Blurb: A meditation on the Nativity of Our Lord. Amidst celebration with extended family on the Christmas following their first anniversary, Elizabeth and Darcy each receive an unexpected and precious gift. [epilogue, P&P, one-shot]
I will only add my heartfelt Merry Christmas to you all. ~ Renée
Upon a Christmas Clear
“Oh,” Elizabeth exclaimed, as her husband lifted her from the carriage with two broad hands around her trim waist, “why thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
He inclined his head, tucked her arm firmly into his and led her along the stone path toward the church. It was his nature, she knew, to do more than necessary with a silence that never begged for appreciation.
The morning was frigid and, though they did not receive the snow for which the younger Fitzwilliam cousins hoped, frost yet glistened on the ground and from the bordering shrubbery. A crisp, clear Christmas day; she could not wish for more.
Having overseen final details as host and hostess, they were the last of the family to arrive for the Holy-day service. Darcy escorted her across the threshold, from the brisk out of doors into the cool, dim interior. Elizabeth inhaled deeply. The air was aromatic with the fresh boughs, and she looked in admiration at the greening of the sanctuary, at the heart-shaped ivy, at the thorny holly and blood-red berries which were twined among the shiny, dark laurel and sprigged with piquant rosemary. On either side of the Table draped in its snowy fair linen, waxen candles glimmered, beckoning them forward.
They made their way up a far aisle, past familiar faces, tenants and servants, shopkeepers and neighbors, many with whom she had become acquainted in the preceding year, and she returned their subdued smiles. This tranquil corner of Derbyshire truly was her home.
Three pews were necessary to accommodate all the Fitzwilliams who had flocked to Pemberley and, as Elizabeth alighted next to her husband, her eyes roamed over them with the kind of proprietary fondness innate to the mistress of that worthy estate.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh, née Fitzwilliam, sat painfully erect on the foremost bench and nearest the central aisle, her eyes trained on the chancel. It was a miracle she had come at all and, though she treated her nephew’s wife with icy civility, at least she did seem finally resigned to their marriage. Elizabeth had persuaded William to extend the invitation, as an overture to reconciliation, and she pitied rather than took offense at the grand lady’s conduct. Catherine was the one who made herself miserable—and foolish in the eyes of her surrounding family, who had been won almost without exception by the enchanting gentility of the new Mrs. Darcy.
Anne de Bourgh, seated in her mother’s shadow and bundled nearly beyond recognition, shrank against the pew’s straight back. Next to her sat Colonel Fitzwilliam, then his Lady mother and the Earl, his father. Completing that row and two more behind were the remaining Fitzwilliam siblings, their spouses and offspring.
And Georgiana Darcy, occupied between her cousins’ youngest children, her face a study in pleasant concentration as she endeavored to amuse three year old Henry into noiseless compliance. Elizabeth observed her sweet, youthful sister a moment longer and her heart contracted. If she had not lost the child she’d been carrying in the spring, Georgiana might be holding the newest Darcy. Like her own nephew, little John Bingley, who having made his debut two months earlier would be dawdled over by the Bennets at her childhood home in Hertfordshire. Not that she was envious of her elder sister; no, she rejoiced with Jane. But she was still haunted by her own loss, as was William, though they spoke of it rarely.
And this latest hope. Elizabeth had been privately counting the passing days and praying for wisdom, uncertain when she should confess her suspicions. Aunt Gardiner advised her to await the quickening, but that would not have prevented disappointment the first time. She sighed.
William leaned toward her, his voice muted. “Are you well, my love?”
“Yes, I am content.” And she genuinely was. She smiled reassurance into his concerned face.
He did not appear quite pacified, but as the service was about to begin, he did not press her.
She entered into the familiar liturgy, taking comfort in the responsorial Decalogue, giving herself fully to the Collect of the day: Almighty God, who hast given us thy only-begotten Son to take our nature upon him, and as at this time to be born of a pure Virgin: Grant that we being regenerate, and made thy children by adoption and grace, may daily be renewed by thy Holy Spirit.1 Where better to be renewed than here, in the Lord’s house on the advent of his nativity, surrounded by her husband’s family, now her own, and by all her brothers and sisters in Christ?
They rose for the Gospel and Elizabeth closed her eyes, the better to savor the poetry of the morning’s assigned lesson.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.2
It was the odor, initially, that drew her attention from the reading, not the pungency of the evergreens, but something strong and earthy and entirely unpleasant. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed delicately. Her eyes sprang open, and she gasped in shock.
She no longer stood beside her husband, but reclined on a pallet within a wavering pool of light. Feeling around hastily, she determined it was a bed of straw covered with a scratchy woolen blanket—nay, by the seams and edging, a cloak.
And the smell. The smell! It was definitely manure, almost nauseating in intensity, and with it came the warm moisture of barn animals, of their hides and their heavy exhalations. When she stopped and listened, beyond the pounding of her heart, she heard them: the stomp of a hoof, the swish of a tail, the grinding of teeth, a snort of some kind. She squinted into the gloom and there, yes, the light reflected in blue circles and green slits from wide, staring eyes. Whether horses or donkeys, oxen or cattle, she could not discern, but at least they were domesticated.
She attempted to sit up, but her body protested in pain and she collapsed back, one hand clutching her midsection. What was wrong with her? She moved her limbs tentatively, gauging the sensations from head to toe. She felt chilled, which was not surprising, as her clothing, a blue linen tunic that ended above her appallingly grimy feet, was damp. Where were the ivory silk gown and matching slippers she had donned that morning? Every muscle ached, as if she had been turned inside out like a garment for airing, worse than she’d felt those long days abed with fever. And she was so very thirsty.
She rolled her head, straining to look behind her, and saw a rough wall hewn from earth and rock. On a ledge some feet above her rested an oil lamp, small enough to fit in her palm, its flame rising from terracotta clay, dissolving in a thin stream of black smoke and occasionally guttering in some unseen draft. A cave, then. She peered around, searching for the entrance, and found, twinkling in the cobalt darkness beyond the inky walls, a field of shimmering stars. When had night descended?
Panic seized her. Where were her husband, her family, her parish church? Had she not been standing in their midst but moments before? She inhaled and exhaled slowly. This was ridiculous. Perhaps she had fainted or fallen asleep and was dreaming, but she would soon wake, perhaps might awaken herself. She counseled calmness and closed her eyes, willed herself to hear the minister’s voice as he read from the Gospel of St. John.
But she heard only the livestock and then, amidst their muffled shifting, one tiny bleat, followed by another and another. Like that of a newborn. She pushed up on her hands quickly, ignoring the discomfort, and glanced about in anxiety.
There, beside her, where she had not noticed from her recumbent position, stood a hay trough. Wedged in its nadir was a mewling baby, wound securely in a length of fabric no wider than the span from her thumb to forefinger. As if swaddled in burial cloths.
Recognition broke over her, and Elizabeth gaped. Somehow, someway she was here. Inexplicably here, in a dirty, humble, obscure stable, where over eighteen hundred years earlier the fulcrum of history pivoted on the birth of a single child.
He was crying, if one presumed to call it that, his eyelids pinched into twin hills, his face still ruddy from the trauma of delivery. A shock of wavy black hair stood straight up from his crown. She wanted to console him, to clasp him to her breast, all her motherly instincts surfacing in an unexpected urgency of love, but she hesitated, feeling that there must be some sacrilege to taking the Savior of the world in her arms. Where was his mother? Why wasn’t she here tending him?
His cries were more than she could withstand, and she whisked him from the manger, rocking him with little shushing sounds. He quieted, not instantly, but soon, and as he subsided her pulse likewise ceased to race.
She studied his face, and his petite, rosy lips puckered. One diminutive dark brow quirked marginally, and she smiled. What thoughts, what dreams, untainted by natural sin, revolved in his mind? Did he see the angels hovering in their invisible majesty? For surely they were here, regarding with watchful awe the Prince of heaven come to earth. Elizabeth looked around, wondering for a moment if she might glimpse, from the periphery of her vision, a flash of radiance. But there was only the narrow circle of light to check the encroaching shadows.
She returned her attention to the infant nestled serenely in the crook of her elbow. He was so small, so fragile, so dependent, and impossibly warm. Her distress, so overwhelming but minutes before, seemed nothing compared to the joy of cradling him.
A hand touched her shoulder and she startled, but managed neither to jump nor cry out, constrained as she was by fear of disturbing the child. Uncertain who to expect, she looked up into a stranger’s honest charcoal eyes and a face tanned behind a thick, black beard. This must be Joseph. He knelt beside her and, unasked, lifted a water skin to her lips.
His scent was potent with sweat and soil, like a farmer during harvest, and she started to recoil, but thirst overcame her reticence. She drank greedily, swallowing long, refreshing draughts. A vague recollection taunted her memory, that fetching water was women’s work and his was a nobler service than even she apprehended. Before she was sated, he removed the bag, his tough, calloused hand brushing hers and a chuckle rumbling in his throat. She opened her mouth to object, but he preceded her.
His speech was unintelligible, and her eyes widened in alarm. He paused, as if in expectation of a reply.
She dare not speak, dare not unsettle this holy place with her foreign tongue. She nodded a cautious, thankful smile and then rocked the baby to refocus the man’s interest. Her ploy succeeded.
Joseph affectionately trailed one finger down the side of his son’s face and murmured, “Ki-yeled yullad-lanu ben nittan-lanu wattehi hammisrah al-shikhmow wayyiqra shemow Pele Yow'ets El Gibbowr Avi'Ad Sar-Shalowm.”3
Elizabeth could not understand his words, but she understood the expression on his countenance, the reverence, the adoration, the gravity of feeling. This was the man who would train a carpenter, who would educate a son of the law, who would instill obedience and model love. This was the man God had chosen to rear his only Son. Chosen as surely as he had the favored young woman who yielded to his will and, in the mystery of his Spirit and power, found herself with child.
“Immanu El,” Joseph said with finality.4 He caught Elizabeth studying him and returned her scrutiny. Heavy lines crinkled the corners of his lids, no doubt the consequence of years squinting in the arid sun. But his age was belied by eyes younger and darker than William’s, though similarly lit with compassion and wisdom.
Only then did she acknowledge that somehow he had mistaken her for his wife, for Mary, the mother of Jesus, and that her appearance, far from exciting disquiet, was welcome and cherished.
Another tide of panic threatened and she swallowed hard. It would not be long before he realized something was amiss and then what would she do? She could not think of that now, not with heaven resting in her arms and Joseph’s eyes fixed on her implacably. Instead, she crooned in a singsong voice to the sleeping babe, the one word she recognized, the one title that transcended every language, “Emmanuel, Emmanuel.”
As if he knew his name, as if he heard and comprehended, he opened his eyes. Elizabeth marveled. She searched the small grey orbs, still fuzzy and unfocused from their recent introduction to the world outside the womb, full of trust and innocence.
Her heart broke to think how he would grow into a boy and then a man, and those same eyes would search the hearts of all humanity—had searched her heart, plumbed the vast darkness that lay within, held her deepest sins and sorrows, carried them willingly to death, and rising, covered her in forgiveness, invited her into abundant, unending life—astonishing, merciful, undeserved. She knew, in a way she had not known before, the sword that pierced his mother’s soul. How Mary must have pondered him, this son she carried in joyous obedience and labored to birth, how in this tiny life resided all of life, eternal life, life as it was created to be lived, but only at the most fearful, most excruciating, most loving cost. Elizabeth wiped a tear from her cheek.
And still he seemed to gaze at her, the Christ child, and she saw in him, in a sudden rush of knowing, the peace that calmed the storm, the power that made the lame dance, the blind see, the leper whole, the mercy that embraced the sinner, the grace outpoured in blood shed and bread broken. Eternal love. For in him dwelt all the fullness of the Godhead bodily.
She cuddled him closer, as snugly as she dared, bowed her head over his swaddled form, pressed her lips to his smooth forehead, to a brow not yet scarred by a crown of thorns, and shut her eyes in wordless, wondering prayer.
From the darkness came a Voice, unbearably rich and resonant, as if reverberating from the creation of the universe. And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.5
Glory. Glory enfolded in her arms, enfolding her in grace, in truth. Would her heart burst from such fullness?
The tone modulated into a voice she knew well, their own rector whom she saw yet standing, the Gospel raised high in his hands. He reverently kissed the page and returned the Book to the Table.
Elizabeth swayed a little, giddy from her experience. William steadied her with an arm around her back and a question in his eyes. She shook her head minutely and offered him a tremulous, luminous smile. All was well. Better than well. Perfect, in fact.
The service continued, and the Nicene Creed recited in unison enveloped her. She joined her voice with the congregation in sincere confession of her faith.
Never had a Christmas service, never had Holy Communion, been more meaningful than it was to Elizabeth on that cold, clear morning. With every word, with every mention of his name, she felt the infant Christ in her arms, knew afresh the love born to redeem the world.
Somehow she managed to move through the day, to discharge her duties as mistress of Pemberley. The succeeding hours seemed imbued with a dream-like quality, not hazy or half-remembered, but the kind of dream from which one wishes never to wake, so vivid in clarity and lush in color.
The rooms and halls pealed with gaiety. There were charades and games, gifts for the children, and a feast fit for nobility, the table sumptuous with venison and roast beef, with mincemeat pie and plum-cake. Elizabeth received the compliments on her prowess with a charming mixture of unaffected gratitude and merry deflection. The pianoforte resounded cheerily under Georgiana’s skilled fingers, and the younger cousins skipped about the room, gleeful in being permitted to remain long past the hour they would normally be relegated above stairs. When several ladies talked too much or too loudly, Elizabeth surreptitiously grinned; every family boasted their idiosyncrasies and not all were the province of Bennet women alone. The men rejoined them and, if their boisterousness were any indication, a few were already in their cups.
What touched her most was the sight of Aunt Catherine, a grimace turning down her mouth, her forearms pushed rigidly against her chair, and on her lap, huddled in a ball, little Henry, who when he tired found the only adult not dancing or drinking or laughing. As Elizabeth watched, she lifted one large hand, slowly, carefully, and tucked a lock of sable hair behind his ear, before folding her fingers around his sleeping shoulder. Her features softened, almost imperceptibly, but they softened nonetheless.
William leaned against a mantel on the other side of the salon and Elizabeth arched a brow, exchanging a significant look with him. He too had witnessed that poignant moment.
At the evening’s close, she was prevailed on to take her turn at the grand instrument, though why, when there were many more talented in their midst, she could not say, but she acquiesced. And so they capped their Christmas celebration in carols and hymns, and family members drifted to their beds with ancient truths echoing in their heads.
After donning their nightclothes, Elizabeth snuggled beside William before the fire in his chambers, as was their habit. They traded opinions about the day, laughing together over the Earl’s rendition of Bonaparte, musing on the volume of verse from which the Colonel had read, speculating about little Henry’s tempering influence on his great aunt.
“There is something about which I intended to inquire much earlier,” William began, “but it was impossible to find a solitary moment.”
“You must know,” she glanced up through her eyelashes, “I would never refuse a private audience with my husband.”
He chuckled quietly. “I did not wish to take you from our guests. You are a splendid hostess.”
“You mean to say that I did not embarrass you?” She knew, of course, that she had not, but nevertheless asked with her customary impertinence.
“On the contrary,” he traced a finger along her cheek, “you have decided the happiness of many, not least of whom is myself. It has been far too long, I fear, since Pemberley has seen such a large and lively party.”
“I suppose that summer before we were engaged, when the Bingleys and Hursts were visiting, we did fall short of either large or lively, however energetic were Miss Bingley’s efforts to secure you.”
His lips curved gently in curtailed humor, and she understood that he wished to be serious.
“No,” he said, “I think the Darcys have not entertained a family party of this nature since before my mother’s death.”
Elizabeth recalled his initial resistance when she had first introduced the idea that autumn, the subsequent lengthy discussions, and her intermittent twinges of guilt for having overthrown his hesitancy. “Do you mind very much?”
“I own that the sheer volume and exuberance can be occasionally trying, but I wouldn’t have it otherwise. I only needed for you to show me all that I was missing.” He pulled her tighter against him and, before she could respond, he continued, “Now, as to my original object, do not think I have forgotten. I am grown wise to your diverting ways, and I wish to know what distressed you during services this morn.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth brushed small circles in the soft pile of his robe, uncertain how to answer, “I wasn’t distressed. I…”
“You seem troubled.” His fingers smoothed the creases above the bridge of her nose.
“No, it’s only… ‘tis difficult to explain. I hardly know what to say, but I will try.” And she described, as best she could, how the Gospel reading transported her into a vision so real, so moving that she must never be the same.
He listened pensively, nodding but saying little.
“I’m afraid this makes me an enthusiast,” she said with a half-hearted laugh. “Do you think me fanatical?”
“Not at all. I am honored that you would entrust me with such a rare and precious gift, for truly, you have been afforded no less.”
“There is none other with whom I would rather share.” Not with her dear friend, Charlotte, not even with her beloved sister, Jane. She was struck suddenly by just how earnestly she meant it and how profoundly she valued her husband’s friendship. She traced the raised veins on the back of his hand. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Being you. And believing me.”
He kissed her temple. “I love you.”
“And I, you.”
They sank into an intimate silence, Elizabeth immersed not so much in thought as she was in the present moment, dense and ripe with promise. The flames flickered from the grate and cast entrancing shadows about the spacious room.
Peace settled over them and she sang softly a stanza from the last hymn she had played.
Born Thy people to deliver, born a child, and yet a King,
born to reign in us forever, now Thy gracious kingdom bring.
By Thine own eternal Spirit rule in all our hearts alone;
by Thine own sufficient merit, raise us to Thy glorious throne.6
She hummed the melody for a few minutes longer, grew still, and in the half-light of her living dream, in the warmth of William’s sheltering embrace, her eyelids drooped. Real life, it seemed, the life to which she would one day wake, began in a stable centuries past and swept her, hurtling forward through time toward the second advent, that great and glorious day when she would see Him again, no longer a babe in arms, but the Son of God and Son of Man, risen, glorified, victorious, the King of kings and Lord of lords.
Anticipation fluttered in her and the sensation spread, a bird’s wings beating, feathering her within. Her eyes flew open and she sat up abruptly.
“What’s wrong?” Darcy straightened, his voice tinged with worry.
“Nothing. I…” She remained motionless, barely breathing—waiting, hoping.
“You are not—”
“Shh!” She waved him to silence, and he frowned. Yes, there it was again, stirring inside, new life rousing, chasing away all doubt. She relaxed and allowed herself to smile. “Forgive me for interrupting you so ungraciously.”
“Of course,” much of the sternness faded from his aspect, “but, pray, what startled you from repose?”
“You needn’t fear.” She rotated toward him and grasped one of his hands in hers, his strong, capable hands as adept with a gun as a pen, as skilled with the reins of a horse as the management of the estate. Hands that knew her, that caressed her, that sustained her, that one day would cradle their son or daughter in unabashed love. “I only wanted to be certain. William…”
“Yes?” He beheld her with those great dark, solemn eyes.
How dearly she loved him. “You’re going to be a father.”
He blinked, and she treasured the mixture of disbelief and delight that fleetingly played across his features. There would be no expostulations, no effusions, it was not his way, but only this quiet, steady satisfaction.
“I sensed the babe move just now,” she smiled again, “Merry Christmas.”
Such tenderness, such love with which he regarded her, this man who was her life, companion of her heart, father of this little soul heralded in jubilant dance. Gift upon gift, grace upon grace, joy upon joy.
In one swift, sure movement, his arms encircled her and she found herself nestled on his lap, the stubble of his whiskers bristly and his voice dampened in the sweep of her neck. “I could want for no better gift.” His breath melted against her skin, his words weighty with emotion, “Merry Christmas, my love, merry Christmas.”
THE END
1 The Collect for the Nativity of Our Lord, or the Birth-day of Christ commonly called Christmas Day, Book of Common Prayer of the Church of England
2 John 1:1-5 (KJV); John 1:1-14 is the Gospel lesson assigned for Christmas Day (1662 BCP)
3 Jesaia 9:5 (Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia, transliteration provided by Logos Bible Software); English translation from Isaiah 9:6 (KJV), “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”
4 Jesaia 7:14 (BHS); cf. Isaiah 7:14, Matthew 1:23 (KJV), “Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.”
5 John 1:14 (KJV)
6 Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus, Charles Wesley, 1744.
I will only add my heartfelt Merry Christmas to you all. ~ Renée
“Oh,” Elizabeth exclaimed, as her husband lifted her from the carriage with two broad hands around her trim waist, “why thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
He inclined his head, tucked her arm firmly into his and led her along the stone path toward the church. It was his nature, she knew, to do more than necessary with a silence that never begged for appreciation.
The morning was frigid and, though they did not receive the snow for which the younger Fitzwilliam cousins hoped, frost yet glistened on the ground and from the bordering shrubbery. A crisp, clear Christmas day; she could not wish for more.
Having overseen final details as host and hostess, they were the last of the family to arrive for the Holy-day service. Darcy escorted her across the threshold, from the brisk out of doors into the cool, dim interior. Elizabeth inhaled deeply. The air was aromatic with the fresh boughs, and she looked in admiration at the greening of the sanctuary, at the heart-shaped ivy, at the thorny holly and blood-red berries which were twined among the shiny, dark laurel and sprigged with piquant rosemary. On either side of the Table draped in its snowy fair linen, waxen candles glimmered, beckoning them forward.
They made their way up a far aisle, past familiar faces, tenants and servants, shopkeepers and neighbors, many with whom she had become acquainted in the preceding year, and she returned their subdued smiles. This tranquil corner of Derbyshire truly was her home.
Three pews were necessary to accommodate all the Fitzwilliams who had flocked to Pemberley and, as Elizabeth alighted next to her husband, her eyes roamed over them with the kind of proprietary fondness innate to the mistress of that worthy estate.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh, née Fitzwilliam, sat painfully erect on the foremost bench and nearest the central aisle, her eyes trained on the chancel. It was a miracle she had come at all and, though she treated her nephew’s wife with icy civility, at least she did seem finally resigned to their marriage. Elizabeth had persuaded William to extend the invitation, as an overture to reconciliation, and she pitied rather than took offense at the grand lady’s conduct. Catherine was the one who made herself miserable—and foolish in the eyes of her surrounding family, who had been won almost without exception by the enchanting gentility of the new Mrs. Darcy.
Anne de Bourgh, seated in her mother’s shadow and bundled nearly beyond recognition, shrank against the pew’s straight back. Next to her sat Colonel Fitzwilliam, then his Lady mother and the Earl, his father. Completing that row and two more behind were the remaining Fitzwilliam siblings, their spouses and offspring.
And Georgiana Darcy, occupied between her cousins’ youngest children, her face a study in pleasant concentration as she endeavored to amuse three year old Henry into noiseless compliance. Elizabeth observed her sweet, youthful sister a moment longer and her heart contracted. If she had not lost the child she’d been carrying in the spring, Georgiana might be holding the newest Darcy. Like her own nephew, little John Bingley, who having made his debut two months earlier would be dawdled over by the Bennets at her childhood home in Hertfordshire. Not that she was envious of her elder sister; no, she rejoiced with Jane. But she was still haunted by her own loss, as was William, though they spoke of it rarely.
And this latest hope. Elizabeth had been privately counting the passing days and praying for wisdom, uncertain when she should confess her suspicions. Aunt Gardiner advised her to await the quickening, but that would not have prevented disappointment the first time. She sighed.
William leaned toward her, his voice muted. “Are you well, my love?”
“Yes, I am content.” And she genuinely was. She smiled reassurance into his concerned face.
He did not appear quite pacified, but as the service was about to begin, he did not press her.
She entered into the familiar liturgy, taking comfort in the responsorial Decalogue, giving herself fully to the Collect of the day: Almighty God, who hast given us thy only-begotten Son to take our nature upon him, and as at this time to be born of a pure Virgin: Grant that we being regenerate, and made thy children by adoption and grace, may daily be renewed by thy Holy Spirit.1 Where better to be renewed than here, in the Lord’s house on the advent of his nativity, surrounded by her husband’s family, now her own, and by all her brothers and sisters in Christ?
They rose for the Gospel and Elizabeth closed her eyes, the better to savor the poetry of the morning’s assigned lesson.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.2
It was the odor, initially, that drew her attention from the reading, not the pungency of the evergreens, but something strong and earthy and entirely unpleasant. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed delicately. Her eyes sprang open, and she gasped in shock.
She no longer stood beside her husband, but reclined on a pallet within a wavering pool of light. Feeling around hastily, she determined it was a bed of straw covered with a scratchy woolen blanket—nay, by the seams and edging, a cloak.
And the smell. The smell! It was definitely manure, almost nauseating in intensity, and with it came the warm moisture of barn animals, of their hides and their heavy exhalations. When she stopped and listened, beyond the pounding of her heart, she heard them: the stomp of a hoof, the swish of a tail, the grinding of teeth, a snort of some kind. She squinted into the gloom and there, yes, the light reflected in blue circles and green slits from wide, staring eyes. Whether horses or donkeys, oxen or cattle, she could not discern, but at least they were domesticated.
She attempted to sit up, but her body protested in pain and she collapsed back, one hand clutching her midsection. What was wrong with her? She moved her limbs tentatively, gauging the sensations from head to toe. She felt chilled, which was not surprising, as her clothing, a blue linen tunic that ended above her appallingly grimy feet, was damp. Where were the ivory silk gown and matching slippers she had donned that morning? Every muscle ached, as if she had been turned inside out like a garment for airing, worse than she’d felt those long days abed with fever. And she was so very thirsty.
She rolled her head, straining to look behind her, and saw a rough wall hewn from earth and rock. On a ledge some feet above her rested an oil lamp, small enough to fit in her palm, its flame rising from terracotta clay, dissolving in a thin stream of black smoke and occasionally guttering in some unseen draft. A cave, then. She peered around, searching for the entrance, and found, twinkling in the cobalt darkness beyond the inky walls, a field of shimmering stars. When had night descended?
Panic seized her. Where were her husband, her family, her parish church? Had she not been standing in their midst but moments before? She inhaled and exhaled slowly. This was ridiculous. Perhaps she had fainted or fallen asleep and was dreaming, but she would soon wake, perhaps might awaken herself. She counseled calmness and closed her eyes, willed herself to hear the minister’s voice as he read from the Gospel of St. John.
But she heard only the livestock and then, amidst their muffled shifting, one tiny bleat, followed by another and another. Like that of a newborn. She pushed up on her hands quickly, ignoring the discomfort, and glanced about in anxiety.
There, beside her, where she had not noticed from her recumbent position, stood a hay trough. Wedged in its nadir was a mewling baby, wound securely in a length of fabric no wider than the span from her thumb to forefinger. As if swaddled in burial cloths.
Recognition broke over her, and Elizabeth gaped. Somehow, someway she was here. Inexplicably here, in a dirty, humble, obscure stable, where over eighteen hundred years earlier the fulcrum of history pivoted on the birth of a single child.
He was crying, if one presumed to call it that, his eyelids pinched into twin hills, his face still ruddy from the trauma of delivery. A shock of wavy black hair stood straight up from his crown. She wanted to console him, to clasp him to her breast, all her motherly instincts surfacing in an unexpected urgency of love, but she hesitated, feeling that there must be some sacrilege to taking the Savior of the world in her arms. Where was his mother? Why wasn’t she here tending him?
His cries were more than she could withstand, and she whisked him from the manger, rocking him with little shushing sounds. He quieted, not instantly, but soon, and as he subsided her pulse likewise ceased to race.
She studied his face, and his petite, rosy lips puckered. One diminutive dark brow quirked marginally, and she smiled. What thoughts, what dreams, untainted by natural sin, revolved in his mind? Did he see the angels hovering in their invisible majesty? For surely they were here, regarding with watchful awe the Prince of heaven come to earth. Elizabeth looked around, wondering for a moment if she might glimpse, from the periphery of her vision, a flash of radiance. But there was only the narrow circle of light to check the encroaching shadows.
She returned her attention to the infant nestled serenely in the crook of her elbow. He was so small, so fragile, so dependent, and impossibly warm. Her distress, so overwhelming but minutes before, seemed nothing compared to the joy of cradling him.
A hand touched her shoulder and she startled, but managed neither to jump nor cry out, constrained as she was by fear of disturbing the child. Uncertain who to expect, she looked up into a stranger’s honest charcoal eyes and a face tanned behind a thick, black beard. This must be Joseph. He knelt beside her and, unasked, lifted a water skin to her lips.
His scent was potent with sweat and soil, like a farmer during harvest, and she started to recoil, but thirst overcame her reticence. She drank greedily, swallowing long, refreshing draughts. A vague recollection taunted her memory, that fetching water was women’s work and his was a nobler service than even she apprehended. Before she was sated, he removed the bag, his tough, calloused hand brushing hers and a chuckle rumbling in his throat. She opened her mouth to object, but he preceded her.
His speech was unintelligible, and her eyes widened in alarm. He paused, as if in expectation of a reply.
She dare not speak, dare not unsettle this holy place with her foreign tongue. She nodded a cautious, thankful smile and then rocked the baby to refocus the man’s interest. Her ploy succeeded.
Joseph affectionately trailed one finger down the side of his son’s face and murmured, “Ki-yeled yullad-lanu ben nittan-lanu wattehi hammisrah al-shikhmow wayyiqra shemow Pele Yow'ets El Gibbowr Avi'Ad Sar-Shalowm.”3
Elizabeth could not understand his words, but she understood the expression on his countenance, the reverence, the adoration, the gravity of feeling. This was the man who would train a carpenter, who would educate a son of the law, who would instill obedience and model love. This was the man God had chosen to rear his only Son. Chosen as surely as he had the favored young woman who yielded to his will and, in the mystery of his Spirit and power, found herself with child.
“Immanu El,” Joseph said with finality.4 He caught Elizabeth studying him and returned her scrutiny. Heavy lines crinkled the corners of his lids, no doubt the consequence of years squinting in the arid sun. But his age was belied by eyes younger and darker than William’s, though similarly lit with compassion and wisdom.
Only then did she acknowledge that somehow he had mistaken her for his wife, for Mary, the mother of Jesus, and that her appearance, far from exciting disquiet, was welcome and cherished.
Another tide of panic threatened and she swallowed hard. It would not be long before he realized something was amiss and then what would she do? She could not think of that now, not with heaven resting in her arms and Joseph’s eyes fixed on her implacably. Instead, she crooned in a singsong voice to the sleeping babe, the one word she recognized, the one title that transcended every language, “Emmanuel, Emmanuel.”
As if he knew his name, as if he heard and comprehended, he opened his eyes. Elizabeth marveled. She searched the small grey orbs, still fuzzy and unfocused from their recent introduction to the world outside the womb, full of trust and innocence.
Her heart broke to think how he would grow into a boy and then a man, and those same eyes would search the hearts of all humanity—had searched her heart, plumbed the vast darkness that lay within, held her deepest sins and sorrows, carried them willingly to death, and rising, covered her in forgiveness, invited her into abundant, unending life—astonishing, merciful, undeserved. She knew, in a way she had not known before, the sword that pierced his mother’s soul. How Mary must have pondered him, this son she carried in joyous obedience and labored to birth, how in this tiny life resided all of life, eternal life, life as it was created to be lived, but only at the most fearful, most excruciating, most loving cost. Elizabeth wiped a tear from her cheek.
And still he seemed to gaze at her, the Christ child, and she saw in him, in a sudden rush of knowing, the peace that calmed the storm, the power that made the lame dance, the blind see, the leper whole, the mercy that embraced the sinner, the grace outpoured in blood shed and bread broken. Eternal love. For in him dwelt all the fullness of the Godhead bodily.
She cuddled him closer, as snugly as she dared, bowed her head over his swaddled form, pressed her lips to his smooth forehead, to a brow not yet scarred by a crown of thorns, and shut her eyes in wordless, wondering prayer.
From the darkness came a Voice, unbearably rich and resonant, as if reverberating from the creation of the universe. And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.5
Glory. Glory enfolded in her arms, enfolding her in grace, in truth. Would her heart burst from such fullness?
The tone modulated into a voice she knew well, their own rector whom she saw yet standing, the Gospel raised high in his hands. He reverently kissed the page and returned the Book to the Table.
Elizabeth swayed a little, giddy from her experience. William steadied her with an arm around her back and a question in his eyes. She shook her head minutely and offered him a tremulous, luminous smile. All was well. Better than well. Perfect, in fact.
The service continued, and the Nicene Creed recited in unison enveloped her. She joined her voice with the congregation in sincere confession of her faith.
Never had a Christmas service, never had Holy Communion, been more meaningful than it was to Elizabeth on that cold, clear morning. With every word, with every mention of his name, she felt the infant Christ in her arms, knew afresh the love born to redeem the world.
Somehow she managed to move through the day, to discharge her duties as mistress of Pemberley. The succeeding hours seemed imbued with a dream-like quality, not hazy or half-remembered, but the kind of dream from which one wishes never to wake, so vivid in clarity and lush in color.
The rooms and halls pealed with gaiety. There were charades and games, gifts for the children, and a feast fit for nobility, the table sumptuous with venison and roast beef, with mincemeat pie and plum-cake. Elizabeth received the compliments on her prowess with a charming mixture of unaffected gratitude and merry deflection. The pianoforte resounded cheerily under Georgiana’s skilled fingers, and the younger cousins skipped about the room, gleeful in being permitted to remain long past the hour they would normally be relegated above stairs. When several ladies talked too much or too loudly, Elizabeth surreptitiously grinned; every family boasted their idiosyncrasies and not all were the province of Bennet women alone. The men rejoined them and, if their boisterousness were any indication, a few were already in their cups.
What touched her most was the sight of Aunt Catherine, a grimace turning down her mouth, her forearms pushed rigidly against her chair, and on her lap, huddled in a ball, little Henry, who when he tired found the only adult not dancing or drinking or laughing. As Elizabeth watched, she lifted one large hand, slowly, carefully, and tucked a lock of sable hair behind his ear, before folding her fingers around his sleeping shoulder. Her features softened, almost imperceptibly, but they softened nonetheless.
William leaned against a mantel on the other side of the salon and Elizabeth arched a brow, exchanging a significant look with him. He too had witnessed that poignant moment.
At the evening’s close, she was prevailed on to take her turn at the grand instrument, though why, when there were many more talented in their midst, she could not say, but she acquiesced. And so they capped their Christmas celebration in carols and hymns, and family members drifted to their beds with ancient truths echoing in their heads.
After donning their nightclothes, Elizabeth snuggled beside William before the fire in his chambers, as was their habit. They traded opinions about the day, laughing together over the Earl’s rendition of Bonaparte, musing on the volume of verse from which the Colonel had read, speculating about little Henry’s tempering influence on his great aunt.
“There is something about which I intended to inquire much earlier,” William began, “but it was impossible to find a solitary moment.”
“You must know,” she glanced up through her eyelashes, “I would never refuse a private audience with my husband.”
He chuckled quietly. “I did not wish to take you from our guests. You are a splendid hostess.”
“You mean to say that I did not embarrass you?” She knew, of course, that she had not, but nevertheless asked with her customary impertinence.
“On the contrary,” he traced a finger along her cheek, “you have decided the happiness of many, not least of whom is myself. It has been far too long, I fear, since Pemberley has seen such a large and lively party.”
“I suppose that summer before we were engaged, when the Bingleys and Hursts were visiting, we did fall short of either large or lively, however energetic were Miss Bingley’s efforts to secure you.”
His lips curved gently in curtailed humor, and she understood that he wished to be serious.
“No,” he said, “I think the Darcys have not entertained a family party of this nature since before my mother’s death.”
Elizabeth recalled his initial resistance when she had first introduced the idea that autumn, the subsequent lengthy discussions, and her intermittent twinges of guilt for having overthrown his hesitancy. “Do you mind very much?”
“I own that the sheer volume and exuberance can be occasionally trying, but I wouldn’t have it otherwise. I only needed for you to show me all that I was missing.” He pulled her tighter against him and, before she could respond, he continued, “Now, as to my original object, do not think I have forgotten. I am grown wise to your diverting ways, and I wish to know what distressed you during services this morn.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth brushed small circles in the soft pile of his robe, uncertain how to answer, “I wasn’t distressed. I…”
“You seem troubled.” His fingers smoothed the creases above the bridge of her nose.
“No, it’s only… ‘tis difficult to explain. I hardly know what to say, but I will try.” And she described, as best she could, how the Gospel reading transported her into a vision so real, so moving that she must never be the same.
He listened pensively, nodding but saying little.
“I’m afraid this makes me an enthusiast,” she said with a half-hearted laugh. “Do you think me fanatical?”
“Not at all. I am honored that you would entrust me with such a rare and precious gift, for truly, you have been afforded no less.”
“There is none other with whom I would rather share.” Not with her dear friend, Charlotte, not even with her beloved sister, Jane. She was struck suddenly by just how earnestly she meant it and how profoundly she valued her husband’s friendship. She traced the raised veins on the back of his hand. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Being you. And believing me.”
He kissed her temple. “I love you.”
“And I, you.”
They sank into an intimate silence, Elizabeth immersed not so much in thought as she was in the present moment, dense and ripe with promise. The flames flickered from the grate and cast entrancing shadows about the spacious room.
Peace settled over them and she sang softly a stanza from the last hymn she had played.
Born Thy people to deliver, born a child, and yet a King,
born to reign in us forever, now Thy gracious kingdom bring.
By Thine own eternal Spirit rule in all our hearts alone;
by Thine own sufficient merit, raise us to Thy glorious throne.6
She hummed the melody for a few minutes longer, grew still, and in the half-light of her living dream, in the warmth of William’s sheltering embrace, her eyelids drooped. Real life, it seemed, the life to which she would one day wake, began in a stable centuries past and swept her, hurtling forward through time toward the second advent, that great and glorious day when she would see Him again, no longer a babe in arms, but the Son of God and Son of Man, risen, glorified, victorious, the King of kings and Lord of lords.
Anticipation fluttered in her and the sensation spread, a bird’s wings beating, feathering her within. Her eyes flew open and she sat up abruptly.
“What’s wrong?” Darcy straightened, his voice tinged with worry.
“Nothing. I…” She remained motionless, barely breathing—waiting, hoping.
“You are not—”
“Shh!” She waved him to silence, and he frowned. Yes, there it was again, stirring inside, new life rousing, chasing away all doubt. She relaxed and allowed herself to smile. “Forgive me for interrupting you so ungraciously.”
“Of course,” much of the sternness faded from his aspect, “but, pray, what startled you from repose?”
“You needn’t fear.” She rotated toward him and grasped one of his hands in hers, his strong, capable hands as adept with a gun as a pen, as skilled with the reins of a horse as the management of the estate. Hands that knew her, that caressed her, that sustained her, that one day would cradle their son or daughter in unabashed love. “I only wanted to be certain. William…”
“Yes?” He beheld her with those great dark, solemn eyes.
How dearly she loved him. “You’re going to be a father.”
He blinked, and she treasured the mixture of disbelief and delight that fleetingly played across his features. There would be no expostulations, no effusions, it was not his way, but only this quiet, steady satisfaction.
“I sensed the babe move just now,” she smiled again, “Merry Christmas.”
Such tenderness, such love with which he regarded her, this man who was her life, companion of her heart, father of this little soul heralded in jubilant dance. Gift upon gift, grace upon grace, joy upon joy.
In one swift, sure movement, his arms encircled her and she found herself nestled on his lap, the stubble of his whiskers bristly and his voice dampened in the sweep of her neck. “I could want for no better gift.” His breath melted against her skin, his words weighty with emotion, “Merry Christmas, my love, merry Christmas.”
THE END
1 The Collect for the Nativity of Our Lord, or the Birth-day of Christ commonly called Christmas Day, Book of Common Prayer of the Church of England
2 John 1:1-5 (KJV); John 1:1-14 is the Gospel lesson assigned for Christmas Day (1662 BCP)
3 Jesaia 9:5 (Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia, transliteration provided by Logos Bible Software); English translation from Isaiah 9:6 (KJV), “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”
4 Jesaia 7:14 (BHS); cf. Isaiah 7:14, Matthew 1:23 (KJV), “Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.”
5 John 1:14 (KJV)
6 Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus, Charles Wesley, 1744.