Sharon Lathan - The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

Darcy, Alexander, Georgiana, and George joined a large gathering observing the formal rite. Sacred hymns recounting the Passion were sung by the choir as four dark-robed, barefooted monks walked soberly down the aisle carrying a red velvet-draped cushion upon which rested a plain wooden cross with an exquisite effigy of Christ in gold. Reverently, the cross was placed beside the candle-encircled sepulchre, the monks falling to their knees and bowing before the image with foreheads touching the floor. Lifting mere inches to bestow a kiss to the sculpted feet, they then crept backwards as the waiting monks lowered to their knees and in the same humble pose approached the cross to kiss.

The assembled clergy completed that part of the ceremony, forming a ring of kneeling worshippers around the cross. It was then that the priest rose from his seat, and slowly descended the steps of the chancel and front of the nave until standing with his brothers directly before the cross. With calm deliberation he removed his traditional vestures to reveal an unadorned black cassock, his eyes never leaving the graven face of suffering as he handed the garments to a waiting monk, removed his shoes, and bent to his knees. Crawling forward, he too respectfully kissed the nailed feet of his Savior before rising and lifting the laden cross high above his head for all in the audience to see.

The heavy lid of the wooden tomb was opened and the crucifix placed inside with due pomp. Responsories were sung by the choir, sweet incense burned both inside and around the tomb, the lid closed and sealed with wax, and lastly covered with gold trimmed damask. The priest chose the first two sextons to be given the honor of guarding the sepulchre, a responsibility taken seriously and shared with other clergy in shifts until Easter morning.

“Papa, will Jesus be lonely inside the box?” Alexander asked as they left the church. It was the first words he had uttered since entering St. Sepulchre nearly an hour earlier, the boy studiously attentive to the ceremony throughout. The innocent query, asked with grave concern and a deep frown, brought instant laughter. The lighthearted response of the adults only increased Alexander’s worry and tears welled in his eyes.

“Not at all, sweetling. First off, this Jesus is pretend. It is a statue only, as the real Jesus is in Heaven, right?” Alexander nodded, although not totally convinced. Darcy hugged him tighter, kissing the crease between the toddler’s knitted brows.

Darcy tried to explain the concept of ceremony and symbolism with limited success, but Alexander’s fears were not fully allayed until George said, “Jesus is taking a nap in the box, Alexander. He is tired after being carried about. The nice men will keep him company and open the box in two days once He is rested.”

Darcy opened his mouth to refute that nonsensical explanation, but the cheery expression on Alexander’s face halted him. In the end, he realized there would be plenty of time in the future to give theological lectures!

Saturday saw Darcy House besieged, much to Mrs. Smyth’s horror. For some reason she never comprehended, the pristine dining room was converted into the official egg dyeing and painting chamber. The table was carefully draped with old linens and the fine furnishings removed to avoid damage or staining, but naturally there were a few mishaps that required harsh cleaning. Yet it was not the mess that peeved her as much as the ruckus caused by so many festive persons.

The boiling of eggs had occupied a portion of the kitchen staff’s time on Friday, those cooled eggs now added to the dozens brought by Jane Bingley, Lady Simone Fitzwilliam, Mary Daniels, Marilyn Hughes, Harriet Vernor, Julia Sitwell, Amelia Lathrop, Chloe Drury, and Alison Fitzherbert. The babies were taken to the nursery for age-appropriate play while the other children eagerly flocked the cluttered long table. Baskets of eggs sat among the bowls of paints, dye, and adhesive to decorate with the glass pieces, feathers, beads, seeds, ribbons, lace, and more. Adult supervision was essential, especially for the littler children. Artistry was encouraged, some eggs a masterpiece of precision adornment and painting while others were sadly lacking any finesse, but each an expression of individuality and definitely colorful. The fathers aided the procedure for a time, managing to decorate one or two eggs themselves, before retiring to Darcy’s billiard room and leaving the chaos to the women.

By late afternoon the last colorful egg was placed carefully into a basket awaiting Easter Day festivities and the exhausted children were returned to their respective homes. A purse-lipped Mrs. Smyth oversaw the dining room restoration, her abrupt manner noticeable to the maids and footman as indicative of her irritation, but the Darcys were unaware as they settled in for a quiet night alone.

On Easter Sunday Lizzy stood in the small dressing room attached to their bedchamber, staring out the wide window facing the backyard garden. She clipped the pearl necklace—which once belonged to her husband’s mother and was gifted to her on her first night at Pemberley as his wife—around her slender neck, followed with a pair of pearl and diamond earrings as she watched the glittering waves of water cascading over the marble rocks in the fountain. The sun was shining, bathing the grass and spring flowers with warmth and light. Fortunately the inclement weather on Good Friday had passed without a single drop of rain. Hopefully this meant the lawns and ground of Hyde Park would be relatively dry and free of fresh mud patches for naughty boys to discover.

She turned at the knock upon her door, pleased but not surprised when Darcy entered carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers.

“Happy Easter, my love,” he said, smiling as he bent for a kiss and handed her the white flowers.

“Happy Easter to you as well, dearest. Thank you. These are exquisite!” She pressed her face into the petals, breathing deeply. “So sweet,” she sighed, closing her eyes in delight. “I saw some of these at Covent Gardens earlier this week. They are quite unique.”

“The florist said they are Lilium longiflorum, a newly discovered lily bulb from a cluster of islands off the coast of China.” He shrugged. “That was all he knew and I have not had the time to delve into the topic further.”

Lizzy reached to stroke over his cheek, a gesture difficult to accomplish, as the bouquet was large and heavy for one arm. “Poor Mr. Darcy, forced to smother his unquenchable curiosity! I am surprised you were able to sleep.”

“Indeed it was a struggle, but I was able to relax with the vision of your face amid the blooms. As always my imagination failed miserably as you are engaging beyond what my dreams prefigured.” Stepping back, he swept his gaze over her gowned body with appreciation evident. “White becomes you, Mrs. Darcy. Did you acquire this gown here or before we left home?”

“It is a creation of Madame du Loire. Frankly, I am doubtful of the wisdom in wearing white when chasing children through the dewy grass and boggy ground at Hyde Park is the order of the day! Marguerite will have her hands full removing stains.”

“She is skilled. And if the dress is soiled beyond repair it shall be worth the loss to see you wearing it all day. These touches of green are for me, yes?” He ran his fingertips along the satin ribbons and accents, all in shades of darker green, smiling at her affirmative nod. “Purest white and garden green. You are a walking lily. An Easter flower lovelier than these lilies, or the callas, narcissus, pussy willows, tulips, or hydrangeas arrayed in vases throughout the house.”

“I trust you left some flowers behind for other households?” she asked with a laugh. “And hopefully one vase roomy enough for these.”