In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  Now Alexander’s head of massed brown curls dangled over the water-filled bowl as Reverend Bertram plunged his hand into the tepid liquid and said, “Alexander William George Bennet Darcy, I baptize thee in the Name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

  Alexander blinked and flinched in surprise at the sensation of water poured onto his head, but remained peacefully gazing into the rector’s face. Lizzy squeezed Darcy’s arm, impulsively laying her head onto his shoulder while he blinked so furiously as to be unaware of anything but his own struggles to retain control.

  Dipping into the small chalice of oil, Reverend Bertram anointed the babe’s forehead with the shape of a cross, speaking clearly, “I sign thee, Alexander, with the cross; the sign of Christ and His Church.”

  Mrs. Bertram approached, handing a lighted candle to Darcy, Lizzy, and each godparent, while the Reverend completed the sacrament, “Shine as a light in the world to fight against sin and the devil.” Rotating and lifting Alexander so all could easily see his face, he finished in a booming voice, “Congregants, I present to you Alexander Darcy!”

  A cheer went up, claps resounded, and shouts of Alleluia burst forth, as Mrs. Bertram and the choir added to the clamor with a rousing hymn. The noise was the final straw for Alexander who broke into serious cries just as Darcy hastily handed his candle to Lizzy and reached to rescue the upset infant from the Reverend’s arms.

  After the service, a relieved and ebullient Darcy gladly welcomed the congratulations of the citizens, his jovial smile a sharp contrast to the somber man who had entered the chapel. For some reason that he could not properly identify, he felt as if a weight was lifted. In a perhaps illogical rationale, it was as if Alexander was more real now, permanent and protected in a way he had not quite been before. The final crescendo was the formal entry into the parish registry of Alexander’s full name, birth date, parents’ names, and father’s listed occupation as Master of Pemberley. A gathering of family and friends observed the procedure, Darcy applying quill to parchment page with studious intensity and writing each letter in his firm hand with precise penmanship. Legibility for centuries to come would not be an issue.

  He turned with a broad grin, the last vestiges of proper reserve erased momentarily at the sea of shining faces. George clapped him on the shoulder, glancing at the register and nodding.

  “Excellently done, William! All spelled correctly too. Amazing.” Darcy merely grinned wider.

  The intended quiet, intimate luncheon was anything but. True to Lizzy’s speculation, Mrs. Langton and the entire staff had ignored any urgings of the Mistress and thus presented a meal of stupendous proportions. The already elaborate holiday decorations were enhanced, the table dazzling with candles and ribbons in abundance, and the christening cake a masterpiece of exquisite artwork. The “cake” was actually three cakes stacked, each one less in diameter to the one below and of a variant flavor and custard filling, but equally thick. It was covered in creamy white frosting, pearls, and cascading flowers in multiple colors. The enormous concoction stood nearly three-feet high and required a table all by itself.

  George presented the Bingleys with a gift identical to what he proudly displayed on his lapel: a triangular shaped pin of gold with the etched relief of a cherub in one corner and the words, “Alexander’s Godparent” scrolled below. This one item would be a topic of amused conversation for the bulk of the evening.

  The humble gathering visualized evolved into a full-scale fête. Lizzy received numerous praises for the lavish affair and was too embarrassed to confess that she had little to do with it. The guest of honor made a brief appearance, dressed in a lovely but practical gown and staring with wide-eyed intensity from the security of his mother’s arms.

  Georgiana and Mary played a duet on the pianoforte, voices raised in harmony with Kitty in a lyric paean to Alexander. The lyrics were a compilation of poems and nursery rhymes placed to music written by Georgiana. It was an excellent cap to the afternoon.

  The guests said their adieus as the sun sat low on the horizon, darkness and icy roads not conducive to staying any later. By nightfall the Vernors, Sitwells, Hugheses, and Lord and Lady Matlock were safely ensconced in their own Manors, leaving the Darcys, Bennets, Gardiners, and Mr. Daniels to lazy and sedate companionship until bedtime.

  Darcy joined his wife in the nursery, relieved to have removed his formal attire and anxious to devote attention to wife and son. Although they had carefully shielded Alexander from the festivities, he seemed unusually weary; not even nursing as well as typical and falling asleep at Lizzy’s breast rather than on Darcy’s shoulder as was his norm.

  Darcy noted the concern on Lizzy’s face. “He has had a busy day, that’s all. There is no fever and his color is unchanged.” He kissed the tiny forehead nestled under his chin. “Tomorrow he will wake frequently demanding your attention to make up.”

  Lizzy chuckled, smoothing the blanket tight over his body. “Most likely that is true. I know I am exhausted by the day’s events so can commiserate.” She leaned onto her husband’s arm, yawning hugely. “I can hardly keep my eyes open! One of these days I am going to fall asleep while rocking him and he will tumble to the floor, I just know it! Perhaps this comfortable chair was not such a wise idea.”

  Darcy laughed, rising and extending a hand. “I have no fear that you will ever drop our son. Come, dearest, there is one last ritual we must attend before I can tuck you both into bed. Grab that candelabrum.”

  Lizzy raised a quizzical brow, but he merely smiled and wiggled his fingers, so she took the proffered hand and lit candelabrum without a word. Darcy led out of the warm chambers into the chill of the hall. As always, spaced lamps were lit so safe navigation was not an issue. Unerringly, he led them down the staircase, along the silent second floor hallways to the Grand Staircase, and down again to the massive foyer.

  Slippered and bare feet made no sound on the marble expanse as they crossed to the blue tapestry. Darcy pointed, voice hushed but throbbing with emotion, “Look there.”

  “Oh!” Lizzy covered her mouth as tears sprung.

  Darcy cautiously readjusted the inert body of his son until he was facing the woolen veiled wall and stepped closer. “Alexander Darcy, our son. There you are, my wee love, forever a part of a noble heritage,” he whispered, fingertip tracing the embroidered rendering of Alexander’s name and birth date. Lizzy’s fingertip followed, tears freely spilling down her cheeks but chin lifted with immeasurable pride.

  They stood for several minutes, Alexander sleeping on and unaware of the importance. Darcy, like his uncle and every Darcy child before, had spent hours examining these tapestries, often considering them the bane of his existence. Only with maturity did the true significance of family and ancestry dawn. He chuckled now in remembrance, Lizzy glancing into his amused visage.

  “What is so funny?”

  “Currently, Alexander is innocently indifferent to the history unfolding here, and in years to come, he will grow to hate the convoluted connections and bizarre names. I can assure you from personal experience that it will probably not be until he stands here with his wife and child years hence that he will fully appreciate what is revealed on these walls.”

  “Perhaps. Nonetheless, it is a wonderful accomplishment and we can be proud for him.”

  Darcy nodded. Lizzy sat the candelabrum on the floor and encircled her spouse’s waist, snuggling securely into his warmth and sturdiness as his free arm drew her tight. For a long while they remained gazing in silence until the cold of winter seeped into even Darcy’s bones, only then retiring to their warm bedchamber.

  Chapter Nine

  ENCOURAGE AFFECTION

  Hold still, crazy little man, or soap will fly into your eyes! He is nearly outgrowing this tub. I believe more water ends up sloshed onto the floor than left in the basin.” Darcy said as he handed his wife a soft bristled brush, returning to his seat well away from the splash zone.

  Lizzy attacked Alexander’s
hair with a chuckle. “Indeed. I have come to consider the wisdom of simply taking him into the tub with me, since I end up practically soaked as it is. Be still, my sweet, or you will get soap in your eyes as Papa predicted. Ah, thank you, Mrs. Hanford.”

  Bathing the rambunctious infant was rapidly becoming a three-person job. Alexander loved the water, limbs thrashing in delight throughout, but more than once, Lizzy had lost her slippery grip only to have Alexander slide under the surface. Alexander did not seem to mind these mishaps and the fine castile soap was mild so he was unfazed.

  The towel-covered stone tiles immediately before the nursery’s Franklin style wood stove were nearly saturated by the time Darcy stepped in with warm, dry towels.

  “Was that not tremendous fun, my lamb? How clean you are! You smell sweet enough to eat even without the coconut oil slathered onto your skin.”

  Afternoon playtime continued, Darcy thrilled to be a part of it. Too often he was tied up with work or entertaining, not able to leave and assist Lizzy with the bathing procedure. As with all afternoon bath times, this one ended with the babe at his mother’s breast. Darcy sat beside Lizzy, gently caressing wife and son while joyously observing a healthy appetite illustrated.

  “I thought we could bring him downstairs tomorrow since it shall just be the six of us. Your father has had scant time alone with his grandson,” he said in a hushed voice.

  “How thoughtful of you! He will be thrilled. I know he is saddened at the reality of their visit soon coming to an end. Of course it eases the separation, knowing that we will be traveling south next month.” She sighed, leaning her head onto Darcy’s shoulder. “I confess I am looking forward to the respite. Peace and quiet sounds blissful right about now. Even tomorrow evening is an anticipatory caesura from the hectic environment of late.”

  “You are not the least bit grieved to miss the Masque?”

  “No. Oh, I would adore dancing with the handsomest man at the assembly, naturally. You, you understand?” She glanced up at his face with a playful lilt to her lips, Darcy merely smiling. “Yet all matters considered, I would much rather have you all to myself here, with Alexander. Besides, all the dancing over the past several days has quite exhausted me! I judge I can happily eschew the activity until the spring.”

  “What a pity,” he whispered into her hair. “I was planning to ask for your favor once Alexander completed his meal. Hopes dashed once again!”

  “Do not be so hasty, sir! A properly extended dance request from a worthy gentleman is rarely refused by an interested lady, no matter how weary she may be of the pursuit.”

  “So the challenge is for me to couch my appeal in flowery prose? Hmmm… Not quite sure I am up to the test.”

  “My soul weeps at the discovery of your pessimism, Mr. Darcy. I thought you brave and wholly stalwart, willing and able to face a contest head on. How disappointing.”

  He chuckled and then fell silent, kissing the crown of her head. Eventually Alexander was satiated, mouth slack with sticky drool inevitably staining his father’s shoulder. From that point on, it was a simple matter of nestling him onto his round abdomen and tucking the blanket.

  “Here, let me take care of that so Samuel will not scold you yet again.” Lizzy approached with a wet cloth, attacking the milk spot with vigor while shaking her head. “Why do you not place the cloth over your shirt?”

  “I cannot feel him as well then. It is a small price to pay for the sensation of his pliant warmth and breathing. Actually, I should just remove the shirt as I prefer his skin touching mine, but do not think it wise to appear so with Mrs. Hanford nearby.” He chuckled, as did Lizzy still busily blotting the sullied linen. “Besides, Samuel has given up scolding, merely glaring and frowning with pursed lips.”

  “There. The wet spot is larger, but at least the milk is gone.”

  She turned toward her dressing room, intent on returning the wet cloth, but Darcy stayed her with a firm grasp. He tossed the cloth onto the floor, hands claiming both her dainty ones and placing them securely against his chest. His mien was utterly serious, blue eyes rapt and capturing her surprised gaze. Standing a proper distance but with a slight bow nearer her mesmerized face, he spoke in resonant oratory tones.

  “Come live with me and be my love,

  And we will all the pleasures prove,

  That valleys, groves, hills and fields,

  Woods or steepy mountains yields.

  “And we will sit upon the rocks,

  Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks

  By shallow rivers, to whose falls

  Melodious birds sing madrigals.

  “And I will make thee beds of roses,

  And a thousand fragrant posies,

  A cap of flowers and a kirtle

  Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

  “A gown made of the finest wool,

  Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

  Fair-lined slippers for the cold,

  With buckles of the purest gold;

  “A belt of straw and ivy buds,

  With coral clasps and amber studs;

  And if these pleasures may thee move,

  Come live with me and be my love.

  “The shepherd swains shall dance and sing

  For thy delight each May morning;

  If these delights thy mind may move,

  Then live with me and be my love.

  “Dance with me, my lovely Elizabeth?” he finished in a bare whisper.

  She rose on tiptoes, kissing sweetly and murmuring against his full, moist lips, “Quoting Marlowe will never lead to a refusal. Yes, I will dance with you, my love.”

  In their typical modified waltz pose, they began. Over time their amusement of private dancing had evolved, incorporating steps from numerous established dances with those created spontaneously as they swayed and glided about the room. The choreography changed from time to time, Darcy leading and Lizzy responding with flawless grace, adding her own twists and bodily gyrations as the emotions moved her. Neither pretended even for a second that the activity was anything other than an erotic precursor to astounding lovemaking. Yet, it was enjoyable in its own right, both of them being fond of dancing.

  Boundaries of social decorum found in a ballroom setting were thrown aside. Caresses were intimate, bodies entwined, and kisses interspersed all while spinning, undulating, circling, weaving, and floating. They became increasingly daring, experimenting with sensual motions purely designed to arouse each other.

  Today Darcy rose to her challenge, huskily whispering snippets of poetry as they danced. Usually it was Darcy who lost all restraint long before Lizzy, but today he seemed determined to drive her mad with desire. Never losing the faint humorous lilt upon his lush lips, voice especially sonorous, eyes lusty and trenchant, rhythm elegant and nimble, figure powerful and masculine, in all ways spiraling her sensibilities insanely.

  Thus it was she who harshly pulled him into her where she leaned breathlessly against the bedpost. Frantic fingers attacked buttons while he loomed placidly before her. She feverishly removed impeding clothing while he feathered steady fingertips over her neck and exposed skin, mouth exhaling hotly breathed poetry onto a tingling scalp and sensitive ear.

  “Your smile stops the minutes

  And as moments they dance in candlelight.

  While your eyes whisper secrets,

  My heart with wings takes flight.

  In search for more of you to know,

  Of why and what make you so,

  Then mystery pleads her case

  And once again I found your face.

  There to know beauty true

  And gentle winds of peace and love,

  With eyes like jewels shining,

  Looking to the One above.

  And the moments which find life there

  Become the brightest stars above,

  Which live forever beautiful

  In the sky of my heart’s love.”

  Lizzy paused, having m
anaged to bare the majority of their bodies, hands now stilled at his waist as she listened to the romantic words.

  “I recognized Marlowe, Shakespeare, Lord Byron, and Keats. Who wrote the last one?” She withdrew, gazing upward into his glowing visage.

  “Did you like it?”

  “Very much. It was beautiful.”

  He smiled, bending closer and grazing along her cheek with his lips. “I wrote it for you, my heart’s love.”

  “You wrote it?”