Though it had not been her intention to draw him from his duties simply to sit idly by her side to attend her, Elizabeth had imagined Darcy would have been eager to join her as soon as he was able or, at least, to send her some small missive if he found himself not yet at liberty to do so. His absence thus far caused her more anxiety than she felt she would have experienced otherwise. She found it difficult to refrain from worrying about his safety. “Mrs. Reynolds,” Elizabeth finally inquired as she panted after a particularly strong contraction, “are you quite certain Mr. Darcy has been informed of my condition?”
The housekeeper squeezed her hand and smoothed back her hair. “I am, ma’am. Several footmen have been sent out to him, but as he is on the far side of the estate and currently embroiled in a very pressing matter of business, I am afraid it will be some time yet before he shall be at liberty to tear himself away.”
Mrs. Reynolds did not reveal to her mistress that she had been told the dispute between the two tenants had since grown quite serious and was rumored to have escalated to such distressing proportions that, within the last half hour, the magistrate had to be sent for, as well. Darcy, per Mrs. Reynolds’s instruction, had been assured Elizabeth was doing well, and therefore, the housekeeper saw no need for him to cast aside his urgent business in order to hurry home for a birth that, while being of monumental import to the entire estate, was not likely to take place for many hours yet, certainly not until well after nightfall.
At noon, Elizabeth was persuaded to partake of a light meal in her room to keep up her strength, and toward teatime, as darkness began to loom over the house, she was much relieved to hear a flurry of activity just outside in the hall. In the next instant, however, Elizabeth’s heart sank as her mother, rather than her husband, entered her room, breathless and extremely vexed. “Lizzy! So it is true, then! Your time has come, I see, and a good deal early, too! Why was I not informed of it immediately? These things can be terribly trying for a young woman, as I am well aware. It is very fortunate for you that I am here to help you through it, child. I shudder to think of you being all alone with no one but the servants to assist you.” Mrs. Bennet suddenly noticed Mrs. Reynolds and Sonia tending to her daughter, and she frowned.
Elizabeth groaned, and though her mother thought it merely the onset of another labor pain, Mrs. Reynolds and Sonia knew enough of their mistress to suspect it stemmed more from Elizabeth’s reaction to her mother’s offensive words and often overbearing presence than anything else. “Mama, I did not wish for you to be disturbed. It is not yet time for the babe to be born. I assure you, I am perfectly fine,” she gasped as another contraction came upon her, and her attention was diverted elsewhere. A pointed look passed between Mrs. Reynolds and Sonia then, and with a comprehensive nod, the younger woman rose to dispatch another footman with a note for the master.
Within a half hour, Elizabeth’s labor progressed rapidly, the midwife was sent for, and Pemberley’s mistress was removed to the birthing room. She was now in much pain. Where on earth is Fitzwilliam? she wondered in panic as her mother, having repeatedly boasted of her own success at having borne her husband five healthy daughters, launched an ill-advised campaign instructing the midwife on how best to do her duty. Surely he should have come to me by now! What could be wrong? I know very well that something must be terribly wrong! Mrs. Bennet, even though Elizabeth knew she meant well, was far from exuding a calming influence over those present—most especially, the mistress of the house. Indeed, it was all Elizabeth could do to restrain herself from ordering her mother from the room.
“Take several deep breaths now, Mrs. Darcy,” the midwife instructed in an authoritative voice. “I believe it is almost time to begin pushing, but not quite yet.”
Oh, God, Fitzwilliam, where are you? Elizabeth wanted to cry, her terror steadily augmenting.
* * *
Darcy’s anxiety for his wife had grown throughout the course of the day until it nearly threatened to consume him as he was forced to deal, first, with two unreasonable tenants who had threatened to do each other grievous harm over a fertile parcel of land between their properties and, then, with the magistrate and his men. Had it not been for the gravity of the situation, which his steward had assured him would have undoubtedly escalated to horrendous proportions far sooner if Darcy had failed to remain with his tenants to assert control over the situation, the master of Pemberley would have quit the scene the very moment he had received word of his wife’s condition.
By the time he had been handed a second missive from Sonia, stating that Elizabeth was in need of him, Darcy knew he had already done everything within his power to defuse the hostile situation. His steward had agreed there was little left for him to do, and as the magistrate was now on hand to restore order after Mr. Roberts’s violent attack against Mr. Gordon, Darcy wasted no time taking his leave of the officials. He found he could not ride fast enough or arrive soon enough, and, as he approached the front entrance of Pemberley House, Darcy barely took the trouble of reining in his lathered mount before he leapt from the saddle and took the steps two at a time. He burst through the doors and raced up the main staircase to his wife’s chambers, only to find them empty. In a panic, he ripped open the door that connected her room with his, and his heart nearly stopped beating. The bed had been stripped clean and stood before him, its cold starkness taunting him from the center of the room. Dread flowed through his veins, and he ran a trembling hand across his mouth, his thoughts a wild jumble of desperation. He prayed he had not arrived too late.
Down the hall, Darcy heard his mother-in-law’s abrasive voice screeching orders to someone and then a strangled cry of pain that could only have come from Elizabeth. Such sounds had never been so welcome to his ears, and he suddenly felt his strength return in full force. Darcy raced from the room, his heart pounding in his chest, and all but tore the door to the birthing room off its hinges. He was greeted by the shocked faces of Mrs. Bennet, Mrs. Reynolds, Sonia, and a surly-looking woman he could only assume was the midwife. Mrs. Bennet stepped forward and turned him unceremoniously from the room.
“Mr. Darcy, certainly this is no place for a man, sir! I shall send word to you when it is over,” she said before she turned from him and retreated back into the room. The door closed behind her.
His eyes narrowed at being thus treated in his own home, Darcy forced the door open with his hand. “No. My wife has sent for me, and I intend to see her.” His voice was firm, resolute, and filled with anger.
Mrs. Bennet, however, waved him off. “You most certainly shall not. As I have said, a man has no place in a birthing room. I will ask you again, sir, to leave at once. You can be of no help to Lizzy while she is in such a state. You would only be in the way, to say nothing of the impropriety of your presence during such goings-on.”
Elizabeth cried out then, and Darcy’s fury reached its boiling point. “Mrs. Bennet!” he hollered. “You will step aside, madam, or I shall not be responsible for my actions! I will see my wife, and I will see her now!” He pushed past her and strode to Elizabeth’s side.
The expression of relief that flooded her features was apparent to all. “Fitzwilliam,” she whispered as she held out a trembling hand.
Darcy knelt at her side, placing kisses upon the hand he grasped between his own. “I am here, my love. I am here,” he said as he moved her damp curls from her face. “Forgive me. I would have been here far sooner had I only—”
Another strangled cry was issued forth from his wife. Instinctively, Darcy placed his lips upon Elizabeth’s hair as she bit down upon her lower lip with such force that a drop of blood appeared. Darcy blanched and removed it with his thumb.
“Now, Mrs. Darcy,” said the midwife, “at the next contraction you must push. Push as hard as you are able. Mr. Darcy, I must insist that you leave now, sir.”
Darcy’s expression of outrage transformed itself into one of incredulity as his attention snapped from the midwife to his wife, who had begun to prot
est his removal most vehemently and with such language that could hardly be construed as that befitting a lady. The midwife and Mrs. Bennet, equally mortified by such an outburst, joined forces then, insisting Darcy leave them, but Elizabeth, in her anger and determination, refused to give way. She did not wish to be parted from her husband, whose presence was all she had wished for throughout the course of the day. Another pain began, and Elizabeth gripped Darcy’s hand as she bore down, hard.
Mrs. Bennet continued her protest but found herself silenced by Mrs. Reynolds, who held Elizabeth’s other hand between hers. “For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Bennet, let them be!” said the housekeeper. “Can you not see how they bring each other comfort?” She then turned aside her head and muttered under her breath, “How anyone can miss it, let alone her own mother, I know not. Indeed, a blind man would see their devotion.”
Mrs. Bennet started at the barb Darcy’s housekeeper had just flung at her. The mistress of Longbourn was about to hurl her own invective when she heard her daughter cry out, commanding her full attention; then she could only stare as her proud and imposing son-in-law moved to support his wife completely, his devotion punctuated by firm, quiet words of encouragement, comfort, and love. Upon bearing witness to such evidence of openness and unabashed affection—which she was hardly used to from her own husband—Mrs. Bennet felt her cheeks heat and retreated to the far corner of the room, her lips pursed in a thin, hard line. Not a quarter of an hour later, Elizabeth’s cries gave way to tears of joy. Pemberley’s new mistress, after a day of arduous labor, gave birth to a beautiful, healthy babe.
After Mrs. Reynolds and Sonia assisted her in pushing out the afterbirth, Elizabeth was cleansed, dressed in a fresh shift, and carried to the master’s chambers by her husband. Forced to yield to her son-in-law’s desire to hold the newest member of his household clasped to his breast while his wife was being attended to—and in his presence, no less!—Mrs. Bennet felt her vexation magnified by tenfold when she watched Darcy reclaim his child after he had seen Elizabeth settled in their own room. Ignoring all others present, he joined his wife as she reclined upon their bed, speaking quiet words of affection with a warm smile of happiness. Darcy’s eyes, brimming with tenderness, moved between his wife—who had laid her head against his shoulder—and the precious charge cradled in his arms. Mrs. Bennet suddenly found herself torn between indignation that they would forget themselves in such a way while in company, and envy that they were so obviously able to do so and with an incredible amount of ease.
Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Bennet’s growing irritation at being kept from her grandchild soon overcame all other feelings. In a fit of pique, she threatened to remove herself from the room and quit the house entirely if she was kept from the child even one minute longer. It was then, after exchanging a pointed look with his wife, Darcy reluctantly rose and surrendered that which, in a matter of a mere half hour, he now held so very dear to his heart.
Mrs. Bennet’s sour expression softened to one of wonder and delight as she gazed upon the tiny bundle her son-in-law had transferred to her arms, and as she spoke, to everyone’s surprise, her voice was soft rather than shrill, and her words comforting rather than offensive. Darcy could only watch the transformation with awe, a smile curling the corners of his mouth as he turned to his wife and lifted her outstretched fingers to his lips.
* * *
Many hours later, Darcy and Elizabeth found themselves blissfully alone. “I am so very sorry I was unable to come to you earlier than I did, Elizabeth. If the situation between Mr. Roberts and Mr. Gordon had not been so dire, I would have made my excuses immediately to attend you. Sadly, that was not the case.”
Elizabeth nuzzled against the roughness of his cheek. “There is no need for you to dwell upon it, my love. I understand your responsibilities to your tenants and to Pemberley. There is no need to explain your actions to me. From what you have told me already, it sounds as though your presence there was required far more than it was here. It would have been tragic, indeed, had either Mr. Roberts or Mr. Gordon succeeded in killing the other over such a grievance, especially on this joyous day. If I recall correctly, Mrs. Gordon is soon to enter her own confinement. Surely, had you not been on hand, there existed the very great possibility their own child would never have known his father. I believe we all have much to be thankful for.” Elizabeth gave him a tender smile full of love. “You are a wonderful master, and as Mrs. Reynolds has so often said, I do believe no one here at Pemberley could ask for a better one. Your son will learn much of value from you, Fitzwilliam, and indeed, he will turn out to be exactly like you: the very best of men.”
Darcy pulled her closer. Even during what had, undoubtedly, been an emotional and fearful time for her, Elizabeth had still managed to understand him so well—had managed to perceive all that had been weighing upon him, the tremendous burden he had faced and was forced to carry on his shoulders that day. She had fully accepted his role as Pemberley’s master—his responsibilities to his estate and to its people—with grace and an unselfish heart. His heart swelled with pride for his wife. How could it not, for Elizabeth had certainly proven herself as Pemberley’s mistress on this day.
“We must think of a name for this little one,” Darcy said as he gazed with tenderness at his son, who, at that moment, suckled at his mother’s breast. Darcy reached out his hand and caressed the downy hair that covered his child’s tiny head. It was very dark—almost black—with somewhat of a curl to it, very much like his own. His son’s infant features, however, showed him to be an exact replica of his mother, save for his eyes. Even after living in the world for only a few short hours, it was apparent to all who had looked upon him that his eyes were exactly like those of his father—penetrating and expressive.
Elizabeth stroked the softness of her son’s cheek with her finger, and a smile graced her lips. She could not ever remember feeling such happiness. “Yes,” she said, “we do need to find a name for you, do we not, my little prince? Do you have any preference, Fitzwilliam?”
Darcy gazed upon his son, of whom he could not be more proud, and felt his heart swell to painful proportions, both for this miracle of life and for the incredible woman who had made his son’s existence in the world possible. Darcy glanced at her. “What would you say to naming him after Bingley?” he asked. “I have always been fond of the name Charles, and I believe I owe him a very large debt of gratitude.”
Elizabeth looked at him with a quizzical expression, and he sighed as he raked his hand through his hair. “For many years now Bingley has been a very great friend to me and an even greater friend over this past year. He made me look at myself—my principles and my life—more closely than I had ever dared to do before and perhaps even more importantly, he forced me to examine, and acknowledge the wishes and desires of my heart. I cannot help but feel that, had he never leased Netherfield, it may have taken me far longer to find you. Perhaps it would even have taken me the rest of my life. So you see, Elizabeth,” he said as he fingered the gleaming gold of her wedding band, “I owe him much.”
Elizabeth laid her head upon his chest and reached her free hand up and around his neck to bury her fingers in his hair. Darcy closed his eyes as he pressed soft kisses upon her curls, which were currently arranged as he liked them best—loose and flowing, spilling over her shoulders and down her back, framing her face as a painter would a masterpiece. They were reclining together in bed—their bed—their son nestled between them as he nursed, the perfect picture of familial harmony. It was very late or very early—Darcy knew not which—and he had not parted from either of them since the miraculous moment when he had watched Elizabeth give birth countless hours earlier.
“I believe Charles would do very well for this gentleman,” she said as she gazed upon her son with an expression of deep adoration. “Perhaps, Charles Thomas, after my father?”
Darcy opened his eyes and smiled. “I can think of nothing more appropriate.” He gazed with tenderness at the perfect lit
tle image of his wife. Their newborn son had placed his tiny hand upon his mother’s breast.
He now studied Elizabeth intently with his expressive eyes, much in the same manner his father had been known to do on countless occasions in the past and would certainly continue to do in the many years still to come. “He does have your eyes, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said. “See how he stares at me so? You had a very similar intensity about you, you know, when we first knew each other in Hertfordshire. Even now, I often see it in you when you look upon me. I cannot help but wonder what such a look can mean in our son, though.”
Darcy leaned in and tangled one of his hands in her tresses. “Can you not?” he asked.
Elizabeth slowly shook her head, and Darcy smiled and kissed her again. “I daresay my son knows when he is in the company of a breathtakingly beautiful woman. He is bewitched by you, as I have been since nearly the very first moment I laid my eyes upon you so many months ago.” His hand slipped from her hair to caress her shoulder, where he lingered for several moments before sliding his fingertips along the length of her arm. Elizabeth shuddered with pleasure and turned her eyes upon him. Darcy’s own grew very dark then, and as he touched his forehead to hers, his voice dropped to a murmur. “I have long suspected I could spend an entire lifetime in your company, Elizabeth, and never have enough of you.”
She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes with a sigh, a small, contented smile upon her mouth. “You are incorrigible, Mr. Darcy,” she teased, then asked, her tone surprisingly serious, “Shall we put this theory of yours to a test, then, do you think?”
Darcy pressed his lips to her temple, her cheek, and, finally, her lips before saying in a low, even voice full of love and conviction, “I plan to devote my life to it, Mrs. Darcy.”
And, indeed, he did.
Epilogue
Truth about Mr. Darcy Page 38