Amanda Grange: A Darcy Christmas

“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.