Thursday's Child

by Pat Santarsiero

  “How do you intend to claim the child as your heir?” asked Richard. Darcy again began a slow pacing of the room. “I’m afraid my plan did not extend that far. I could say that the child was abandoned and left here at Pemberley. I just don’t know Richard, but I must find a way to bring this child into my home and raise it as my own.”

  “What of the woman? Can you trust her? Will she keep your secret?” asked Richard.

  “Yes, of that I am certain,” replied Darcy. “Every precaution has been made to conceal our identities from each other. Our association extends no further than the terms of our agreement.” He turned toward the fire again, and, if one were listening closely, one could almost hear the sadness in his voice as he said, “We are never to meet again.”

  Anne could feel her breathing becoming more laboured. She knew it would only be a matter of seconds before she would start coughing. As quickly as she could, she made her way towards the staircase.

  ~*~

  Elizabeth put down the book of poetry she had been reading. She stood and walked to the window, looking out at the night. She pressed her forehead against the coolness of the windowpane. She could feel the movement of the child within her. Her child, a child she would never know. So many nights she had cursed this hell she had created for herself. Had she really thought she would be unaffected by this?

  How could I have known I would love this child even before it was born? How will I ever give it up? She knew she need not worry as to the child’s welfare. William could obviously afford to see to his child’s care and education. He was, after all, a man of means. The child would be well provided for. She only prayed that the child would also be loved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The next few weeks saw Anne and Darcy settle into a comfortable routine. Now that she was receiving the best of care, her health was at least stable. She was no better, yet no worse.

  The severe weather of the northern county of Derbyshire quickly enveloped the large estate in a blanket of snow. Although most of the county’s residents did not venture out into such intolerable weather, Darcy did still manage to ride Marengo at least once or twice a week on days when the weather’s severity lessened.

  Most usually his destination was unplanned, but more likely than not, he would find himself riding the half hour it took to reach the ridge that overlooked the small cottage that housed Lizzy.

  He told himself his only purpose in travelling there was to ensure that she and his unborn child were safe. On one occasion he had actually seen Lizzy as she walked a path near the cottage, but that was at least a month ago, before the snow had fallen. He had not seen her since. Occasionally he would see Hannah as she went about her duties. Sometimes she would be gathering wood for the fire, or throwing out a basin of water.

  He had been tempted on several occasions to visit her again. He wanted to let her know he regretted his words that day. He wanted to tell her he had not meant to insult her and to ask her forgiveness, but he had promised he would not bother her again, and he was sure she would refuse to see him anyway. He also had to admit to his admiration of her for having refused him. He knew that not many women in such a situation would have done likewise.

  He wondered what her life might be like after this. Would she seek a position as nursemaid or companion? Even those options would be closed to her should the particulars of their agreement become known. She could still perhaps marry. But he knew her well enough to know she would never enter into a marriage without revealing her past. Would she lead a life of degradation? He could not bear to think of Lizzy with other men, uncivilized men who would treat her poorly. After all, she is soon to be the mother of my child, a child who will someday inherit all of Pemberley.

  The thought of taking a mistress had always been abhorrent to him; there must be some other way to keep her safe.

  As he watched the cottage, he observed the post’s arrival and saw Hannah as she ran from the cottage to offer up a letter. Darcy was now familiar with the routine of life that stirred about the small cottage. On Tuesdays and Fridays supplies were delivered by an elderly man and his young helper. The young boy would carry the parcels inside the cottage, while the elderly man stood outside and talked with Hannah. The postman arrived with less consistency, but usually two or three times a week.

  On the previous Thursday, a new precedent had begun as he watched a carriage arrive and a woman descend, carrying a black satchel. She stayed for about an hour. Darcy knew this to be the midwife hired by his attorney. He knew this for no other reason than that he had followed the carriage upon its departure. Was it not his right to know all the comings and goings of a cottage where he had paid the lease in full?

  He would have preferred that his own personal physician, Dr. Chisholm, be the one to attend Lizzy. However, Mr. Gallagher had convinced him that obtaining a local midwife would be more prudent and attract less attention. He assured him that he had thoroughly checked out the woman’s experience and reputation. He also assured him that the woman would be discreet. She would visit once a month until the end of April to make sure everything was progressing normally. Darcy had insisted that starting the first of May, as the birthing day approached, she would visit each afternoon. Even though she had not asked, he agreed to pay the woman twice her usual fee for such diligent attention.

  Satisfied that all was as it should be, he slowly turned Marengo back towards Pemberley.

  ~*~

  “Fitzwilliam,” said Anne, “I have received a reply to my recent letter to my mother this morning. I must inform you that it is very likely she will visit us soon, although I will attempt to forestall her for as long as I may.”

  Darcy continued his entry into the parlour where Anne was about to partake in her afternoon tea. He made it a point each day to join her in this ritual, as it seemed to please her very much. He smiled as he approached her and took the cup from her hand as she offered it up to him.

  “What is it that you have written that would cause her to travel to Pemberley again so soon and in such unsuitable weather?” asked Darcy as he seated himself next to his wife.

  “I have informed her that I am with child,” stated Anne quite calmly.

  Darcy dropped the cup from his hand, spilling the tea on his breeches. He quickly stood as the hot liquid scorched his thigh. Surely he had not heard her correctly. “Forgive my clumsiness,” he said as he picked up the cup and returned it to its saucer. He brushed off his breeches with his napkin and again took a seat.

  “I’m afraid I must have misunderstood you, Anne. What was it you said?”

  “I said, Fitzwilliam, that I have written to my mother informing her that I am with child,” said Anne again, slowly and succinctly.

  Darcy said nothing but looked curiously at his wife. He watched as she refilled his empty cup, her hand steady. He waited to see if she continued, but she silently offered the tea to him, apparently waiting for his response.

  Not quite knowing how to reply to such a statement, he took her hand and said softly, “Anne, I know how much you wanted this to be so, but surely you do not truly believe that you are with child?”

  Looking at him now just as strangely as he was looking at her, she said, “I did not say that I was with child, Fitzwilliam, I said that I informed my mother I was with child.”

  This explanation did little to alleviate Darcy’s confusion.

  She took the cup and saucer from his hand and placed it on the table before them. She then took both his hands into hers. Darcy looked into her eyes, searching for the explanation that was beyond his immediate comprehension.

  “I have a small confession to make,” she said as she still held his hands in hers. “On Christmas night, while you and Richard were in the library, I came downstairs to find you. As I approached the door, the serious nature of your voice convinced me you were discussing my health, so I waited outside the door to listen to your conversation.”

  At the recollection of that conversation, Darcy immediately stood an
d turned away from her. She knows! She knows what occurred in Scotland. She knows of the child!

  “Anne . . . I. . . I . . . what is it you heard?” he asked, still not looking at her. He would wait to hear her full explanation.

  “You know what I heard, Fitzwilliam. Is it your desire to hear me repeat it?” she asked.

  Her calm demeanour still convincing him she did not know of his transgressions, he turned back to where she sat and grabbing her shoulders pulled her up to stand in front of him. “Tell me what you heard!” he demanded.

  Pulling herself from his grasp, she took a step back. With only a trace of anger in her voice, she complied with his demand. “I heard of your true purpose in travelling to Scotland. I heard of the child, your child, that shall be born in May.”

  Darcy stood there and looked into her eyes for a long moment. Neither spoke nor even drew breath. Finally he reached out and pulled her again, this time into his embrace. He had no words that might comfort her. What good would words do now? He could not defend himself against the charges laid at his door. He had betrayed her and their marriage. As much as he wished to deny it, he could not.

  As he embraced her frail body, Anne put her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest. She remained silent, enfolded in his arms, for several minutes. She did not cry. When Darcy finally released his hold and looked upon her, she said, “Come sit down with me. We have much to discuss, Fitzwilliam.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Miss Anne de Bourgh had grown up a lonely only child. She had little memory of her father, Sir Lewis de Bourgh, even though she was nine years old when he died. He had rarely spent time in her company and seemed to travel a great deal.

  Anne had mostly been raised by governesses, having had several over her early years; none of them staying long enough to form any kind of attachment. At first she had thought that she was the cause of each one’s departure, but upon overhearing a conversation one afternoon between the upstairs maid and Miss Nethercott, her fourth, or was it her fifth, governess, she learned the true reason why so many governesses had come and gone.

  Apparently, Sir Lewis had no difficulty in showing his affections to ladies outside of his immediate family. Either a governess was appalled by his attentions and would leave of her own accord, or a governess was not appalled by his attentions and Lady Catherine would dismiss her from service as soon as she suspected any inappropriate behaviour. Lady Catherine had tried hiring only older and less attractive governesses for a while, but that had not seemed to deter Sir Lewis.

  The only affection Anne could bring to memory was that of her earliest years. Their cook, a Mrs. Harrigan, had several daughters. The eldest, Meg, a pretty and lively young girl with copper hair and green eyes, had taken kindly to her, displaying an open warmth and fondness that Anne sought whenever Lady Catherine bestowed her disapproval upon her, which was often. Meg would lift her upon her lap and with soothing words would make her forget her distress and would soon have her smiling again.

  Some of her fondest memories were of the afternoons they would walk to the herb garden just beyond the small creek behind Rosings. Meg would hold her hand as they stepped from stone to stone across the shallow water to reach the basil, or perhaps the parsley, that was required for the evening meal. Once their task had been completed, especially on fine summer days, they would stretch themselves out, side by side, lying on the sun-warmed grass and inhaling the exquisite mixture of scents the garden emitted. There they would look up at the white puffs of clouds and, using their imaginations, would discern their likeness to anything from a teapot to a fire-breathing dragon.

  At night she would sometimes sneak into Anne’s room with some delightful baked treat or just simply to wish her sweet dreams. However, not long after her father’s death, Meg disappeared from the kitchen and from Anne’s life.

  Anne’s relationship with the great Lady herself had been at best tolerable. A less affectionate mother could probably not have been found in all of England. Right from the start, the fact that Anne was a fragile child had seemed to annoy her mother. The only time she had spoken to Anne was to correct, instruct or criticize her. That Anne turned out to hold herself in low esteem was hardly surprising.

  Anne had tried to become the child her mother wanted, but nothing she did seemed to please her. By the time she was in her youth, she had long stopped trying to attain her mother’s approval. Anne knew that her biggest disappointment to her mother was her inability to entice the great Fitzwilliam Darcy. Her mother had preached to her daily regarding her hopes for a union between the two of them.

  As much as she had preached, Anne knew her mother never truly believed such an alliance would ever come about; her sickly, unsophisticated, unrefined and untalented daughter attracting one of the richest, handsomest and most powerful gentleman in the county? Never! But still she had preached.

  By the time she was five and twenty, Anne had been resigned to the fact that she would live the rest of her life under her mother’s thumb. She had no prospects for marriage, and her mother would never permit her to do anything outside of Rosings that might allow her to feel useful. No, she would forever be a disappointment to her mother and would most likely die a lonely old maid.

  Her lack of vigour had never been of great concern to Anne. It would have been far worse to be in such a stifling environment and be healthy. At least her ill health had given her an excuse for her idleness.

  But all of that had changed in one glorious morning stroll in the gardens of Rosings. Fitzwilliam Darcy had proposed. You could have knocked her over with a feather. As nonchalant as she had tried to appear, she was shocked beyond belief. She had so wanted to see the look on her mother’s face when Fitzwilliam asked for permission to marry her. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall!

  Even though Anne had known it wasn’t exactly a love match, at least on Darcy’s part, she also had known that her life would benefit by this union in so many ways.

  Firstly, and most importantly, she would no longer be under her mother’s rule. She would be free of her mother and free of Rosings. She would speak, dress, associate with, learn, laugh and love in any manner she so desired.

  Secondly, she would be mistress of her own home. She would be respected as the wife of a gentleman. She would no longer be idle. Her life would have purpose.

  And thirdly, but equally as important, she would be able to give her love to someone, to care for another person and show her affection. Even though she had known he married her only out of duty to family, she would make her husband happy in any way she could. She would show her gratefulness every day for the honour he had bestowed upon her.

  All of this, she was sure, had not even occurred to Fitzwilliam Darcy. He had no idea how he had saved her, how much better her life was because of him.

  The disappointment of her miscarriage still grieved her. She had wanted so dearly to have his child. Had he asked, she would have gladly acquiesced to share her bed with him again.

  But now she knew that was not her fate. She would never be well enough to produce his heir, a fact that her husband obviously knew as well. Of course, he did not know the extent of her illness, or perhaps he did but did not speak of it.

  If her plan was to work, she would need an ally. She knew she had one in Mrs. Reynolds. On their first night back at Pemberley on their return from Rosings, Anne had stuffed another bloody handkerchief under her mattress and noted that the previous ones were not where she had hid them.

  She immediately had risen from the bed and searched under the mattress. As she lifted it, she had found her four previously hidden handkerchiefs, perfectly laundered and folded.

  They had not spoken of the incident, but each time they were in each other’s company, Anne was sure she detected a look of understanding in Mrs. Reynolds’s eyes.

  Anne knew how badly Fitzwilliam longed for an heir. That he had jeopardized his reputation as a gentleman and risked a scandal to produce one, was proof indeed. Altho
ugh she was not happy with his deception, she understood his motive.

  Now that his plan was set in motion, she wanted to see that it would come to fruition. The child would only be accepted as his rightful heir if they could convince their families that the child was a result of their union.

  If she could not produce an heir for him herself, she would see that he would be able to raise the child he had fathered. Her only fear was that God would not grant her the time she needed to complete her plan.

  Her first task had been to write her mother informing her of her supposed condition. She had sat down at her desk and written:

  January 18, 1813

  Dear Mother,

  I am writing you with the happiest of news. It has now been confirmed that I am with child. Fitzwilliam and I can hardly contain our joy at such a prospect. The child is due in May. I have been under the care of Fitzwilliam’s personal physician. It was at his suggestion that we not reveal my condition at Christmas since my health has always been so fragile. But now he feels I am far enough along that we may share this good news with our families.

  Please do not bother yourself with a visit during this harsh weather. Be assured that I am well and am receiving the best of care.

  With love,

  Anne

  Anne knew that writing this one letter would be the equivalent of writing to half of England. Her mother would tell anyone who would listen that her daughter was soon to produce the heir to Pemberley.

  Her next task was to implore Mrs. Reynolds to assist in her charade. Certainly she would need someone to intervene when her mother came to visit. Not that she believed her mother would inspect her person. Even during her worst childhood illnesses, her mother had never attended her. Surely, this would be no different. As long as there was a servant about to handle such necessities, her mother would refrain from any solicitous behaviour. However, she would still need Mrs. Reynolds to help perpetrate the illusion of her alleged confinement.