Elizabeth glanced at everyone’s expectant eyes, but most of all, at her husband. “Fitzwilliam, where would you like to celebrate our first real Christmas together?”
“By your side,” he replied. “Although the fascinating descriptions from your journal suggest…”
“That we remain here at Bellfield for Christmas,” she finished his thought. “William adores the sheep, Mary has her interests, and I find myself reluctant to abandon our first truesanctuary.”
“A Yorkshire Christmas it is, then,” Lady Eleanor declared with satisfaction. “I shall write to the Gardiners immediately. And perhaps the Bingleys might be persuaded to join us?”
“Mr. Bingley is from Yorkshire,” Darcy said. “He shall feel straight at home, although I don’t suppose Aunt Catherine would find traveling difficult at this time of year.”
“She would be delighted with the rustic charm,” Lady Eleanor remarked. “Why, Georgiana could teach Anne the traditional Yorkshire Christmas pudding dance.”
“There is no such thing as a Yorkshire Christmas pudding dance,” Georgiana protested, though she was laughing.
“There is now.” Mary laughed, swinging William around the room as he called, “Eep, eep, eep,” to his beloved sheep.
Elizabeth collapsed into laughter, delighting in the image of Lady Catherine contemplating a rustic Yorkshire Christmas. “You are thoroughly wicked, Lady Eleanor.”
“And you, my dear, have thoroughly charmed my nephew with those wickedly fine and memorable eyes.”
LIZZY HAS A LITTLE LAMB
August 24,1814 - William’s Second Birthday
If someone had told me three years ago that I would consider a Yorkshire sheep farm more precious than the grandest estate in Derbyshire, I would have questioned their sanity. Yet here I stand in the morning room at Bellfield Grange, watching my husband present our son with a lamb for his second birthday, and I cannot imagine anywhere I would rather be.
“Gentle, William,” Darcy instructs as our dark-haired boy reaches for the woolly creature with all the restraint of a fox in a henhouse. “Remember what we practiced.”
“My lamb!” William declares with absolute authority. “Mine!”
The lamb, a particularly sweet-faced creature with a black spot over one eye, seems remarkably tolerant of William’s attention. Graham selected her specifically for her docile temperament, though I suspect even the most placid sheep might balk at the sort of devoted handling our son has in mind.
“What shall you name her?” I ask, settling carefully onto the window seat. These days, sudden movements tend to result in aseries of reproachful kicks from the new Darcy heir currently taking up residence beneath my ribs.
William considers this with furrowed brow—a miniature version of his father’s thinking face that never fails to melt my heart. “Spot,” he announces definitively. “Spot lamb.”
“How refreshingly original,” I murmur, earning a reproving look from my husband that fails entirely to disguise his amusement.
“I believe Spot is a perfectly suitable name for a lamb,” Darcy counters with mock solemnity. “After all, she does have that distinctive marking.”
The door bursts open as Mary and Graham arrive, followed closely by Georgiana and Lady Eleanor, all bearing wrapped packages and expressions of fond indulgence that suggest our son has the entire household wrapped firmly around his tiny finger.
“Many happy returns, young master,” Graham says formally, though he ruffles William’s hair with obvious affection as he presents a miniature shepherd’s crook. “I trust you will take proper care of your new charge.”
“My lamb,” William repeats, as if this explains everything about proper animal husbandry.
I’m about to comment on this circular reasoning when William, apparently deciding that Spot requires a tour of the premises, makes a break for the unlatched garden door with his new friend.
“William Fitzwilliam Darcy!” I call, struggling to rise from the window seat with considerably less grace than I once possessed. “Come back this instant or no honey cakes.”
At first, it appears my strategy of maternal threats has worked. William looks back, but then Spot bleats plaintively from the direction of the sheep meadow, and William’s priorities become immediately clear.
“Spot scared!” he announces, setting off again with renewed purpose, swinging his shepherd’s crook. “I help Spot!”
“That child,” Lady Eleanor observes with obvious admiration, “has inherited the Darcy stubborn streak in full measure.”
“Along with his mother’s tendency to act first and consider consequences later,” Darcy adds dryly, though his tone holds nothing but affection.
The chase leads us through the kitchen garden, past the apple orchard, and toward the sheep meadow where the adult sheep watch our progress with benign interest. William, apparently believing he is conducting Spot home to her proper family, chatters encouragingly to his charge as they amble over the increasingly challenging terrain.
