Advent Calendar Day 16: A Birthday Vignette!

For those of you keeping track, today we are wishing Jane Austen a Happy 245th Birthday! Thank you, our dear lady, for giving us so many more years of joy and love and laughter than you were able to enjoy yourself.

In the time-honored tradition of giving gifts in celebration, today I am offering an e-book to two lucky winners! The book up for grabs is my first ever story collection: four novella-length stories recently released together in one place. I hope you enjoy it! I will be drawing the names at random on 12/19.

Oh, and in case you missed it because of the technical problems, be sure to stop by the Sleigh Ride video posted on Day 12!

And now, for the rest of the fun. I started thinking about how Jane Austen’s birthday was so close to Christmas, and how that might have put a bit of damper on the celebration.

I know something about that, because my husband, my brother-in-law, my niece, my dad, and my son all have birthdays the same week as Christmas! My son was even born on my dad’s birthday. It’s a hectic week, I can tell you. My husband still teases his mother that he and his brother never got their own birthday parties as kids.

I wonder what Jane Austen’s experience was like, don’t you?  And so, inspired by our favorite lady, I decided to play with the idea and see what would happen if Jane and Elizabeth had birthdays between Christmas and Twelfth Night.

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Elizabeth Bennet buried her face in the covers against the cool air of her room. One minute longer… But it was not to be, for Jane flopped over her, ticking her through the blankets. “Happy birthday, Lizzy!”

Elizabeth grumbled and tried to hide.

“Come, now, you will miss all the fun!” Jane cried. “Everyone is waiting for you.”

“As if anyone but you even remembered,” Elizabeth shot back. “You may as well let me sleep, Jane. Do not forget that whatever torment you employ today, I will return on Wednesday when it is your birthday.”

“Well, someone has to remember,” Jane sighed. “If we do not make a fuss among ourselves, nothing will come of it at all.”

Elizabeth finally pulled the covers down and squinted at her sister. “I begin to feel that Mama intentionally planned our births close to Christmas so that it would all be done at once and her nerves needn’t withstand the additional celebrations.”

Jane snickered. “Really? I thought it was Papa who would have wanted to reduce the to-do’s!”

“You may be right.”

Elizabeth sat up and saw the tea tray her sister had brought to her room. This had been their tradition since the year Jane turned ten and Elizabeth was eight—they brought each other breakfast in bed, so there would be some acknowledgement, at least, of their special day.

“Well, let us have our little party. Thank you, Jane.”

 

 

“Good morning, Papa.”

Elizabeth put her head into the door of her father’s study and found him, as she usually did, with his pipe shouldering by his side and a book in his hand. He looked up and blinked to adjust his eyes. “Oh, good morning, Elizabeth. Come to bring me my morning tea?”

He adjusted his spectacles and tilted his book for a better view of the page. “Very kind of you, my girl. Just there, on the desk until it cools a bit.”

“I have not brought you any tea, Papa.” She fidgeted with her fingers, glanced uncomfortably at the shelves, and cleared her throat. “Should be a lovely day today.”

“Hmm? Oh! Yes, ‘tis, ‘tis.  I believe your aunt and uncle are coming this afternoon, is that right?”

“Indeed, they are. Aunt wished to arrive in time to celebrate Jane’s birthday and mine.” She waited, hoping her father might catch the hint, but he only nodded.

“Very good. Well, I suppose I am to lose any peace and quiet until they go home after Twelfth Night, eh? I might as well take advantage of every moment. If you are going walking, Lizzy, will you send Hill in with my tea? There’s a good girl.”

Elizabeth sighed in discouragement. Usually, her father could be brought to remember, but this morning it was as if she scarcely existed, but to bring him his little comforts. Twenty years of age today, and not one hint that the rest of her family took note of it.

Truly, she must be being silly about it all. She was no longer a child to be petted and fêted. She was a woman, fully capable of mature and rational thought.

But she also wanted to feel special now and again.

She went to the hall and started bundling up for a walk. A good sulk out of doors would be just the thing to return her to her usual spirits. Until her mother found her.

“Lizzy, where on earth are you going? Your cousins are arriving soon!”

“I am going walking, Mama. I will be sure to return—”

“Impossible!” Mrs Bennet protested. “I need you to look over the decorations with Hill for Twelfth Night.”

“I thought Jane was doing that. Really, Mama, may I not take half an hour for a walk on my birth—”

“Some other time, Lizzy. I am counting on you and Jane to make this year the best we have ever seen! One never knows but that Mr. Bingley may see fit to come back from London, and I will not have anything less than our finest year ever.”

Mrs. Bennet hurried away, no doubt setting after Jane next. Elizabeth closed her eyes and fought for a moment of equanimity. Everyone knew that Mr. Bingley was not coming back. Why did their mother persist in tormenting Jane over a hope that was sure to disappoint?

Pouting and feeling a bit like a disappointed five-year-old, despite her twenty years, she hung her bonnet back on the hook. She unwound her thick scarf to hang beside it, and walked glumly back to the kitchen. This birthday looked as if it was going to be the same as all the others. Forgotten.

 

The arrival of the Gardiner party brought more than merry greetings and cheer. It also brought extra duties for the eldest Bennet daughters. Mrs. Gardiner had been unwell on the journey, as some ladies in particular conditions may be, and she required a good long lie-down upon her arrival. The care of their three children, therefore, fell to Jane and Elizabeth, who were the only ones both kind enough and conscientious enough to be tasked with the care of the little ones.

Elizabeth did love her young cousins. Eight-year-old Abigail was the picture of grace and patience—a model child, much like Jane had been. At three, Sarah Anne was bearing a striking resemblance to Elizabeth, but in form only. In character, she was much like her mother—ready to smile and offer affection, and generally an amiable and peaceful child.

But Elizabeth’s favorite was Samuel. Five years old and full of gunpowder, the lad was forever into mischief, but no one could not adore him for it. She delighted in the way his cheeks would dimple and his eyes would sparkle when he put his chubby hand on hers and begged to tell her a secret.

Invariably, it was some infamously puerile thing, like blowing raspberries in her ear. But, he never failed to hug her afterward, looking up with those dancing blue eyes, half again too large for his little face, and say, “I love you, Lizzy.” How could she not lose her heart to such a gentleman?

It seemed that Samuel’s attentions were to be the limit of Elizabeth’s celebration that afternoon. Uncle Gardiner had wished her a somewhat harried, “Happy birthday, Lizzy,” when he arrived, but soon after, he had accompanied his wife upstairs. And after that, he had joined her father for a drink in his study.

It was not that she needed her birthday to be a large event. Some little recognition would have been nice, though. She had still one year before her majority, and it would be pleasant to think next year might be noteworthy to her father. He had exerted himself to toast Jane the year before when she turned one and twenty, had he not? They were some of the most poetic words she had ever heard from her father, too—most of them.

“May her star burn ever fairer, may she continue to grow in grace of form and character, and may she ever remain a bright spot in my own life—until someone else carries her away, with or without five thousand pounds to her name.”

But that had not happened in the last year, had it? Jane had blossomed into everything perfect and wonderful, and it was still not good enough to tempt Mr. Bingley—a man who had been so obviously besotted with her that the snub was felt all through the neighborhood when he left.

It was with a very disheartened attitude that Elizabeth gave in to Samuel’s request to walk about the garden that afternoon. She had long since given over the hope of her own long trek over the hills and through the trees, and this little stumble through the slushy, muddy garden just before dark was small consolation. However, her young cousin’s enthusiasm for the freshly falling snow soon made up for the discomfort of the cold. She laughed as he rolled and tumbled about, and pelted him with whatever clean snow she could scoop into a ball when he decided to make sport of her.

She was about to call an end to it when he rose up with one last snowball. Unfortunately for her, he was less careful about the assembly of his missile than she had been, and had included a fair bit of mud when he gathered up his snow. She held up her hands, but it was too late.

“Got you, Lizzy!”

Indeed, he had. Mud was running down her face, over her eyes, and even down into her mouth. “Samuel! You are a dirty rascal!”

He came near, his little round face repentant. “I’m sorry, Lizzy.”

“Oh, it is no matter. It is not as if anyone will be troubled by a bit of mud on my face,” she sighed, with just a hint of petulance. “Come, let us—”

She stopped and turned, for a carriage had just pulled round the hedge into the drive. The Philipses were not to come until the morrow and they were not expecting anyone else, so who could it…

“Bully!” Samuel cried. “Look at them bays!”

“’Those,’” Elizabeth corrected him distractedly. “You should not be talking like that, Samuel.”

“But look at those horses, Lizzy! My papa would—”

“Oh, dear heavens,” Elizabeth whispered. The carriage had turned on the drive just enough for her to make out the crest on the side, and the face looking through the glass. It was Mr. Bingley, and he was riding in Mr. Darcy’s carriage.

“Quickly, Samuel! Into the house, go!”

The lad obeyed, for once in his life, and Elizabeth was close on his heels when she heard Mr. Bingley’s voice calling her back.

“Miss Elizabeth? I say, good afternoon!”

She stopped, her hands clutched at her side, and slowly turned. The gentleman was getting down from the coach, and he was not alone. Elizabeth curtsied to Mr. Bingley, but it was the brooding countenance of Mr. Darcy that drew her eye.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted them, as properly as a girl could when she had mud running down her face. “We are pleased to see you both well.”

Mr. Bingley was investigating her with a tilted head and a bemused smile. “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth. I was hoping to see your… your family. Are they all within?”

She gulped and snapped to attention. “Yes! Indeed, sir. All my sisters are within.”

He smiled again, tilted his head once the other way, and bowed. “Shall I escort you in, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Oh, no, thank you, sir. I think I would prefer to make a less conspicuous entrance. I was playing with my cousin, you see, and—”

It was doubtful that Mr. Bingley heard anything after the word “no.” He had never been a rude man, but he was burning with a peculiar sort of energy this afternoon. He bowed once more and raced off. He was halfway to the door before Elizabeth stopped talking, and she was left alone with Mr. Darcy.

Oh, if only she could sink into the earth! Of all the people to see her with mud on her face, it had to be him! She clenched her teeth and made a miserable attempt at a curtsey. “Mr. Darcy.”

He stepped forward, his hand slipping into his breast pocket. “Miss Elizabeth. You are looking very well today.”

“I might have expected a bit of mockery in my present state,” she snapped, her ears growing hot, “but you needn’t be so ungallant about it.”

“I am not mocking you. I meant every word.” He withdrew his hand and extended a handkerchief. “For your convenience, madam.”

She took it dubiously, keeping one eye on him as she unfolded the exquisite silk. “Oh, I cannot, sir. I will spoil it.”

“You are welcome to keep it. I would far rather deface a bit of silk than to see you uncomfortable.”

She narrowed her eyes. What manner of bewitchment had overcome the sour, disapproving Fitzwilliam Darcy? “Ah… thank you. Sir.”

She turned away and dabbed at her face the best she could. When she felt decent again, she looked back at the gentleman. “Well, ah… shall we?”

His lips were twitching and he stepped even closer to her. He lifted his hand, first pointing vaguely to his own face, then gesturing toward her.

“Oh! Did I miss something?” She hurriedly swiped at her cheek, her chin, her forehead, and when she felt satisfied, looked up.

Mr. Darcy shook his head and gently took the handkerchief from her hand. “Here.” With a tenderness that she never could have dreamed him to possess, he dashed away the last of the mud from her cheeks and the tip of her nose. And then he simply stood there, staring down at her, with the handkerchief cupped under her chin.

“Am I presentable now?” she whispered, for her voice seemed to have failed.

He nodded, still apparently trapped in some reverie. “Miss Elizabeth, you are at your most charming when you have been out of doors.”

She could not help the way her breath quickened and her lashes began fluttering. It matched the skittery, buzzing feeling in her stomach. Like a little fool, she was still gazing up at him, no doubt starry-eyed and looking like the veriest countryfied simpleton. Not knowing what else to do, she coughed and looked away.

“Ahem… we are surprised to see you, sir.”

His eyes drifted over her head, to the door of the house. “Bingley was in a great hurry to return.”

Her brow creased. “We heard that he did not mean to return at all—that he would be in London through the season and had no plans to come back to Netherfield.”

“And I imagine your source was Miss Bingley?”

“Naturally.”

“There was your first mistake, Miss Elizabeth. Miss Bingley is not the most credible source.”

Elizabeth’s heart lifted, only to tumble once more into the cold reality. “But he has been away a month—a month today, to be exact. We have heard nothing—”

“That was ill-judged of him. Miss Elizabeth, it is time I was perfectly honest. I did my part to encourage Bingley to remain in London because I wished him to be sure of his sentiments. I could foresee… complications, if he chose your most excellent sister, and I hoped to permit him a time to think clearly, to be sure of himself.”

Elizabeth put her hand at her hip and glared at him. “Complications? What sort of—oh, why do I bother standing here and arguing with you?”

“Because you have an insatiable desire for the truth, and you deserve no less.”

She crossed her arms and her look grew—she imagined—frostier. It did not help when Mr. Darcy’s smile widened. “I would like to know what objections you posited against my sister. How can there be any complaint in her person, her manners, or her address?”

“Rather than answer, I shall ask you a more telling question. Was your sister very much disappointed when he went away?”

“Disappointed! She was humiliated!”

“Because of her own sentiments, or because the general expectations of the neighborhood made her uncomfortable?”

Elizabeth looked down. “Her heart was broken, Mr. Darcy. I do not expect you to care about such a thing, but there it is. She was taken in by Mr. Bingley, and excessively fond of him. How could you let your friend do such a thing to an honorable lady, exposing her to the world’s derision and shattering her expectations?”

He drew a deep sigh and nodded. “It is as I hoped, then, but I could not be certain. She is very modest, is your sister. Then her attraction was not, as might be feared, a mercenary one. I am very glad to hear it.”

“Mercenary! How could you accuse her of such? Is that why you kept Mr. Bingley from her?”

“I only wished happiness for them both, and I am pleased that the attachment seems genuine on both sides. The truth, Miss Elizabeth, is that I had counseled only a week’s absence, or a fortnight at most, and I never advised that he should not give word of his intentions. Bingley’s family found reasons of their own to delay him—an aging aunt in Bedford, an urgent need to be of some assistance to Hurst in a contract negotiation. In short, a dozen different excuses were waged, but not one of them held the power to keep him away from her today.”

She puckered her lips. “Why today, of all days, should he choose to come charging back to Hertfordshire?”

Mr. Darcy offered a sheepish smile. “Because he recalled that she had a birthday, and he wished to be at hand to pay his respects.”

Elizabeth huffed a short laugh. “That is… sir, that is commendable, but Jane’s birthday is not until the day after tomorrow.”

He inclined his head and slipped his hand back into his breast pocket. “Bingley is thoughtful, but not known for a clear memory. He knew there was a birthday today but could not remember which it was. Therefore, it must be yours. Happy birthday, Miss Elizabeth.”

He extended his hand and proffered a slim volume. Her suspicions aroused, she accepted it with a surprised murmur of gratitude. Then, she simply stared at it, her fingers brushing hesitantly over the hard cover.

Mr. Darcy deliberately turned her hand over so that she could read the words on the spine. Byron.

“You told me once,” he said softly, “that poetry has either the power to drive away love entirely, or to feed it.”

She blinked, her breath faltering. “I did say that. But what—”

“The difference, I believe, was what sort of inclination existed in the first place,” he continued. “I must confess, that was a question to which I had not an answer a month ago. But I have now.”

She was staring up at him again and felt her mouth slightly agape like a silly schoolgirl. She closed it and swallowed. “H-have you?”

How had she never noticed how rich and dark his eyes were? And when he looked at her that way, there was so much sincerity in his voice and expression. Perhaps… perhaps she ought to reassess her earlier judgments of the man. The simple fact that he had been one of the few to note her birthday was an easy step into her good graces, but there was more than that. There was affection and interest, tenderness and eager hope in his tone when he answered her.

“I am not a man to easily entrust myself to another. I try to be judicious—prudent in all my ways, with the interests of my family and those dependent upon me coming before my own concerns. I had counseled myself that any attachment I formed must be agreeable to all connected with me. But I have since… reconsidered.”

She shook her head. “I do not understand, sir.”

“Miss Elizabeth, have you ever felt that another person’s happiness must and should be more vital to you than your own? Of course, you have, because you speak of your sister in that way.”

“But what has that to do with this?” Elizabeth turned the poetry over in her hand and reverently traced the title.

“I found that my greatest hope was to see you happy, Miss Elizabeth. To bring you joy, in whatever way I could. And whenever my thoughts drift to you, my heart echoes the immortal words written by the great ones to profess their feelings. You could say that my affections amount to a ‘fine, stout, healthy love,’ such as I hope you may one day return.”

“I…” She bit her lip and looked up to him with brimming eyes. “I know not what to say. I feel I must scarcely know you, that you could surprise me so!”

“The fault of that is my own, for working so hard against my own feelings. I hope you will permit me the chance to remedy that. But if you cannot give me so much—I deserve far less!—at least allow me to wish you a happy birthday.”

She sniffed and dashed a tear from her eye. “Do you know, Mr. Darcy, I have heard those words from you twice already, while my own family has done no more! I am not so vain that I demand an entire day devoted to me, but—”

“I will do better than a day,” he offered quickly. “I shall devote a lifetime to you. If you will have it.” He extended his hand, palm up, and held her gaze with deep brown eyes filled with love.

What else was she to do? It was not enough merely to give him her dirty, snowball-crusted glove. She tugged it off and caught his fingers. His touch was warm, his grasp immediate, and in less than a heartbeat, Elizabeth could see her future. Her home would be with Fitzwilliam Darcy, her heart wholly given over to him, and all her yesterdays and tomorrows bound up in the life they would build together.

His smile when she took his hand was so becoming, so painfully beautiful to witness, that she could hardly stop herself from drawing closer to see it better. He pulled her to his heart, under his chin, with their entwined hands filling the space between them.

“I suppose, sir, that if this is truly your intention, we should speak with my father.”

“We will have to wait until Bingley has had his say. Perhaps we can find some way of amusing ourselves for five more minutes?” he teased.

“Oh! Then I shall employ myself in learning all there is to know about you. For instance, you know that today is my birthday, but I have yet to learn yours.”

“You wish to know now?”

“It is preferable to waiting until the very day of to tell me, is it not?”

He frowned playfully and nodded. “Very well. My birthday is tomorrow.”

Elizabeth cried in protest. “You are merciless, sir! Tell me, are you in earnest, or merely making sport of me?”

“I would never. I speak the utter truth, my dear.”

She lifted her shoulders. “Well, then, there is nothing else for it. I will have to find a gift for you, but on such short notice, where am I to find anything?”

“This—” he squeezed her hand—“this is more than enough.”

“Not by half,” she declared. “But I have just thought of something. Close your eyes, Mr. Darcy.”

He complied at once. Elizabeth stood on her toes and admired him, just for an instant—trusting, vulnerable, and entirely wonderful. Then, she tugged her hand free from his and threaded her bare fingers through his hair. He never resisted or hesitated when she pulled him down to her, and the sweet play of his lips when they met hers was enough to make her blush the rest of her days.

That was, until Mrs. Bennet bounced out of the front door. “Lizzy, you will never guess what Mr. Bingley… why, Lord bless us! What is that hateful man doing here? Lizzy! Are you embracing him?”

Elizabeth pressed on more kiss to her Mr. Darcy’s lips, gave him an apologetic smile as he chuckled in reply, and turned at last.

“Mr. Darcy was only wishing me a happy birthday, Mama.”