As blithesome as were most of their days, all was not frivolity. For some reason her husband did not fully understand, Elizabeth favoured wearing his night-shirts yet. And, although she did not tell Jane, she and Darcy continued to share a bed. If their desire for intimacy was not discouraged by her menses, neither would it be by the lack of them nor the resultant child. Even so, they were not so certain that such intrusion in her body would not harm the baby as to risk it. However, they did continue to find methods of pleasure not hitherto discovered (and both firmly believed it was but with practise that perfection could be achieved).
A particular delight was to lie amidst tousled bed-covers long after all decent folk had arisen to meet the day. Upon these occasions, he undertook a preoccupation with her maternally-enhanced trinity of breasts and belly. These mounds were kissed, massaged, and caressed assiduously. This relentless manipulation eventually resulted in his discovery that her belly was not the only part of her person that was fecund. Her gown became wet.
She laughed at his expression as he turned and looked to her saying, “Madam, pray, just where did you acquire that? I thought there was milk but after the baby was born.”
“’Tis not milk, just the preparation for it,” she explained.
Had Jane not gone through the process first and enlightened Elizabeth, she knew she might have been as surprised as was Darcy. And because she witnessed baby Eliza’s birth, Darcy insisted she describe it in messy, bloody detail. He listened intently, but with great abhorrence. Having seen any number of animals give birth, he did not quite want to envision such messy disorder of his dear Elizabeth.
“I do not think it fair for me to have enjoyed such pleasure putting the baby in you while you should have to endure such pain to get it out.”
“Fairness has nothing to do with it, for if it did, men would certainly give birth to half of the babies.”
Daintily, he touched the end of his tongue to her nipple and then took it into his mouth. Although he had pressed his lips to her and suckled before, never had he expected to taste the fruit of her body. He was all astonishment at the achievement.
His lips’ insistent drawing of her breast bestowed upon her an odd sensation. Much in fascination of this new ability of hers, he was unwitting of her rumination.
He mused, “It does not taste of milk.”
Thereupon he tried it again, looking puzzled, as if it was demanded that he assign it a flavour.
She nestled against him, then sighed and said, “My mother says I need to find a wet-nurse now. I am to begin interviews.”
He stopped the investigation of her colostrum-in-the-making and, with all due consideration, asked, “I wonder if my wet-nurse is yet about here. What was her name…?”
“If she is, and by some miracle producing milk yet, I think we must have her. But you no doubt drained the poor woman dry.”
She laughed, but was soon overtaken by a bit of melancholia. Happy in all other aspects, she was not happy about this. Thus, a small annoyance inflated to unreasonable proportions. He sensed her unease and gave her his full attention.
She sighed and said, “Mama says modesty demands that a lady must have a wet-nurse. Perchance you shall think ill of me, but I do not wish to think of our baby feeding from another woman. She says it is common to be suckled. But I know mothers who nurse their own babies. The doctor says men of medicine today believe it is good, if I so choose it. But Mama is adamant.”
The more she thought of it, the more senseless it seemed.
“Jane listened to Mamma and had to bind herself to belay her milk. The pain was unbearable…”
She looked at her husband. He appeared to have heard of more womanly distress than he could bear at one sitting.
“You will not have to do anything you do not wish. You will not,” he stated emphatically.
There existed within him yet a serious lack of humility in understanding how little Providence fell under his sway.
That he refused she endure any distress was of particular pleasure to her. However, he was unburdened by much other bother on her behalf. For her pregnancy was an easy one, with no more concern than musing over nursery and nursings. The doctor pronounced her indecently sturdy for a woman with child.
Nonetheless, Georgiana was banished for the duration of Elizabeth’s term. Her brother was adamant that being under the same roof as a knapped woman would sully her virtue. When this pronouncement was made (using those exact words), Elizabeth had to slap both hands over her mouth to keep from sniggering out loud.
By that time, Jane was knapped again herself, and her frequent visits bade Darcy, with considerable self-righteousness, point out that Georgiana must be unwitting of such unseemly doings.
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed in overt facetiousness, “she might wonder just how these babies were deposited in the first place.”
As was often when he believed himself accused of overindulged compunction, he chose to rise above it. This forbearance was suffered in pitiable silence. Usually he allowed himself to be cajoled from it within the half-hour.
With Jane often came her youngling, Eliza, who drooled constantly and jabbered incomprehensibly. Her namesake, however, pronounced her adorable and interpreted every syllable for her somewhat sceptical uncle.
“She said my name, Darcy! Jane, did you not hear her? She said ‘Elizabeth.’”
“No lack of affection for you upon her part I am sure, but I do not believe ‘Elizabeth’ will be her first word,” Darcy said a bit too dourly.
“Here, Mr. Darcy, you must practise this,” Elizabeth announced, unceremoniously plopping Eliza in his lap.
He made a face of great imposition and said, “I have no intention of practising something which I intend not to do.” Thereupon he added, “I shall look upon your baby, Elizabeth, but just from a distance sufficiently safe from any unexpected discharges.”
Jane and Elizabeth sat with their arms folded, unswayed by his profession of distaste of babies. He held Eliza up before his face and talked to her quite seriously.
“You did not say Aunt Elizabeth, did you Eliza? You were trying to say Uncle Darcy, were you not?”
Enthralled, Eliza put her fingers against his lips as he spoke and giggled when he pretended to nibble them. Glancing at Elizabeth and Jane watching this exchange, he stood and awkwardly handed Eliza back to her mother. He checked his pocket watch. Noting that there were any number of manly things to which he must attend, he said he had no further time to spend with expectant women and babies. Pausing to kiss Elizabeth’s cheek before he departed, she whispered that his ruse was ineffectual.
“You have been quite unsuccessful at disguising yourself a curmudgeon.”
“I fancy I shall have to practise that as well,” he said as he strode away.
As early autumn brought a chill to the air, Elizabeth awoke one morning with a cramp. She thought nothing of it, for it was weeks until her expected laying-in. With that in mind, Darcy planned to ride out with Mr. Rhymes to inspect the fields, for a wet spring had delayed harvest and the scythes had just begun to reap. The nearer the calendar drew to All Saints, the more he would limit how far he ventured.
When he came to her to bid her good-bye, she was yet atop the bed. To her husband, her stomach looked as if it was one more voluminous pillow amongst the covers and he gave a slight tug of affection to her braid and kissed her forehead. (Darcy had told Elizabeth that her body was mimicking the land, sown in the spring and ripened in the fall. He thought that a fit analogy and she was grateful she was not to deliver in the spring, lest he liken her to a cow.) With a promise that he would return before the gloaming, he departed.
Early afternoon saw Darcy a number of miles away overlooking a just-harvested field. The measure of the crop was reckoned by counting the ricks in each meadow. By the number upon which they gazed, it was an abundant year. Already those in the pinch of want had moved in behind the reapers, womenfolk and children scavenging for what was left of the corn. Some
of the more penurious landowners imposed a levy upon what the poor winnowed from the soil, but Pemberley did not. If a family was so poor as to seek relief from the parish, they were free to take all they could find.
A billowing cloud of dust announced a rider coming fast down the lane. He rode with such haste that it stole Mr. Darcy’s attention from the gleaners. He recognised one of his own horses and upon it, Edward Hardin. He did not wait to be told.
He turned Blackjack and spurred him hard toward Pemberley.
Skidding into the courtyard, he slid off Blackjack before the horse stopped compleatly and tossed the reins and his crop in the direction of whoever happened to be standing by the entrance. He burst through the doors with such force, it sent them vibrating backwards, which startled even Mrs. Reynolds, who stood in anticipation of his entrance.
“Where?” he demanded.
She pointed up the stairs, to the room that had just recently been prepared for labour. He took the stairs two at a time, his boots hitting them loudly.
Over his shoulder he inquired, “Is this not early?” Then to no one, “This is early.”
When he reached the door to the birthing room he stopped and hesitated. The voice he heard told him he had arrived tardy to Jane. Hannah, literally wringing her hands in anxiety, stood outside. When he asked if the doctor was in with Elizabeth, she shook her head.
“Get him here!” he demanded, almost startling Hannah into tears, for she had never heard him raise his voice.
His outburst notified Jane of his presence. She came to the door to apprise him of Elizabeth’s situation. Calmly, Jane said yes, it was a little early, but assured him it was not too early. In that Jane was not one to alarm anyone unduly, he listened to that reassurance without compleatly embracing it. She warned him that Elizabeth was in some discomfort, but that was to be expected. He nodded his understanding, but steeled himself for her suffering as he entered the room. He wished for a reprieve to prepare himself for it.
Her eyes were closed and she looked pale. Stopping just inside the door, he wet his fingers and smoothed down his hair in an attempt to present a composure he did not feel.
Walking stealthily, he approached her bed and carefully perched upon the edge. He pushed an imaginary curl away from her face, an excuse to stroke her. She smiled and grasped his hand.
“Pray, why did you allow me to take leave?” he asked.
“You are here now and that is all that matters,” she smiled. “They should have let you be and you could have come home to sup and been handed a baby.”
“I want to be here with you,” he kissed her hands.
Her smile of encouragement deepened into a grimace as a contraction began to do its work upon her. It was clear she was endeavouring to disguise its strength, but it eclipsed her will. She clutched his hand, but turned her face from him, biting upon the edge of the pillowslip to keep from crying out. Perspiration broke out upon her forehead and upper lip. He felt ill.
After what seemed an eternity, it began to recede.
“I fear this will not transpire with haste,” she gasped. “In time, Jane shall come to you with word of the birth.”
Her indirect request for him to withdraw for the duration of her labour was taken as neither a rebuff nor a reminder of propriety. He knew he was unsuccessful at masking his horror at her suffering. His discomposure was one more burden for her. Thus, he knew he would do as she bid.
“Do you recollect once telling me how unfair it was that men are not allowed to see what their wives endure to bring their children into the world?” he inquired.
“Yes, but I also remember you reminding me that for every person in the world, there had been an act of love. I remind you that for every said same person there had to be a childbirth. My mother endured it for me, yours for you, and I shall for our child.”
With that declaration, Dr. Carothers arrived, clearing his throat and tugging at the neck of his shirt. A fubsy, fleshy looking man, he had the good sense to appear a bit unkempt (a toff for a doctor was indefensible). Jane escorted him to Elizabeth’s bedside to “have a look.”
Darcy fled the room, face averted, stationing himself just outside the door in an impatient wait of the foetal examination. He did not abide the pause well, for he could hear lengthy murmurings and moans upon the other side of the door. Eventually, after perhaps an hour, the doctor reappeared with Jane shadowing his elbow.
Both countenances were sombre.
Dr. Carothers explained his grave face thusly, “Mrs. Darcy’s labour is early…As often is in such cases, the baby is not positioned correctly. I have tried to exact an external cephalic version to turn it but it will not budge. Determined little cusser.”
However obscure the terminology, his meaning was hardly unfathomable. The danger was clear.
“Pray, is that it then?” Darcy demanded far more loudly than he intended, thus he reiterated more softly, “There will be no further attempt?”
“Of course. Of course there shall. You must know, though, I hold little hope of success.”
Darcy asked the unthinkable, “And if it cannot be turned?”
Dr. Carothers chose his words carefully, “I have delivered a number of breech babies with little more vexation than a lengthier duration of labour. But those were babies born of mothers who had birthed previously. This, of course, is Mrs. Darcy’s first. She has a narrow…she is narrow. It is difficult to predict the outcome.”
The look of frightened despair upon Darcy’s face caused Jane to soothe, “Do not lose hope.”
It was difficult not to be terrified when the best outcome they could hope for was grievously long labour. Darcy had assisted enough foaling mares to know just how perilous a breech delivery was. He had spent many a harried night watching Edward Hardin attempt to realign a foal. As hardy as was the lineage of Pemberley horses, these were bloody, long, painful affairs. When fillies were involved, not one in ten was successful. The unseemliness of comparing his wife to one of his horses was not lost upon him, but it was, quite simply, his single sphere of reference.
He could not bring himself to imagine Elizabeth attempting to expel an infant buttocks first. So little faith did he hold in Dr. Carothers capabilities just then, he fleetingly considered dragging Edward Hardin from the stables to attempt to turn the baby, but collected his wits long enough to discard that notion.
In preparation of the wait and the battle that he would be unable to fight for her, he removed his jacket and tie and loosed his collar. He drew a straight-backed chair from across the hall and set it firmly next to the door to Elizabeth’s room. It was upon that seat that he braced himself for what would come to pass.
The afternoon sun grew long and then disappeared.
Upon hearing of the impending happy event, Bingley and Fitzwilliam rode to Pemberley in grand humour to offer their company and ply spirits into the expectant father. When Bingley learnt where Darcy waited, he went to coax him into joining them downstairs. However, Darcy refused to relinquish the chair by Elizabeth’s labour room, for her pains had increased but progress had not.
Bingley said cheerfully, “You serve no purpose sitting here. Fitzwilliam has brought a superior cognac. I can tell you it helps one not to think of it.”
“How could I not?” Darcy snapped.
Jane arrived forthwith to explain away Bingley’s confoundment, telling him of the dire predicament. Nodding his understanding, he ceased his cajoling of the father-to-be.
Touching Darcy’s sleeve, he did urge him to reconsider, “I do think it best if you come downstairs, Darcy. Truly, you can do nothing here.”
Darcy just shook his head and stared with great intensity at the floor. The single entreaty refused, Bingley knew better than to beseech further. He returned to Fitzwilliam and they commenced to splash down the “superior cognac” without tasting it.
Periodically, Darcy left his post in the corridor and came in to see Elizabeth, but when she caught sight of him hovering over her, invariably
she smiled and shooed him away. He would heed her wishes and take leave, but even so diligently as was it offered, her feigned nonchalance was pitiably inept. He despised having to participate in the farce when he wanted so fervently to stay with her.
With the baby imbedded in the birth canal, refusing to turn and unable to come out, the hours of the night stole even indomitable Elizabeth’s strength. As dawn arose, a wearied Jane appeared in the corridor. Darcy knew well that her dedication to Elizabeth’s labour room was risking her own health. She looked at Darcy, put her hands to her face and began to cry.
Never had he more than kissed Jane’s hand, but neither hesitated to share a woeful embrace. So wretched was she, he could think of nothing but to pat her upon the back, assuring her Elizabeth would be all right.
Dr. Carothers had the poor timing to appear at that moment, dashing to pieces what little solace they gathered.
His message was succinct, “I am not at all certain the baby is yet alive. If Mrs. Darcy cannot rally, I fear for her as well.”
The stricken look upon Darcy’s face was duplicated by Jane’s. A vision of a dead baby and dying Elizabeth bade Jane betray a promise she had made to Elizabeth.
“Mr. Darcy, you must know this. Elizabeth does not want you in with her for fear that it will excite your apprehension. She knows you are outside the door. She has stifled her cries in defence of your disorder. It is what she wants, but it is not good. She must push to get the baby out and she cannot push hard enough unless she wails.”
From his perch outside her door, he had heard only muffled moans emitting from Elizabeth, not the strong screams of childbirth lore. When his sister was born, he was not yet twelve. Yet, he remembered quite vividly his mother’s searing cries during Georgiana’s birth. Elizabeth had told him Jane would not scream out in her pain because she knew Bingley could not bear to hear her. He knew Elizabeth would do no less.
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