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Fitzwilliam Darcy always found himself growing a little somber at the end of the year. It was possible that this was simply a habit by now, the ritual so ingrained that he fell into it without conscious thought, for he had no actual reason for anything but heartfelt gratitude. That was especially true this year, which had been an uncommonly good one. The last twelvemonth had brought him the birth of his first child and the happy expectation of his second in the spring; he had his suspicions that Georgiana would soon be married, if her young man would pick up his pace; and though it was not something to be truly celebrated, it had brought the death of Lady Catherine, mourned by few except his wife’s cousin, and he couldn’t deny that life would be a bit more peaceful without her formidable presence in it.
And every year he got to spend with Elizabeth at his side was an incomparable gift.
Things were not perfect, of course. He still had to deal with the Wickhams, and there were the everyday, commonplace bumps of life, mildly unpleasant and unavoidable. However, upon the whole, his existence was a fortunate one, and he had very little to complain about.
But this, perhaps, was at the root of these late-December fits of sullenness: he had been given much, and that heightened the fear of any of it being taken away.
"Oh, Fitzwilliam," came Elizabeth’s voice from the doorway. He jumped, startled.
“What is the matter?” he asked, instantly alarmed, primed as he was at the moment to expect the worst.
“Nothing is the matter with me , my dear,” she said, walking towards him, smiling with exasperated amusement. “But I can tell that there is something the matter with you .”
“I am perfectly well.”
“Fitzwilliam, I am your wife. I know when you are worrying.” She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “You go quite disturbingly still and you make that face.”
She mimicked it, exaggerating to make him laugh, all clenched jaw and furrowed brow and frowning lips.
“It is not that I am worrying, precisely.”
“What is it then?”
He could be honest with Elizabeth. She might tease, but it would come from a place of love these days. “I do wonder at times if our luck might run out, and all the good that we have been blessed with will be swept away.”
There was something understanding and soft in her gaze as she looked at him. “That is quite a bleak view to take, my dear,” she said lightly.
“One might argue that I am merely preparing myself for the worst.”
“Think of better things, Fitzwilliam,” she said, taking his hand. “Imagine that things will all turn out well, and that each year will be happier than the next.”
His attempts to lighten his expression must have failed, for she laughed and kissed his temple.
“I am trying ,” he insisted, a reluctant smile curling his lips; it was difficult to be brooding and melancholy when Elizabeth was around, spreading playfulness and light with every word she spoke.
“Listen to me, Fitzwilliam,” she said, trying for sternness and not quite able to achieve the proper effect. “I truly believe that the best is yet to come and that we have decades of happiness in front of us. But if I am wrong and times grow difficult, we will face the worst together, and is not that a very good thing, too?”
She was right, of course, and he was fretting over things he could not control– a worthless, time-wasting endeavor, too illogical for words, and he should know better than to indulge in it. He smiled at her, genuinely now, and pulled her into his lap.
They would meet the new year hand in hand, supporting and strengthening one another, and that was reason enough to feel both blessed and brave.