  As those words filled the room, Darcy knew this day. Unbeknownst to all, it had been the final Christmas he had shared with both his parents. After his mother death, his recollections of this time had him listening with keen interest to every word his mother spoke. Yet the evidence before him showed he had not attended the reading with anything more than a polite interest as his younger self tried to conceal another yawn. So he took the opportunity the Spirit provided to listen until the final words were spoken.

  …Renowned he was; and, worthy, he was wise—

  Prudence, with him, was more than mere disguise;

  He was as meek in manner as a maid.

  Vileness he shunned, rudeness he never said

  In all his life, treating all persons right.

  He was a truly perfect, noble knight.

  “Thank you, Mother, it is always a pleasure to listen to you read. I shall endeavor to live up to those expectations,” said his younger self.

  “‘Vileness he shunned, rudeness he never said/In all his life, treating all persons right,’” quoted the Spirit. “You have not always lived up to those expectations.”

  “No, I have not, I have come to regret it, ma’am.” Darcy frowned. He had not treated Elizabeth right, nor her sister Jane, nor his own friend Bingley. It had led to much misery for all parties.

  He was walking up and down despairingly. Darcy looked at the Ghost, and with a mournful shaking of her head, the room changed to the one he had during his last year at Eton. He was pacing up and down the room in anticipation.

  The door opened; the master said in a somewhat chilly voice, “Mr. Darcy, you have a caller, a female caller. As you know this is frowned upon, Mr. Darcy. However, in this case, I am prepared to make an exception for an exceptional young lady.”

  A little girl, much younger than Darcy, came darting in, and putting her arms about his neck and often kissing him, addressed him as her “Dear, dear brother.”

  “I have come to bring you home, dear brother!” said the child, clapping her tiny hands and bending down to laugh. “To bring you home, home, home!”

  “Home, little Georgie?” returned the boy.

  “Yes!” said the child, brimful of glee. “Father is awaiting you in the coach. I asked him if we might come and fetch you home, for the holiday will be much longer if we do not have to wait days and days for you to arrive. Papa said ‘Yes, we should,’ and sent me in here to bring you. And you’re to go Cambridge,” said the child, opening her eyes. “And are never to come back here; but first, we’re to be together all the Christmas long and have the merriest time in all the world.”

  “You are quite a magpie, little Georgie!” exclaimed the boy.

  She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head, but being too little, laughed again and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. Then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door; and he, nothing loathe to go, accompanied her.

  A voice in the hall cried, “Bring down Master Darcy’s box, there!” and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who smiled on Master Darcy and shook hands with him. He then conveyed Darc
y and his sister into his parlor. Here he produced a pot of tea and a block of curiously heavy cake, and administered installments of those dainties to the young people while at the same time sending out a meager servant to offer a glass of something to Mr. Darcy, who answered that he thanked the gentleman, but if it was the same wine as he had tasted before, he had rather not. Master Darcy’s trunk being by this time tied on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the schoolmaster good-bye right willingly and, getting into it, drove gaily down the garden-sweep, the quick wheels dashing the hoarfrost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray.

  “Always a beautiful creature,” said the Ghost. “And she has a large heart!”

  “So she has,” returned Darcy. “You are right. I will not gainsay it, Spirit. God forbid!”

  “She is now a woman,” said the Ghost, “and will have, I think, many suitors.”

  “She has had one suitor already,” Darcy returned bitterly, “but he only cared for her money. He never cared for Georgiana.”

  “True,” said the Ghost. “Young George Wickham never cared about anyone save himself.”

  Darcy seemed uneasy in his mind that the Spirit should know so much about his personal business and answered briefly, “Yes.”

  Although Darcy and the Spirit had but that moment left Eton behind them, they now were in the thoroughfares of Cambridge, where shadowy strangers passed; where shadowy carts and coaches tumbled along the way, and all the other tumults of a city. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening and the streets were lighted up.

  The Ghost stopped at a certain pub door and asked Darcy if he knew it.

  “Know it?” Darcy was incredulous. “Why, I spent many nights here while at Cambridge! It is the Fuzzy Whig!”

  They went in. An old gentleman in a Welch wig was standing behind the bar. If he had been two inches shorter, he could not have seen over the top of the bar.

  Darcy cried in great excitement. “It is Old Peterson alive again! Many hours we spent in the pub, talking philosophy and literature…”

  “And other fancies of young men?” asked the Spirit.

  Darcy blushed and nodded, and looked over this memory.

  Old Peterson laid down his polishing cloth and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands, adjusted his capacious apron, laughed to himself, and called out in a comfortable and jovial voice as the door to the taproom opened:

  “Yo ho, there! Mr. Darcy! Lord Wilkins!”

  Darcy’s former self, now grown to a young man, came in briskly, accompanied by his fellow classmate.

  “Richard Wilkins, to be sure!” said Darcy to the Ghost. “Yes. There he is. He was so lively, it is hard to believe that he is already gone, killed in the Battle of Talavera.”

  “Yo ho, boys! No more work for me tonight. Christmas Eve, Lord Wilkins. Christmas, Mr. Darcy!” cried old Peterson with a sharp clap of his hands.

  Peterson held a party for all those fine young scholars at Cambridge, who, for whatever reason, could not make it home for Christmas. Darcy had not been particularly eager to join his father and sister in spending the holiday with his aunt, Lady Catherine. So he accepted Lord Wilkins invitation to stay in Cambridge during the holiday.

  More students entered behind Darcy and his friend. Peterson skipped around the bar with wonderful agility. “Go on up, my lads, and enjoy the party!”

  Up they ventured into the public room where everyone was gathering. The floor was swept, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the pub was as snug, warm, dry, and as bright as could be desired from a ballroom on a cold winter’s night.

  In came the musicians with their music books and made an orchestra of one corner, tuning their instruments like fifty stomachaches. In came Mrs. Peterson, one vast smile, followed by the three Miss Petersons, beaming and lovable, and the six young followers whose hearts they held. In came the housemaid with her baker, the cook with her milkman, and the boy from over the way, who tried to hide himself from the girl next door who had caught his shy heart. More friends of the Petersons and more students arrived. In they all came, one after another—some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling—but they all came to the party.

  There were dances, and there were forfeits and still more dances. There were tables laden with cake, negus, a great piece of cold roast, a great piece of cold ham, and mince pies. Plenty of beer flowed throughout the night. But the greatest event of the evening came after the roast, when the fiddler struck up “Sir Roger de Coverley.” Then, old Peterson stood up to dance with Mrs. Peterson. Four and twenty pair of partners joined in—people who were not to be trifled with, people who would dance and had no notion of walking, including Darcy.

  But if they had been twice as many, old Peterson would have been a match for them and so would Mrs. Peterson.

  The Spirit noticed this and said to Darcy, “She was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that is not high praise, tell me what is higher and I will use it.”

  “Indeed,” Darcy observed from the sidelines, “all of the couples were well matched. Oh, the women laughed and flirted and danced with the students, but it was clear that they were just having an evening’s fun. They were truly happy with their own partners.”

  When the clock struck eleven, the domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. Everybody had retired but Darcy and his friend, so they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to find their way back to their rooms.

  During the whole of this time, Darcy had acted quite unlike himself. His heart and soul were in the scene and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, and enjoyed everything. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Dick were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost and became conscious that it was looking full upon him.

  “Were you not bored?” asked the Ghost, as they followed the young men.

  “Bored?” echoed Darcy.

  “I should think you would be,” answered the Spirit, “at an assembly such as that, with people of little character and no breeding. Cooks and milkmen, housemaids and bakers?”

  “It was not the company,” said Darcy, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his Cambridge self. “Peterson could not bear to see anyone unhappy. The happiness he gave was to all who needed it, especially to those who were alone during the holidays; it mattered not if you were a Duke or a dust boy. All mingled at the Fuzzy Whig. Pretensions were not allowed.”

  He felt the Spirit’s glance and stopped.

  “What is the matter?” asked the Ghost.

  “Nothing particular,” said Darcy.

  “Something, I think,” the Ghost insisted.

  “No,” said Darcy. “No. I should like to have behaved better at an assembly I attended in Meryton. That’s all.”

  His former self turned down the lane as he gave utterance to the wish; and Darcy and the Ghost again stood side-by-side, alone in the open air.

  “My time grows short,” observed the Spirit. “Quick!”

  The address was again familiar to Darcy, a small house in an exclusive section of London. Darcy saw himself. He was older now. It was the Christmas dinner of a year ago. He was not alone, but sat across from a red-headed woman in a green dress. He was embarrassed that his mother should see him here.

  “It matters little,” she said softly. “Very little. Another has displaced me; and if she can cheer and comfort you in the time to come, as I have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve.”

  “Who has displaced you?” he rejoined.

  “I know not, but you have not been the same since you came back from Hertfordshire.”


  “You are mistaken,” he said. “There is no-one!”

  “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” she asked gently.

  “There is no-one,” he repeated. “I am not changed towards you.”

  She shook her head.

  “Am I?”

  “Our friendship is an old one. It was made when we were both in need of comfort and companionship. You were still grieving for your father and I was not grieving for my husband. Still, I had much to recover from.”

  “He was not a gentleman,” he said quietly.

  “True,” she returned. “Marriage, that which promised happiness when I was young, was fraught with misery. I learned that a parent does not always know what is best for their child. A fine name, good income, and a grand home will never make up for a lack of character in its owner.” She hesitated a moment before continuing. “I am not the child I was upon my marriage nor am I the pathetic creature that I was after it was over. You helped me more than I can ever acknowledge nor can I sufficiently express my gratitude.”

  “Gratitude was never necessary,” replied Darcy.

  “I know that it is not, but it is what I feel. It is with much thanks that I release you.”

  “Have I sought release?”

  “In words? No. Never.”

  “In what then?”

  “In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; the atmosphere of another who is ever on your mind; another hope as its great end. If the past had never been between us,” said the woman, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him, “tell me, would you seek me out now? Ah, no!”

  He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition in spite of himself. But he said with a struggle, “You think not.”

  “I can hardly think otherwise,” she answered. “Heaven knows! How can I believe that you would choose me when I can see that there is one who you weigh every female against? Choose her; do not know the repentance and regret I did. Whatever happens, I am hopeful that we will remain friends.”

  She lifted her wine glass and toasted, “May you be happy with the one you love!”

  Darcy remembered that he felt some inner turmoil, for he had not yet been ready to acknowledge the truth of her statements. But almost as if it acted of its own accord, Darcy’s hand lifted the wine glass in an answering salute.