Carolyn Eberhart - A Darcy Christmas

It did not come.

Rather he recalled the dreams that had, in one shape or another, been haunting him nearly from the moment he encountered a vivid pair of brown eyes within the crowd at an obscure dance assembly in Meryton.

He wanted to be angry.

He wanted to be disgusted with himself.

And he wanted to forget her.

At least that is what he told himself. But even now, as he remembered his dreams and remembered their conversations in Hertfordshire, he knew a smile was spreading over his face and heat was flushing through his body.

Some of that, he knew, was due to the nature of many of his dreams. It annoyed him to a degree, and he was embarrassed to a degree. But he logically deduced that it had nothing to do with Miss Elizabeth personally. No, indeed not! It was simply that he had reached the point where needing a woman, a wife, was a physical necessity. Surely that was the primary reason why increasingly erotic musings were causing him to bolt awake in a sweat of unfulfilled desire.

If it was always Elizabeth Darcy—Bennet!—who brought him to such a state, well that could be logically explained as well. Right?

Of course! It was because she had enchanted him in some way that he could not comprehend. Her passionate personality, her fire as she argued with him, her intelligence as she countered every last one of his held beliefs, her teasing smile and sparkling eyes as she laughed at him—At him! Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley!—drove him virtually insane until he no longer controlled his faculties. Until his dreams, both day and night, were invaded by her.

Yes, that was it.

And if he was beginning to dream of her as the mother to his children?

Well, that was more troubling.

He again scanned the room, only now he was seeing it as in the recent dreams. Elizabeth curled up in his chair, wearing a soft gown of blue with a baby at her breast. He and Elizabeth reclining on the bed with several children jumping on the mattress as they all laughed. The door to the unused dressing room once belonging to his mother ajar with Elizabeth brushing her incredible hair and smiling at him via the mirror while he held a child in his arms. Elizabeth pregnant and standing before him while he caressed the swell of her belly with his hands. Elizabeth…

He shook his head to clear the strange and disturbing visions that had started in earnest these past two weeks.

Since returning to Pemberley.

Since preparing for Christmas.

He passed a hand over his face.

You are lonely, Darcy, he thought. Admit it. You want a wife and a family.

Of course this was not a huge revelation. He had longed for a family of his own for most of his adult life. He had envisioned the silent halls of Pemberley echoing with the noise of childish laughter and running feet. He had desired a relationship as his parents possessed. He had searched endlessly for a woman to love.

Did he love Elizabeth Bennet?

He crawled under the counterpane, the cold linen upon his flesh a sharp contrast to the imaginary fever he felt flowing over his skin while dreaming of her. The flames of passion and tranquil warmth of affection were so incredibly real. Yet, he did not know the answer to his question. Did he love Elizabeth Bennet? Or did he merely desperately crave a connection that presently eluded him? Was he simply weary of searching and being alone?

He no longer knew. But as the tendrils of sleep claimed him, he recognized that his anger and disgust were a sham. The edges of his unconscious mind accepted the love he refused to acknowledge in broad daylight. He reached for the dreams, however they would come to him on this night, Christmas Eve, as an intoxicant that he wanted and required.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered as sleep overtook him, not even aware that he had done so.

And eventually the dream came.

This one was different, as they all were, although the essence was the same.

He walked down the main floor corridor toward the parlor with a spring in his step that was utterly inconceivable in his real world but completely normal in this imaginary world. Happy voices, laughter, and singing reverberated down the hall, growing in volume as he neared the gaping portal. He distinguished each one of them, placing names to the individual tones with warm, deep emotion attached. Many of the names would escape him when he woke—this he knew on some level—but in his dream they were dear and intimate.

There was Richard and Georgiana, his Aunt Madeline and Uncle Malcolm, even Jonathan and Priscilla. These were not a surprise. But as he turned the corner and crossed the threshold, his eyes instantly scanned the room and alit upon the one voice dearest of all.

Elizabeth.

He always knew she would be there, somewhere in the midst of those he loved most in the world, belonging there as surely as he did.

She stood next to Richard laughing at some joke his cousin had made. Her ringing laugh, the one he insisted annoyed him while in Hertfordshire but he knew never had, was now the sweetest music. It filled him to bursting with a joy unlike anything he had ever experienced. Even not directed at him, her happiness was a profound balm to his soul, and the smile that had been forming before entering the room grew wider.

Then she noted his presence and turned in his direction, her glorious eyes engaging his. And there quite simply were no words in the English language to describe what passed between or to relate how he felt. Yes indeed, it was magical, and the enchantment feared in his waking moments was wholly understood in this visionary place as the purest form of bonded love.

He accepted it. He relished it. He claimed it. And he returned it wholeheartedly.

He took a step toward her, intending to enfold her into his arms and press her against his heart, but his legs were abruptly engulfed.

“Papa! Papa!”

The dreaming Darcy was not the slightest bit surprised by the chaotic assault of several tiny arms and piping voices. In fact, his spirit soared higher, the missing pieces of his puzzled real life snapping together instantly, into a masterpiece depicting earthly paradise. A booming laugh launched from his mouth and he knelt to administer hugs and kisses to the surging mass of children clamoring to accept his love.

Then Elizabeth was there. His wife. He stood, gazing at her with his entire soul visible in his eyes. She smiled simply, raising one hand to lightly touch his cheek, and said, “Happy Christmas, William.”

On some level his rational mind knew it was fantastical, as the number of offspring defied what was physically possible unless Elizabeth had birthed triplets once a year! But of course, dreams have a way of melding reality and allegory. Besides, it was the emotions attached to the fabricating dream that counted. The power of hearing her utter his name, the shortened name only those dear to him used, was so strong. Add to that the intensity of affection from a multitude of quarters and his sleeping mind was soothed as it never was in his waking life.

The dream proceeded as all dreams do. It flipped incoherently from scene to scene, some bizarre in their content and hazy while others were crystalline. The strange mingling of credible specifics—such as Georgiana a grown woman and the heirloom Christmas decorations adorning the Manor—with points impossible—like his parents conversing with Elizabeth—seemed normal within the boundaries of the dream.

It wasn’t the details that resonated but the themes of family and love. And as happened every night, he jerked awake before the final consummation of expressing his love to his wife. The ache of need with heart pounding and perspiration rapidly chilling his skin brought on tremors and groans.

He lurched to his feet, crossing the room to stir the smoldering logs. He stared into the flames, his body warming as he tried to make sense of it. The questions flashed through his brain as they did every night. Why her? Was it possible to love in such a way? Was it fated for him as he hoped? Had he childishly imagined his parents possessing such a love? Would he ever have a family of his own? Was he a romantic fool destined to be disappointed?

Did he love Elizabeth Bennet?

And then it dissolved, as it inevitably did. The cold air restored his clarity, the fuzzy sentiments dissipated, his rational intellect reinstated, and logic took over. It was only because he was lonely. It was due to the nature of the Christmas holiday focusing on love and felicity leading to nonsensical musings.

He could not be in love with the lowborn, argumentative, fiery Elizabeth Bennet!

The dreams were nice, pleasant, and passionate, but harmless. Just enjoy them while they last, he thought to himself. Why not? They will pass. You will never see Miss Bennet again. God will bring a suitable mate to you. The years will unfold sensibly and composedly. Indeed, serenity will prevail, as it should.

So with that comforting thought conquering the turmoil, his mind calmed and heart beat a regular rhythm. He returned to his bed, his slumber, and his dreams.

A year after the torturous dream-filled weeks of 1815 presented a Christmas Eve as different as night is from day. Pemberley was adorned with a wealth of green vines and branches with candles both large and small flickering in nooks and creatively decorated crannies. The holiday family heirlooms were repaired and now graced their customary locations, mistletoe ornaments lurked at practically every hallway junction, and the aromas of savory food wafted tantalizingly from the kitchen. Guest rooms once layered with dust were inhabited by visitors from afar, increasing the lights and laughter blazing from the game rooms and music chamber. Topping it off was the enormous Yule log burning in the main parlor’s hearth.

Happiness, deep love, and Christmas cheer echoed down the lengthy corridors and invaded every chamber of the Manor. But in none were these positive emotions as high as in the Master’s chambers on the upper floor of the south wing.

You see, this Christmas was Darcy’s first as a married man. A newlywed of less than a month, in fact, and to his indescribable joy, his wife was Elizabeth. The numerous questions of the prior Christmas were answered beyond his wildest imaginings. Any delusions or doubts were erased.

Was he in love with Elizabeth Bennet, now Elizabeth Darcy?

Yes! A resounding yes, and to a depth that continually staggered him.

She was amazing in every definition of the word and astounded him at every turn. Celebrating Christmas in an unrestrained manner was her idea, the planning begun days after entering the house as its Mistress and executed flawlessly. Darcy quickly recognized that his newly found joy would not have allowed for the quiet commemorations of the past even had he wished it, which he did not. His heart was simply too full. Thus, the festivities had started several days ago with visitors and music, the perpetually smiling and laughing Darcy surprisingly loving each moment and always with Elizabeth Darcy at his side.

However, it truly was the private holiday observances that topped his list. Sharing his bride with others was not as painful as it might have been since they ensured special time alone. So far today, Christmas Eve, they had kissed under the hanging mistletoe, cuddled in the library, ice skated, and then explored the delights to be found in bathing together—the latter an extremely pleasurable activity they agreed must be repeated as often as possible!

After a wonderful evening involving fine dining, games, and singing with their guests, they retired to the chamber they shared and sat before the fire on the newly acquired, exquisitely tanned hide of a brown bear, propped against a dozen down-stuffed pillows with her body nestled between his legs. The legs still weakened from the shocking but blissful gift given to him in her dressing room! Her frank, verbal proposal of precisely how she wished for her husband of one month to love her—in her dressing room—all while unveiling her gorgeous body, was quite simply the best gift he had ever received in his entire life. He was yet reeling, but in a completely satisfied manner.

The glow yet flushed their skin as they cuddled, sipped wine, shared an abundance of tender kisses, and talked. Darcy read aloud from Lord Byron’s The Corsair, the melodramatic poem of love and pirates additionally thrilling when rendered in his resonant, storytelling voice. Lizzy, absently toying with the bookmark that had kept their place since last evening’s reading, was mesmerized by his surprisingly expressive face.