Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

“No, same place as always. Shall we wake you for breakfast?”

“Not if you desire to live.” He turned and walked back down the two steps, leaning over to kiss Lizzy on both cheeks. “Good night, beautiful,” he muttered, “and thank you for the concern.” He then disappeared up the stairs. Elizabeth and Darcy both watched him until he turned the corner of the hallway.

“Well, that is very strange, I must say!” Elizabeth whispered, one hand pressed to her lips. She turned to look up at her husband. “Very extraordinary, don’t you think? I shall have to go up and speak with him tomorrow.”

“Leave him be for a while, please, Elizabeth. And by the way, how did you get down those stairs? Hmmm? Did you call for assistance? I do not seem to see the carrying chair down here, do I?” Sighing, Lizzy rolled her eyes and waddled silently away, shaking her head and holding onto her back.

“Don’t you walk away from me, young woman!” Darcy’s hands were planted on his hips. “ I am speaking to you, Mrs. Darcy! ”

Chapter 18

December 24, 1817

Dearest Emily,

I hope this letter finds you well and having a merrier Christmas at Penwood than we are experiencing here at Pemberley House. It is with a heavy heart I convey to you that my brother has lost his mind completely and is attempting to take us all down with him. There is to be no Christmas pudding, no mistletoe, no garlands of ivy, no gifts, and no wassail.

“What is left to you, dear friend?” you may ask. We are left with something akin to the Twelve Days of Good Friday rather than Christmas.

We are left with servants hiding below stairs whenever possible, hiding so determinedly that one must drag them from their rooms by their feet.

We are left only with the “Interminable Wait” for the “Blessed Event,” although my dear brother grows paler each time he calls it that. He has alienated everyone, including the dogs, and his temper is so tightly coiled at this time that I fear his eyeballs will pop from their sunken crevices.

What concerns me most is that even the doctor has taken umbrage, refusing to return his calls, saying there is “plenty of time yet.” He has even refused my brother’s requests to install the midwife a month early, and I fear my brother is more persistent than prudent. We will all be glad when this is over.

And dear Elizabeth is sometimes an afterthought in all the horror.

Many thanks to you for allowing me to vent my frustrations like this. You are a true “Friend in Need.” I shall look forward to seeing you Boxing Day at Bunny Bridges’s holiday gathering, which will probably be the only merry time this year for me.

Yours in friendship,

Georgiana Darcy

***

Miss Georgiana Darcy did not, in any manner, exaggerate the mood at Pemberley House at Christmastime in the year of our Lord 1817. There were indeed no wishes to stir into the Christmas pudding. There was no mistletoe, no garland, no wassail. A goose life was spared, the fowl in question remaining undressed and happily ignorant of his near-death experience. Perfectly good presents remained unmolested upon shop shelves.

Darcy’s fears for Elizabeth’s pregnancy had progressed over the past months into an unreasoning hysteria as he envisioned his delicate wife, now much larger horizontally than vertically, in the throes of childbirth. Nightmares disturbed his sleep.