I forget who posted the original challenge, but this is in response to the "Do a Christmas story with a happy ending" challenge. Pop_up_OK, !MST_OK. If you have permission to archive, go ahead and archive. All others, please ask. Feedback is welcomed, but not required. An Essex Family Christmas By Redhawk It was a brutally cold December in the Year of our Lord 1876. Brutally cold, but with a clean crispness to it. Bracing, really. I felt the keen knife of the wind cut through my greatcoat, though my clothing to pierce my flesh as I ran my last errands. My manservant Stanley trailed behind me, carrying my parcels. One last pickup (the carving-knives), and it will be homeward-bound for me. My darling Rebecca is undoubtedly elbow-deep in the preparations for our party, ordering the servants around much as a general orders his troops. I indulge her too much, really, but I think she's more than deserving of a little consideration. She has sacrificed so much for me, being the daughter of a old family on hard times. Her marriage to me has saved her family from destitution, and much to my surprise I have come to care for her deeply, and she for me. The carriage-ride home is bumpy, as usual. I really must have a word with the Minister of Public Works. This is London, capital of England, shining light of all the Empire, and the fool can't even keep the damned roads straight and even. After an seemingly endless, exhausting, jolting ride from the market to my manor-hall, the servants work quickly. They unload my packages and care for the horses. One bears a lantern, to light my way from the stables to the Hall itself. I make the journey as quickly as is decent, for the cold has begun to become uncomfortable. I can see my fingertips have become as red as holly-berries, even through my new gloves. Once inside, I quickly shed my overcoat and hat, and go looking for my wife. She is, as I suspected, in the kitchens, waving a wooden spoon around like a baton as she directs the cooks and domestics in their duties. When I enter the room, she smiles at me, and I swear before God, it is as if the sun has risen again in her eyes. A fierce hug, then I must be off, to do my part in the preparations. For my part, I make sure the sitting room is just so, with all the liqueurs properly placed, my men aware of their instructions, and that my special stock of fine American cigars are ready. I prefer the pipe, myself, and I do make sure all the apropriate supplies for it are quick to hand. Several decks of cards are already being shuffled, I note with pleasure. My people know their duties well. I will reward them, if all goes well this evening. Soon enough, all our guests will be arriving. I ascend the Master Staircase, to dress apropriately for the occasion. Rebecca, I note with pleasure, has beaten me there, and a small army of servants is in the process of assisting her. I merely lean against the wall and watch. It's one of the pleasures I do allow myself, and it is Christmas, after all. A time for indulgences. All too quickly, she's attired in a radiant cranberry gown, with white relief at throat and wrists. She is truly beautiful tonight. I stride over to my armoire, to complete my own dress. The gray, I believe, will be in order this evening, with the black jacket. The formal jacket settles on my shoulder as neatly as any fine garment should, and the cravat as neat as a pin. My doctor's steady hands adjust here and there, and check the time in my pocket-watch. Rebecca, for her part, has remained behind, and once my dress is neat I take her hand in my gloves one. "You, my dear, look as radiant as the sun. A vision of loveliness." She blushes prettily at my words, and I take cheer in her good humor. "You flatter me, Nathaniel." she says shyly, withdrawing her hand and heading for the door. "Nonsense. You're as beautiful now as you were the day I made you mine." I respond as I depart our chambers. No response this time, save for a saucy wink and a swish of skirts, but soon enough her girlish giggle betrays her. I stand in the main hall, which has been cheerily lit by the gas lamps, and polished until I can see myself clearly in the wood braces. My first guest of the evening is Lord Braddock, Chancellor of the Exchequer. I'm surprised he deigned to accept my invitation. His wife, the Lady Braddock, is as lovely as ever, although a trifle too plump for this man's tastes. To him, I grant a hearty handshake and a robust hello. His wife earns a bow of the head, my lips on her hand. My manservant escorts the Braddocks into the sitting-room, where drinks and cigars await. One by one, the guests arrive. Nobles, scientists, hangers-on, all arrive in their due course. My chief rival, Charles Darwin, has clearly declined my invitation. His loss. He always was such a fool, in all things. The old man's gone soft. I rejoin the now-milling crowd in the sitting room, for some talk before dinner. I work the crowd, spending a little time here, a little time there. In truth, I do not spend enough time in the social scene in London. Always, my work calls to me. But tonight is not about work, no matter how much that plebean fool Jacoby tries to convince me that his notion of 'bodily humors' and the seat of human consciousness is in fact the correct one. Rubbish. As any fool who has bothered to investigate the subject call tell you, the seat of the human intellect, the human mind, does not reside in the heart, as some seem to feel, but in the brain. Too few understand the functioning of that mysterious organ, only to note that damaging it leads to palsies, slowness of thought, and idiocy. I have been spending many weeks examining the brains of corpses, trying to ascertain how thoughts are created, how the human soul interacts with the mind. I may as well believe in faeries and spriggans than believe in that fool Jacoby. But tonight I humor him, listening to his blather. Soon enough, the bell rings. Time for dinner. I assist my Lady and our staff in making sure everyone makes it to their seats before I take my own at the head of the table. The wine is poured, hot and spicy, having been mulled over a hot fire. "A few words, ladies and gentlemen, before we begin our feast. Tonight is Christmas Eve. Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, was born on the morrow, and with His coming has changed the world. We here tonight are among the best of English thought in the world today. We explore God's mysteries, in a hope of understanding His work. I wish to offer a salute tonight. To the exploration of God's work, and to our science!" "To science!" the table responds, and drinks deep from their cups. I cannot help by notice that Rebecca drinks but lightly. As I am about to be seated, she stands, and says "I too wish to say a few words before we begin to eat this night. I wish to inform my darling husband that I, Rebecca Essex, am bearing his child." Stunned, I barely keep my poise in the face of the eruption of cheer from my guests. "A heir?" I stammer, completely forgetting myself. "This is fantastic! I am going to have a son!" My guests are on their feet, cheering. Many congratulations are called out. "My dear, I had no idea!" I proclaim. "As Adam was the first man that God created, so too shall our first child be named Adam if a boy, and Eve if a female." Rebecca sits down heavily, overcome. I myself am feeling quite unstable, as I allow myself to return to my seat. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, let us say Grace." As I mouth the words, my mind whirls with visions of the future. A son! I know it is a son, I know in my heart God will grant me a son. He will grow up to follow his father, to build upon my work. Endless accolates shall be his, this I do swear! A son. I'm going to have a son. God be praised. -- Erik Larson "Pardon me, but who is this God person you are redhawk@deeptht.armory.com referring to?