by Gail McEwen
Then they were in the carriage, off to another home and another life.
* * *
Over the long years of their marriage, both Elizabeth and Darcy would look back on that period at the Yorkshire farm as a necessary but difficult time. The sudden arrival of outsiders caused quite a stir in the small rural community, and while they lived quietly, they still ended up being the subject of as much speculation and gossip as if they had gone directly to London. The locals were good people who neither knew nor cared about the Darcy name, so rather than scandal, the subject canvassed in the inns and watering holes was the newcomer’s obvious inability to succeed at anything approaching manual labour, for although he tried valiantly, it took only a few months for Darcy to discover that his self-deprecating jests were correct; he was no farmer. However, since he then provided employment for the sons and husbands of the neighbours, he was tolerated and treated with friendly, if curious, indulgence. Elizabeth, too, struggled with learning and mastering all the work attached to being a farmer’s wife, even if that farmer did not farm, and as her pregnancy advanced, so did her exhaustion and discomfort.
The hardest time was that first winter when the birth of the child was imminent. To Darcy, Elizabeth seemed perpetually out of spirits and sharp. To Elizabeth, Darcy grew increasingly distant and sullen. She was tired of the constant advice and birthing horror stories eagerly shared by the neighbour women, and he resented every congratulatory remark and cautionary tale from the local men. When the pains finally commenced and the midwife was sent for, Darcy took refuge at a nearby tavern and waited, for once welcoming the company of his neighbours who sat with him in nearly silent vigil while he prayed, wordlessly but fervently, for the safe arrival of a baby girl who looked just like Elizabeth.
When the messenger boy burst through the door, jubilant with the news of a healthy, strapping son, Darcy did his best to smile and accept the congratulations and good wishes of his companions. He left directly, as was expected, but instead of going home, he walked for hours in the cold night air, wandering the pathways and watching the windows of the distant house for the lights to be dimmed for the night. Only when he was certain all were asleep did he let himself in. But in a household that has just welcomed a new baby, sleep is anything but certain.
“Would you like to hold your son?”
The soft voice in the corner startled him. He turned to see the midwife holding a tightly wrapped bundle on her lap.
“How is Mrs Darcy?” He dodged the question.
“Asleep. She had a rough time of it at the end, so I gave her something to ease the pain.” She stood and held the bundle out to him. “Your son.”
With difficulty, he held back a bitter laugh. A son. Yes, of course it was a son, for why should God see fit to make anything easy for them? Without a choice, he took the infant, examining him intently in the soft light, looking for signs of Wickham and hoping against hope to see a resemblance to himself, Georgiana, or Elizabeth instead. The boy looked back at him with large, dark eyes, screwed up his face and let out a throaty squawk.
“He’ll be hungry.” The midwife snatched him back. “I’ll take him to his mother.”
“Is there no wet nurse to be called?” She looked at him with such astonishment that Darcy backed away and let her go into the darkened bedroom where Elizabeth slept. The light of the newly kindled lamp flickered out into the room as Elizabeth was awakened; she stirred and murmured, “Has Mr Darcy returned?” He listened as the increasingly urgent cries of the babe were muffled and then silenced, and then to Elizabeth’s soft voice as she hummed a soothing, tuneless lullaby. Unable to stay back, he stood in the doorway, watching until the contented infant fell away from the breast, stomach full and fast asleep. When Elizabeth was settled comfortably again, he stepped in as the midwife left the room.
Without a word, he sat next to the bed and took the boy from her arms, peering carefully through the wrappings to his face.
“Are you disappointed?” Elizabeth asked softly.
“There is no question it would have been easier had it been a girl. And I cannot help but search for any resemblance, welcome or unwelcome.”
“I understand,” she said, her eyes swimming with tears. “I had hoped for a girl, too, for your sake, but he is so small and helpless, and so beautiful…” Overcome with exhaustion and emotion, and the unexpected overwhelming power of a mother’s love for her newborn child, the tears spilled over and she sank back into her pillows. “He’s just a little baby.”
“Yes.” He reached over gingerly to give her hand a reassuring squeeze, terrified he would drop the baby the moment he loosened his grip. “Yes, he is. And I think…” He decided to be safe and hand him back to his mother, though he continued to stare intently as he thought aloud. “I had always thought that I could accept this child and do right by it out of duty and out of love for you. I accepted that and thought of it as penance for my sins and shortcomings. But now that he is here…”
His thoughts tapered off as cold fear and helplessness gripped Elizabeth’s heart.
“Now that he is here,” he repeated, “and a boy, and my worst fears are realised…” He looked up at her and brushed the tears from her cheeks, “I know that I could not love you more, and no matter who nature says his father might be,” he looked again at the tiny, sleeping face, “this little boy needs parents who love each other and who love him, and want and expect the best for him. And I wonder…rather than our penance, what if he is our absolution?”
“Do you mean it?”
“I do, indeed.”
“You can love him? No matter what?”
“I do love him, Elizabeth.” When the words left his mouth, the truth of them swelled in his heart. He took it then as a sign from a God who had showed him mercy after all, that the boy was truly his son. “No matter what.”
Epilogue
Frederick Fitzwilliam Darcy, you get down from there this minute!”
Elizabeth watched from the carriage window as the little boy jumped down from the fencepost at the sound of his father’s stern voice.
“Yes, Papa.”
“What are you doing out here? I am sure I told you to wait in the carriage with your mother.”
“You did, Papa, but the baby is crying. Is he going to cry all the way to Hertfordshire?”
“I should hope not, but he might. Where is your sister? Did she escape as well?”
“No, sir. She is right there.” Frederick pointed to the small girl barely into the toddler stage sitting under a tree and clutching a fistful of mud and grass in each hand. “I told Mama I would watch her.”
“From atop the fence?”
“I could see her better from up there.”
Beaten by the logic of a four-year-old, Darcy could only laugh and ruffle the boy’s dark head. That simple gesture of affection never ceased to touch Elizabeth’s heart. No stranger seeing them together would ever think to question that they were father and son. Darcy was as good as his word; whatever nature may have had in mind, he was a father to Frederick, and over the years, any doubts she might have had about his constancy towards her and towards the boy had vanished. The process was slow, but inexorable; he had pledged to hold and protect her heart, and so, little by little, she let go and gave him access to it. She learned to trust him. Even on the days he was less than perfect—when he was moody, said something thoughtless, or acted selfishly—she fought against that self-preserving instinct to close him out. And when she was suspicious, stand-offish, or too quick to doubt him, he pushed back his wounded pride and allowed himself to be vulnerable. On their second wedding anniversary, she presented him with a polished wooden box containing £2,000. He would have given her the world in return.
They left Yorkshire for Pemberley when Frederick was two years old, and none but the two of them knew, or would ever know, that his birthday was in November rather than February. And really, it was as simple as that. There may have been some whisperings while they were away, but
by the time they returned, anyone who knew about Wickham, or that the new Mrs Darcy was his widow or that she had failed to observe the proper mourning period, no longer cared.
Elizabeth Anne was born shortly after their return to Derbyshire. London waited another year after that, their first visit happily coinciding with Princess Charlotte’s wedding celebration. The grand event overshadowed all other sources of news or talk, but their careful timing was likely unnecessary. Just as in Derbyshire, speculation about Fitzwilliam Darcy’s sudden marriage to an unknown country girl, as well as their subsequent disappearance from society, had been well and truly used up years before. Elizabeth was enough of an unknown in the upper circles to be a mere curiosity rather than a scandal, and those who could provide more salacious details wisely chose prudence and self-interest rather than notoriety. Knowing that a bridge burned can no longer be used to one’s advantage, Caroline Bingley and Mrs Hurst chose to content themselves with skewering Darcy’s choice of bride in private.
As she took baby Francis from the nurse and dandled him on her knee to stop his crying, Elizabeth continued to peer through the window, watching her husband scrub Elizabeth Anne’s muddy fingers with his handkerchief. This would be their first trip to Hertfordshire and Longbourn since their marriage, and she was nervous and unsure about their reception. But Mary had written that their father had some sort of episode and was not quite himself. She and Darcy talked through the night, deciding that, if reconciliation with her family were possible, it was worth trying.
Just then, the door flew open and two boisterous children clambered in, followed by her breathless and slightly harried husband. It would be a noisy and trying journey, but she hoped her parents would be pleased to see their grandchildren. She hoped they would finally be happy for her. She hoped her father would see what her life had become and be proud of her. But then she looked at the man sitting across from her and the faces of their children, and she realised it did not matter. She would likely always have to confront the feelings of shame and guilt that would suddenly come crashing over her without warning, and she suspected that her husband fought the same demons at times. But they had risen from the ashes of hatred, suspicion and incredible ugliness to build a life of trust, love and beauty. They had found life in the midst of death. She was proud of herself, of him, of them. And that was enough.
The End
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue