Beginning, Section II, Section III, Next Section

Chapter Thirteen

Posted on Friday, 15 March 2002

Elizabeth's concern regarding Fitzwilliam's reaction to the discovery of his "lost" relations, proved to be groundless. For, once he had gotten used to the idea, he was totally practical, attributing his grandparent's decision to conceal the loss of their children to the pressure of the times. After all, Scarlet Fever was a highly contagious disease, which explained why every personal article had either been destroyed or packed away. He did not agree with that decision, but who was to say whether they had been right or wrong. Unless one were to suffer through the same circumstances, how could the matter be judged?

For all of this, he was unsure he wished to be involved when she sorted through the toy closet ... until she asked in such a way as to make it nearly impossible for him to refuse. As a result, he finally, and with great reluctance, agreed to assist in the task.

They took out the two trunks first, both surprisingly light. The first was mainly clothing: A little girl's dresses, shoes, bonnets, and ribbons. Some boy's shirts, trousers, and jackets. Also a few blankets and linens. The second contained an assortment of items, as if everything had been thrown in haphazardly in order to finish the job as quickly as possible: A hoop and ball, several books, a writing slate, a small metal bank, a baby's cup, and finally, a music box. This was of lacquered pinewood, a picture of a prancing horse on the top. Somehow, Elizabeth knew that it would be locked, and she also knew that the small key discovered over the door, would fit the lock perfectly. As she opened it, a tiny horse and carriage turned at its center, while the tune, "Galoppiere" by Handel, delicately played upon the music cogwheel.

And so, another piece fit into the puzzle, she concluded, and sighed to herself, satisfied.

Yet, even after they had returned some objects to the closet, and left others to be decided upon later, a question occurred to her with which she could find no answer.

Who had hidden Melanie's journal underneath the table, and why had they done so? One of her parents, perhaps ... or, someone else? Did that person hope that the children would be "rediscovered" some day? Realizing that she would probably never know, she had to accept the fact that her puzzle might never be complete. However, with the majority of her questions answered, she must be satisfied knowing that she had done what she could, and felt thus rewarded with a sense of closure over the matter.

The doctor by this time, graciously repealed Elizabeth's confinement, and she was again able to enjoy the freedom of being out of doors. However, as August was unusually hot, if she walked at all, she would do so in the early morning before the heat of the day became oppressive.

Meanwhile, Mr. Jeffries had returned to Derbyshire, and was making himself a frequent visitor at Pemberley. Fitzwilliam did not seem to mind his visits, and even appeared to enjoy them. Elizabeth assumed that their discussions were mainly political, but whether Mr. Jeffries could convince her husband to become more involved than that, she would not venture to guess. She tried to avoid them completely, for as of late, Mr. Jeffries had taken to watching her closely whenever he happened to see her, and it made her very uncomfortable.

Fitzwilliam asked her once for her opinion of him. After considering it, she told him, "I think he is an opportunist."

He looked pleased with her answer, and agreed, saying , "Yes, exactly."

She was surprised, "Then why do you see him?"

"Because," he smiled, "He is entertaining ... he does not realize just how much he is. I admit that I do agree with him on some matters, but I don't trust the man at all."

She shook her head, "Fitzwilliam, if you do not trust him, I wonder at your even listening to him."

"I am only hearing him out, Elizabeth. Don't worry, I shall not become an activist, and leave you for my political aspirations." Adding, "Don't be too hard on him, he did pay you a compliment, you know."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes," he was amused, "He said that you would be a great asset, if I were to choose public life."

She looked somewhat annoyed, "And did he say why, exactly?"

"Well, besides your beauty," he teased her, "You also have brains."

This was too much." I should hope I have enough brains to avoid people like Mr. Jeffries!" she said indignantly.

"I do happen to agree with him ... so will you also avoid me?"

At last she smiled, "For you I would make an exception ... so long as you remember that I shall not be used for your political ambition." Her eyes laughed into his, aware that this concern was not likely to materialize, as they both knew that he had none.

September brought some relief from the heat by producing a series of thunderstorms over several days time. The coolest room in the house was the drawing room, where because of the windows facing west and south, a refreshing breeze would occasionally drift through. This is where Elizabeth and Georgiana chose to sew baby clothes, but even in there, the humidity in the air made the material feel sticky and damp.

Mr. Jeffries' visits suddenly ceased, and when Elizabeth asked Fitzwilliam, he told her that the gentleman had been required to return to London. Satisfaction greeted this news, as, for no apparent reason, his attention to her had increased. When she moved about, his eyes always followed her, and when he spoke, he seemed to be waiting for her reaction alone. She found it baffling and a bit unnerving. She did not know if Fitzwilliam had noticed, but because he had not mentioned it or appeared to be concerned, she thought maybe she was making too much of it. Then, inexplicably, she received a letter from London, which read:

My Dear Mrs. Darcy,

As you know, I had hoped by now to have achieved the patronage of your husband, but as of this date, my aspirations have not been realized. I am desirous then, of requesting your support in this matter. I believe firmly that you could be instrumental in aiding me to achieve the ends which I seek. I understand that you are not free to respond at this time, but the slightest encouragement from you would be enough to curb my impatience until a more opportune time.

Your humble servant,

Roger Jeffries

She did not know what to make of it, and had to reread it several times. Even then, she did not know whether he intended it to be taken in a professional or a personal light. Either way, she found it to be presumptuous in the least, and insulting otherwise. She was unsure if she should show it to Fitzwilliam. Perhaps, she thought, she had unwittingly misled him. On contemplating her own behavior while in his presence, she felt she had not, but he must have misunderstood her motives completely. In the end, she found herself too embarrassed to even bring the subject up, so she did not, hoping the problem would disappear by itself.

A week following the letter, Fitzwilliam told her that Jeffries had invited him to accompany him to a factory not twenty miles from Pemberley. "He wants to show me the deplorable conditions there ... I am considering it."

Considering it, she inquired, "How long would you be gone?'

"One or two days, I should think."

"Fitzwilliam," a sense of forewarning made her speak seriously, "Please be careful ... There is something about him that I do not like. I do not believe him to be an honorable man."

"Why do you say that?"

He did not appear worried, yet she found herself reluctant to tell him of the letter, so she said only, "It is just a feeling I have had."

"Elizabeth," he said to reassure her, "I am aware of Jeffries' character, but for his causes, I believe he is sincere."

They rode off together on a Saturday morning, while Elizabeth watched them leave from the drawing room window, unable to dispel the dread that clouded her mind.

About ten o'clock that night, a knock on her bedroom door admitted a servant with an express post for her. With shaking hands, Elizabeth tore it open, fearing the worst.

Mrs. Darcy,

I am so sorry to report that your husband has met with an unfortunate accident. We are staying at the inn at Stockport, and shall remain until your husband is deemed well enough to be transferred to Pemberley. Please do not concern yourself, as he is being tended to adequately even while I am writing this , and I know, Mr. Darcy would not wish you to be unduly alarmed.

Your humble servant,

Roger Jeffries

That was all. The information it contained so sparse as to produce more questions than it answered, but, making her decision at that moment, quite simple.

Turning to the still waiting servant, she ordered, "Have the carriage brought around, and pack me enough clothes for at least a week. I must go to Mr. Darcy!"

Despite the misgivings of everyone in the house, Elizabeth was determined to go to Stockport, the contents of the note leaving her with little choice in the matter.

Met with an accident ... what did that mean exactly? How badly had he been hurt? The vagueness of Mr. Jeffries' words increased the urgency which drove her.

It seemed a very long twenty miles, and although she tried to rest to make the time go faster, she could not quiet her anxieties. When, at last, they arrived at the inn, she was led up to his room, but was met in the hallway by an irate gentleman of little, to her mind, consequence.

"What do you mean by coming here?" He sputtered when she reached past him to open the door.

"I am his wife, and I wish to see Mr. Darcy," she answered him coldly, being in no mood to stand and argue with this impertinent person.

He had the grace, then, to appear taken aback, and, by way of apology, explained, "I am Doctor Hampton. Your husband has suffered a concussion .. .apparently fell off of his horse and hit a rock. No broken bones, fortunately, but he is unconscious." Looking her over disapprovingly, he added, "You have no business being here in your condition, Mrs. Darcy."

"I have every business being here, Doctor Hampton." she snapped, and pushed past him to enter the room.

She had to let her eyes adjust to the dimness within.

Then, she saw him lying upon the bed, fully clothed but for his boots which someone had thought to pull off. His head was wrapped in a bandage, his eyes closed, while a servant girl sat in a rocker close to his bedside holding a basin of brown water. She looked surprised at Elizabeth's entrance, and even more so at her words, "Go, and fill that with fresh water ... make sure it is cold, and bring me three or four clean rags. I shall see to Mr. Darcy now."

The girl did not dare argue, but left to do as she was ordered. Elizabeth, then went to him and felt his forehead, which proved to be burning hot beneath her hand.

In a few moments, the girl returned with the basin, leaving it on the bedside table before curtseying, and quitting the room hurriedly.

Soaking the rags in the water, and wringing them out, Elizabeth placed them gently on his forehead, wrist, and, after unbuttoning his shirt, his chest. Every few minutes, she repeated the process.

Otherwise, she could do nothing but watch him and worry silently. He was so pale, so still, and she had never been so afraid.

She did not hear the door open behind her, but she bristled when she heard Mr. Jeffries speak, "Mrs. Darcy. it was quite unnecessary for you to come here, he is under a doctor's care."

"Apparently, Mr. Jeffries, it was necessary. How came it to be that my husband fell off of his horse? He is normally an excellent horseman." She did not face him as she spoke, but kept her eyes fixed upon her husband.

"I was riding ahead of him, and something startled my horse ... an animal I suppose. When he reared, Darcy's horse bolted, and he was thrown."

She turned to look at him coldly, but replied only, "Oh, I see."

She did not believe a word of it, but having no evidence to the contrary, she could only return to her ministrations and wish Mr. Jeffries gone.

He did leave, finally, as she continued to ignore him, causing her some relief. "Good riddance," she said under her breath, wringing out the rags yet again.

As the water became tepid, she called for it to be refilled, aware that the coolness was required to break his fever.

Finally, she allowed herself to sit in the rocker, pulling it over to be as near him as she could.

Tracing his cheek with her finger, she talked to him in a low voice, not knowing if he could hear her, "Don't you die on me, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Don't you leave this child without a father, or me without you." A tear started down her cheek, "You know, that I would never forgive you ... " Her voice trailed off, and wearily, she laid her head down on the pillow next to his.

When she awoke, she recollected immediately where she was and what had happened , and realized that she must have slept for several hours, for it was now full daylight. Studying his countenance anxiously, she judged that his colour might have improved, or, was it wishful thinking? She permitted herself to feel some optimism then, for his breathing had definitely changed for the better.

Oh, please, she prayed as she felt his forehead. Yes ... yes, he was cooler, she determined at last, her relief so great, that she became a little dizzy from the intensity of it.

With a whispered "Thank you", she leaned over and kissed his lips softly, warm against hers. Then she sat back in the rocker again, to await his awakening.

It was another hour before his eyes opened, and he gazed at her, bewildered, "Elizabeth? Where are we? What is this place?" He turned his head to see the room, the movement causing him to wince.

"Lie still, my love." She laid her hand on his arm to quiet him, "You've had a fall ... off of your horse. We are at the inn at Stockport. You have been unconscious since last night."

"A fall? I don't remember ... the inn at Stockport?" Then his face cleared as he recollected the events of the day before. "Yes, we were riding ... his horse reared back and startled mine ... " He closed his eyes at the pain in his head, then opened them to look at her again, "And you are here. How did that happen?"

"Mr. Jeffries," she uttered the name with all the contempt she felt just then, "Sent an express to Pemberley. But all that it said was that you had suffered an accident ... I did not even know if you were alive or dead ... I had to come."

"You should not have, Elizabeth ... " He had to keep his voice low to control the pain, "What if something were to happen to you, or the baby ... "

"Something did happen," she said in a soft voice, "And it was all I could consider at the time." She stroked his forehead gently, causing him to close his eyes as he relaxed somewhat.

Supposing that he might already be asleep, she whispered anyway, "I could not have stayed away while you needed me, my love ... I had no alternative."

She sat with him all that day. While he slept, she went downstairs to send an express post to Georgiana, informing her of her safe arrival, and of her brother's condition. She also arranged to have their meals sent up to their room for the duration of their stay, which, she hoped, would not be long.

The doctor was there by the time she returned, and was cordial in his greeting, a contrast to the night before.

He complimented her, saying, "Mr. Darcy has much improved since I saw him last evening ... this must be due to you, madam." She thanked him, pleased, but aware that her husband's own will was probably what had truly saved him.

Then, the doctor's tone changed abruptly, becoming businesslike and brisk, "You may wish to leave now ... he has a nasty gash in his forehead which I must clean and dress."

But she replied calmly, "I shall stay, if you don't mind, Doctor Hampton."

"It is not necessary, Mrs. Darcy. A servant could do this just as well as yourself."

"I shall stay," she repeated firmly, causing him to shrug at her resoluteness.

As the bandage was fastidiously removed, she took hold of Fitzwilliam's hand, seeing the pain crossing his features. Occasionally the pressure on her fingers would increase, but otherwise he kept his suffering to himself. The wound was not as bad as she had feared, being deep but not wide, and she watched carefully as the doctor tended to it.

When he had finished, he packed away his instruments, gave her some additional instructions, and promised to return the next day. Lunch was delivered, but as his headache had diminished Fitzwilliam's appetite, and Elizabeth was feeling more tired than hungry, neither ate very much.

In the afternoon, he slept off and on, while she took turns looking out of the window, and trying to rest in the rocking chair.

She was at the point where she was too fatigued to sleep, her mind unable to stop working, and she did not know what to do about it. She kept thinking about his accident, if it truly was one, and trying to decide if she should present her suspicions to him. She knew that it would have to wait until he was better, he was in no shape to have such a thing weighing on his mind, and she was unsure if he would even believe her. Still, her suspicions of Mr. Jeffries had grown with each passing moment.

As the day progressed, she regretted that she had not brought a book to pass the time, leaving her with nothing to do except to watch him sleep, and to wish longingly that she could do the same.

He woke before evening, and as his eyes met hers, he noted aloud, "Elizabeth, you are tired ... you have not slept, have you?"

As it was not intended as a question to be answered, she did not, instead, she inquired, "How are you feeling, Fitzwilliam?"

But he would not be dissuaded. He studied her carefully, then held out his hand as invitation.

When she laced her fingers through his, he tugged her gently so she was sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. "Now tell me what you are feeling, Elizabeth," he urged gently.

She tried to smile, but failed miserably. Somehow, the effort seemed too great. Without a word, he pulled her down, so that she was lying against his chest, his arms tight around her, and all at once, it proved to be too much. The tears which she had repressed for the past twenty hours overflowed at last.

When she had finally cried herself out, he said softly, "I do not suppose that anyone has asked you that of late, have they?"

"Not lately." her words were muffled against him.

"And I have not helped, I know."

"None of this is your fault." she protested weakly.

"No more than it is yours." He stroked her hair, his touch so light that it made her feel suddenly sleepy.

"Elizabeth?"

"Mmmmmm?"

He smiled then, letting her sleep where she was, while watching the light fade outside.

Elizabeth was awakened by a knock on the door, followed by a servant calling loudly, "Excuse me, ma'am. I've got your suppers." Realizing that the room was now in total darkness, she stood up and moved to open the door, accepting the tray from the girl waiting there. As she lit the candles, she glanced at Fitzwilliam, seeing that he was yet sound asleep, and decided not to wake him just yet.

Another knock startled her, which she answered quickly before it could be repeated, and therefore risk disturbing him.

Opening the door yet again, she was less than delighted to see Mr. Jeffries standing in the hallway, however, she reluctantly allowed him to step in.

He indicated Fitzwilliam, asking, "How is he doing, then?"

"Better," she answered coldly.

He gave her a wry grin, "Mrs. Darcy, I believe you blame me for your husband's accident ... believe me, it was just that, and nothing more."

"So you say."

He shook his head, amused, "I see that I cannot convince you of my innocence in the matter."

"Mr. Jeffries," she interrupted, "Why should you care what my opinion is? I am nothing to you."

"Aren't you?" He inquired, looking at her directly.

Taken aback by the forwardness of his manner, she answered him firmly, "No. I am not."

"You are very much mistaken, my dear Mrs. Darcy." His voice had become lower, "Cannot you feel it also?"

"What," she cried, "Am I supposed to be feeling?" She did not like this turn in the conversation.

"We are very much alike, you and I, we both know what we want, and, go after it until we have it at last."

He took a step closer to her, but she stepped back defensively. "You are wrong, Mr. Jeffries. We are nothing alike. I am happy with the choice I have made, you, apparently, are not." She had moved toward the door intending to open it for him, but he took hold of her wrist, and stared into her eyes, "Oh, I am quite happy with the choice I have made, Mrs. Darcy."

Trying to keep her voice calm, she said, "Mr. Jeffries, I should like you to leave now." She hoped she was displaying all the indignation she was feeling, but he did not appear to be chastened.

In fact, he only smiled wider, saying, "Ah, yes ... I can see why Darcy is mad for you. Well, do not worry, my dear Mrs. Darcy, I can bide my time. Someday, you may change your mind ... and sooner than you think." Then he released her and let himself out.

Shaking with fury, her mind replayed the exchange, complete with the stinging replies which she should have said, but did not.

She was so involved with her thoughts, that she nearly jumped when Fitzwilliam spoke from the bed, "How could I have been so blind?" He had managed to sit up, his eyes fixed on the door, a strange light in them.

"How much of that did you hear?" she asked, immediately concerned.

He did not answer her, but continued talking to himself, "He is in love with you ... I did not see it ... "

Closing his eyes as his headache had evidently increased, he laid his head down upon his crossed arms, which rested upon one upraised knee.

Hurrying over to him, she argued impatiently, "He only thinks he is, he does not even know me."

"It does not matter if he is, or only thinks he is ... he wants you, and believes that you want him ... is it so, Elizabeth?" He sounded very tired.

"No!" she cried, "How can you ask me that? If you heard anything, you must have heard that. I did not seek his attentions ... I am married to you ... I love you."

He had not raised his head until she sat on the bed facing him, then his eyes searched hers. She met his gaze steadily, trying to make him see what she was feeling.

Finally he conceded, "All right, Elizabeth."

He reached out and stroked her cheek thoughtfully. After a few moments of silence, he mused aloud, "But, if it was you he wanted, than it puts a different light on my so-called accident ... "

Seeing where he was going, she waited for his next words.

"Perhaps, " he continued slowly, "He hoped to marry a wealthy widow."

Even though the same idea had occurred to her, it was startling to hear it spoken aloud.

"If that is the case, Fitzwilliam," she reasoned, "He does not want me so much as the wealth and, therefore, the power which he thinks he might obtain through me."

He did not appear to have heard her, having laid his face in his arms again, "I thought I knew what he was after ... but I was not even close ... "

Feeling the need to reassure him, she said, "Don't you see? His plan did not work ... he failed to get what he wanted. He thought I would be a simple aim, but he has failed." "For now ... he shall try again."

"It does not matter if he should try a hundred times." Her voice became suddenly calm, "He cannot succeed at this, Fitzwilliam. I love you ... that shall not change."

He studied her face, touching her cheek again softly, and saying, "I believe you, Elizabeth. You have made me believe you with all that you have done."

As she relaxed at last, she was startled by the baby's sudden and unexpected movement inside of her. Seeing her expression, he looked at her, puzzled. She took his hand then, placed it upon her stomach, and said only, "Wait."

After several moments, it moved again, as if needing to change positions. As her eyes met his in mutual wonder, he gently kissed her, so that all else was soon forgotten.

The next day, during the doctor's visit, Elizabeth asked when they might return to Pemberley.

His reply surprised her, "When he feels like it"

Then, seeing her expression, he explained, "He will have a severe headache for several days yet, and will most likely not wish to go anywhere until it has lessened somewhat. Have him increase his movements slowly, so that he does not become dizzy, and I would say in two to three days time, he shall be ready to leave."

She thanked him then, for with his common sense and diligence to her husband, he had earned her respect.

Before he left, he studied her, asking kindly, "About seven months?" She nodded, and he smiled, "You take care of yourself also, Mrs. Darcy. Do not overdo ... you are the type who would."

She had actually slept on the bed with her husband the night before, although she did not really rest, always anxious that she might bump or jar him and cause his headache to worsen. Still, it was better than trying to sleep in the chair, and just being near to him again made her feel better. She was becoming adept at changing his bandage, and seeing to his other needs, aware that she was doing much more for him than most wives would even consider. Yet, she did not feel put out, but received much satisfaction in being instrumental to his recovery.

One day, as she was helping him to don a clean shirt, he remarked, "You have quite spoiled me, Mrs. Darcy. I shall expect such attention always, if you are not careful."

She smiled at him, slipping her arms around his waist, "Although, I am deriving great pleasure from this, I expect you shall be glad to have your valet back."

"Ah, but you offer services which he cannot," he attested, giving her a sly look at which she had to laugh.

This encouraged him to kiss her in such a way that afterwards, she stated affirmatively, "I believe you are feeling better, Mr. Darcy."

By Saturday, one week after the accident, Fitzwilliam claimed that he was well enough to travel, so she ordered the carriage and began her packing. She had not seen nor heard from Mr. Jeffries since he had informed her of his intentions, and for that she was grateful. She had too much to think about without him to complicate her life.

Georgiana met them as they drove through the gates, her normally serene countenance displaying the happy excitement she felt at seeing her brother alive and well. "Oh, Fitzwilliam," she cried, "I am so glad that you are back. I could not believe it when Elizabeth wrote to say that you had fallen from your horse!" His eyes met Elizabeth's over her head, but neither said anything about Mr. Jeffries or the curious circumstances of the past week. He was still wearing the bandage, and as they entered together, she held his arm protectively, both signs that he was not entirely well, as yet.

In their own bed that night, Elizabeth asked him, "What will you do about Mr. Jeffries, Fitzwilliam?"

"I have not decided yet," he replied. He was quiet for a moment, then, "Elizabeth?"

"Yes."

"I am sorry I doubted you ... I had no right. I should have known."

"I have already blamed it on the fever you were suffering from ... it made you delirious."

"So you have given me an excuse?"

"This time. But if you ever feel the urge to accuse me of such a thing again, you had better have more than a blow on the head to justify it with."

"I see ... Elizabeth?"

"Yes, Fitzwilliam."

"Thank you for coming to me. For being so generous all week. I have a feeling, that I would not be here but for you."

She could not answer him as she had buried her face against his shoulder, and was concentrating on not crying. Somehow, those words were enough to make the times of anxiety, sleeplessness and frustration fade away ... seem not so important anymore, and she loved him deeply for saying them.

The day following their return, she received news that Jane had had her baby! A girl, whom they were naming Emily Anne. She was overjoyed and although he said little, she knew that Fitzwilliam was happy for them also. Longing to see her sister, but knowing that she would have to wait for a few more months, at least, she had to be content with expressing her ecstasy through her letters to Netherfield, which she sent daily for a solid week.

Chapter Fourteen

Posted on Friday, 15 March 2002

One day, during the last week of September, Roger Jeffries received an interesting message in the post, which read:

Mr. Jeffries,

I have, of late, been reconsidering your offer. I would like to meet with you to discuss, if possible, promptly at four o'clock in the afternoon, in the diningroom of the Lambton Inn, Wednesday, next. If this is not convenient, please respond.

Cordially,

Elizabeth Darcy

If he had stopped to think about the sudden alteration of her attitude, he might have been suspicious, but he had been blessed with the self-confidence required to be successful in his profession, and so, felt only satisfaction, as it being his due.

Elizabeth waited somewhat nervously, not knowing what, exactly, to expect. She had procured a table easily, simply because of her status as Mr. Darcy's wife. Glancing at the clock on the diningroom mantelpiece, she noticed that he was already five minutes late. Causing her to think, partly with irritation, partly with relief, he is not coming, until, at that moment he did appear.

Seeing her waiting for him, he flashed her a charming smile, to which she managed to return a somewhat less enthused one.

Sitting down opposite of her, he said in an easy tone, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Darcy. I was pleased to receive your note ... I believe you are making the right decision."

Good Lord, she thought ruefully, one would suppose that he does this every day of his life. "Before you say anything more, Mr. Jeffries," she interrupted him hastily, "I feel that I should tell you that my husband has promised to cut me off without a cent ... Does this change your feelings at all?"

"Oh, I expected as much," he was undaunted, "Do not worry, sweet Elizabeth, we may have to persuade him a bit ... I am certain that rather then deal with the scandal, he shall be forthcoming for our silence."

"I do not understand you, Mr. Jeffries," she heard herself saying, "I am expecting a child very soon, and yet you have persisted in your pursuit of me. Please, explain why you should do this."

"My dear Elizabeth," his voice was like silk as he leaned forward in his chair, "As you say, you shall have this baby very soon ... another good point of leverage against your husband, and then, you shall be free to come with me to London."

She did not know whether to be shocked, angry, or amused at his words, so she said nothing.

Fortunately, Fitzwilliam chose that moment to join them. She nearly laughed aloud at the shock which instantly crossed Jeffries' features, but it quickly turned to awareness, as he glanced from one to the other.

"Ah," he managed, "I see I have been set up ... well done, Mrs. Darcy."

She flushed, but kept her tongue in check, allowing her husband to speak instead.

"Mr. Jeffries," Mr. Darcy said calmly, "We have some unfinished business." He met Elizabeth's gaze, gave her a fleeting smile, and returned his attention to the other gentleman. But he, now angry, began to rise, his hand reaching towards his coat pocket.

"I would not if I were you, Jeffries. There are several loyal townspeople in this very inn, who would not be loathe to escort you out of Derbyshire ... by force if necessary."

Jeffries slowly returned to his seat, yet he appeared to be more resigned than worried.

Mr. Darcy continued speaking, his voice now dangerously soft, "I allowed you to come into my home, I listened to your concerns, some of which have merit, but then, you insult my wife, attempt to kill me, and now have the audacity to refer to my child as "leverage" to be used against me."

Mr. Jeffries listened silently, his expression wary, until Mr. Darcy took his wife's hand and held it. Elizabeth knew that he did this to make a point, yet she did not withdraw it, and Mr. Jeffries eyes narrowed, watching them.

When he spoke, his voice was low and angry, "Darcy, you are a fool. You waste the resources you have before you: Your money, your wife, the power you could obtain. You could do much to improve society's ills, but you do not. Instead, you choose to hide in your shell ... your Pemberley ... what a waste!"

Mr. Darcy took a moment to answer, and his wife could see how he was choosing his words carefully. When he replied, he kept his voice deliberate, "What I do with my money is not your concern ... as for my wife, you offered her something else and she refused you. Apparently, life in my "shell" is not as distasteful as you believe it is."

Mr. Jeffries appeared to have regained control of his temper and his next words were chosen to sting, "Yes, she refused me now, but in two or three years, my sort of life might be preferable to wasting her youth and beauty raising your children in that hermitage which you call a home."

Fitzwilliam looked at his wife then, and asked her, "Do you agree, Mrs. Darcy?"

"I believe," she answered thoughtfully, "That raising our children with my husband at Pemberley, is exactly what I should wish above all things ... " she smiled at him, "I should not consider it a waste."

Seeing that Mr. Jeffries had nothing to say, Mr. Darcy continued, "So you see, Jeffries, I have what I desire, while you desire what you cannot have ... Now, tell me, who is the fool?"

"What do you want of me, Darcy?" Admitting defeat, Mr. Jeffries seemed anxious to finish the conversation.

"I would wager that the Covingtons are ignorant of what a snake you are, Jeffries, so, before they are enlightened, I would take my sorry self back to London, and there I should stay." Mr. Darcy's voice was still calm and unhurried, "And, if you ever come near my home or my wife again, I shall make very certain that you never write another word."

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Darcy?'

"No, Mr. Jeffries, I am promising you."

The two men stared stonily at each other until Mr. Jeffries stood, bowed briefly to Elizabeth, and left.

She let her breath out in relief then, and as she glanced at her husband from the corner of her eye, thought he did the same.

Where September had been almost balmy, October brought the promise of winter. Overnight, it seemed, the air became colder, frost greeted the mornings, and leaves fell as thick as snow.

Mr. Jeffries had left the area, amid much speculation with the locals as to the reason for his sudden departure. More than one unmarried young lady was disappointed of his not been induced to stay, perhaps, they had hoped, to nurture an interest in one of them. The Covingtons were silent on the subject, as were the Darcys, but whether for the same purpose, it was not known.

Elizabeth, in her eighth month, now did not leave sight of the house, venturing only as far as the pond or the surrounding grounds. Even though autumn was a favorite, it could not entice her further than was comfortable with the extra weight which she carried. She was discovering daily her limitations. Rising from a chair was difficult, from a sofa or bed, next to impossible, usually requiring the aid of her husband or sister-in-law.

The preparations, meanwhile, were becoming more evident. The bassinet from Georgiana's infancy was brought into their bedroom, and made ready for a new occupant. Infant clothes, both new and old, were neatly stored until needed. Mrs. Reynolds, in happy anticipation, had gathered linens, blankets, diapers, little silk pillows, and lace gowns from several generations of Darcys. Elizabeth thought that, surely, no royal baby could ever be so pampered, nor so likely to become quite as spoiled.

"I believe we have accumulated enough of everything for several children, much less one," she commented to Fitzwilliam one morning after working her way around several stacks of linens. He studied the growing inventory calmly, "Perhaps we should move out, and let the baby have this room."

She smiled ruefully, "It appears we already have." It was true, the area used by the two of them had shrunk to one third of what it had been, while everything related to their child had spread as if it had a life of it's own. She shook her head, "It really has become too much ... I am tempted to pack half of this away again, and save it for the next one."

"But where would you start?" He asked her, "Anything you remove would probably be replaced by something else, and you would never make any headway."

She had to agree, still, she could not imagine one tiny child requiring so much of everything. "We will have to be careful," she said, "Or this baby shall be quite spoiled in very little time."

"I will depend on your good sense to keep that from occurring," he told her.

"I cannot be the only sensible one, Fitzwilliam. It does no good at all if you coddle him or her, and I am left to deal with the consequences."

"Perhaps it will be the other way around," he suggested reasonably.

She looked skeptically at him, and he smiled, saying, "Elizabeth, I think you are worrying for nothing. I predict that we shall be the perfect parents, and he ... or she, shall be the perfect child."

She had seated herself upon the edge of the bed while she considered his words, "I think," smiling at her thoughts, "That you shall be a wonderful father, but as to being perfect ... " she peered at him sideways, teasing him.

His eyes met hers, a dangerous light in them. Then he moved over to her so swiftly that she did not have time to avoid him. Before she realized it, he had pinned her down on the bed, peering intently into her eyes, "Now, what were you saying, Mrs. Darcy?"

By this time, she was laughing so that she could not answer him, but he waited until she was calmer, and after slowly kissing her, inquired, "What were you saying, Mrs. Darcy?"

She slid her arms around his neck, "You shall be perfect," she whispered as he kissed her again.

"Not just wonderful?" he asked softly.

She shook her head, "Not just wonderful, Mr. Darcy ... just, perfect."

"Elizabeth?" Georgiana's voice was hesitant. They were sewing together in the library, it being the coziest room in the house, and the only sound thus far had been the crackling of the fire. Elizabeth looked up at her sister-in-law expectantly, glad to give her eyes a rest from the close stitching required in her work. Georgiana was watching the blaze, her eyes troubled.

"What is it, Georgiana?"

"May I tell you something, Elizabeth? I am uncertain whether to talk to Fitzwilliam ... I suppose I would like your advice."

Elizabeth smiled encouragement for her to continue.

"Mr. Eastman has been writing to me ... and I have answered him. He writes such wonderful things, where he's been and the music he has heard. I cannot begin to imagine ... " her voice trailed off, then she seemed to remember what she had been talking of, and went on, "He is planning on being back in the county next week, and asks if he might call upon us ... me." she was blushing now, but was determined to finish. "Do you think Fitzwilliam would mind? I mean, if he came to call?" She looked at Elizabeth almost pleadingly.

"Do you like him, Georgiana?" she asked, keeping her voice noncommittal.

"Yes." she spoke softly, so that Elizabeth had no doubt of it. "Yes, I like him very much ... I just," and the troubled note returned, "Do not know how Fitzwilliam will feel about it."

"Would you like me to approach him on the subject, and see what he thinks?" Elizabeth offered, adding, "But I do not expect that he should object. Mr. Eastman left him with a favorable impression, I know."

"That is what I am hoping." Georgiana breathed.

They had walked around the exterior of the courtyard together, her arm in his. The wind was gusty, making their progress slow, and several times, she had to stop to catch her breath. After one of these, she asked, "Fitzwilliam, do you remember Mr. Eastman?"

"The artist? Yes."

"He is going to be in Derbyshire next week and is hoping to call ... would you mind?"

He looked a bit surprised at the question, "No, of course not."

"To own the truth, " she admitted, "He wishes to see Georgiana again."

He did not answer immediately, then, "Does she wish to see him also?"

"Yes. She likes him, Fitzwilliam. They have been corresponding since he left Pemberley last March."

Silence again while he considered it, he asked her finally, "What do you think of this, Elizabeth?"

"I think that she knows her own mind ... she is seventeen now, and old enough to recognize her true feelings ... and," she went on reasonably, "Is it not better to allow her to see him here, than to have her feel as if she cannot tell us, and be secretive about the matter?"

"That is a good point," he conceded.

"Then, you would not mind if he called?"

He shook his head, "I could not refuse even if I wished to," he said ruefully, "I believe it would be folly to oppose the two of you ... in anything."

She smiled, "Well, perhaps we shall have a son, and you will no longer feel so outnumbered."

"Perhaps," he replied, "But with my luck, we shall have only daughters."

"Only daughters? Wherever would you get such a strange idea?"

Mr. Eastman arrived on Tuesday of the next week, planning to stay but four days, as he had a commission in Bradford at that time. He appeared genuinely happy to see them again, and especially Georgiana, whose face he studied whenever the conversation lagged.

Having just returned from a little town not far from Paris, where he had been hired to paint a mural on the wall of a cathedral, he explained to them, "Being rather naive, I was not aware of how very damp French cathedrals tend to be. In fact, the walls were so soggy that I could not use my paints. I had to imitate the fresco style from Italy. Unfortunately, I did not know this until after I had arrived. My materials, you see, must be ordered directly from Paris, and, of course, the waiting is nearly unbearable ... there is little diversion in such a tiny village set in the middle of nowhere. In the end, a job which should have taken a month, instead took three."

While he talked, Georgiana watched him, but when his eyes would seek hers, she looked away.

Elizabeth, noticing this, was certain he must be feeling that she was ignoring him. She knew Fitzwilliam was also observing them, probably trying to judge how deep their affection might lay.

She would have acknowledged the humour in it, if it had not struck a chord of sympathy in her. For, inevitably, she recollected a comparable day and circumstance only a year before, when two people of a similar disposition longed to declare their regard, but could not find the words or the courage to do so. The memory was not nearly so pleasant as what had eventually followed, still, she could not forget that sense of yearning, frustration, and doubt; that feeling of standing on the edge of a rather dangerous precipice, proving to be both immeasurably painful yet gloriously exciting all at once.

The four days which he spent with them passed quickly. He mainly occupied his time listening Georgiana on the pianoforte, or strolling the grounds, although the weather remained blustery and cold. On the third day, as he was out walking, he came upon Elizabeth sitting on a bench in the courtyard.

After they had greeted each other, he said in a concerned voice, "Should you be out in all of this wind, Mrs. Darcy?"

"I do not mind it, Mr. Eastman. I like to come out for some fresh air during the day ... and I do not venture far anymore."

This brought his attention to her condition, and he said, somewhat embarrassed, "Yes, I wanted to congratulate you ... you are looking well."

She smiled at him, "Thank you. I am feeling very well."

He was standing apart from her rather awkwardly, so, she invited him to sit beside her, "Or," she offered, "I could take a turn with you. I have missed our conversations."

He coloured a bit, but agreed, so they walked slowly side-by-side around the courtyard.

After some silence, he said, "Miss Darcy is looking well."

"Yes, she is," she agreed, "She has been a great help to me recently." She paused, then, "She told me of your letters."

He coloured again, but regaining his composure asked, "Oh? Any particular one?"

"No, just generally. She loves to hear of other places. I believe she would enjoy traveling very much, if she had the chance."

Looking at her, his eyes somber, he asked, "Do you think so, Mrs. Darcy?"

Nodding, she confirmed, "Miss Darcy has spent the majority of her life at Pemberley and London, and I know she longs to venture further."

He was silent for a minute. When he spoke again, his voice was serious, "I cannot offer her much ... an artist does not get paid on a regular basis ... but, I could take her to so many places ... " He stopped talking abruptly, as if he had divulged too much. Elizabeth, listening, said nothing, and, impulsively, he turned to her, "Mrs. Darcy, please forgive me. I did not intend to speak thus."

"Mr. Eastman, although your words have not distressed me, it is not myself you should be telling this to," she replied quietly.

He studied the ground before him, "I cannot ask her yet ... her brother will never consent, I know."

"No," she agreed, and his face fell, "He probably will not ... now." He looked up at her, as she continued, "However, in a year, he might. His objection at this time is that she is too young, but if you wait, she shall be that much older." She smiled then, giving him some hope, "Is she worth waiting a year for, Mr. Eastman?"

His eyes had lit up, "So, you think she would consider it ... having me?"

"You would have to ask her that, but I think if you put it as well as you have with me, your chances are very good, indeed."

He smiled hopefully and, excusing himself, hurried inside. Elizabeth, watching, wondered about Georgiana's response, and how Fitzwilliam was really going to react to all of this.

Georgiana was working on a christening gown for the baby, when Mr. Eastman found her.

"Miss Darcy?" He stood in the doorway, "Pardon me ... I would not wish to disturb you ... "

"Oh, no, you are not, Mr. Eastman," while she set her sewing aside as he sat down in the chair opposite hers.

He suddenly appeared nervous, clearing his throat several times before he finally spoke, "Miss Darcy, you must know ... " but he stopped, met her eyes, and seemed to forget what he was trying to say. Finally, "Do you know how much I enjoyed your letters this summer?"

She coloured and smiled, answering, "I am pleased that you did ... I looked forward to yours also."

Both were silent for a minute, and then he began again, "Miss Darcy, you must know how I feel about you."

At this, she dropped her gaze to her hands folded on her lap, her cheeks bright pink.

He hurried on, "I love you ... and I must know, can you ... do you ... could you care for me as well?"

She was silent for a few minutes, but when she looked up, she was smiling shyly, "Yes, Mr. Eastman ... I can, and I do."

His face brightened at her words, "Then ... you would consider marrying a lowly artist? I haven't much to offer but my heart ... and that you already have."

She said very softly, "That is all that I could want."

He spent the next few minutes just looking at her, at last, he seemed to wake up, saying, "I know that your brother will probably not consent right now ... but I can wait, dear, Georgiana ... I could wait forever, if I had to."

She thought for a minute before she said, "Mr. Eastman, it is true that my brother shall wish me to wait, but he is not unkind ... I know it shall not be overlong." She smiled at him so sweetly that he impulsively stood and kissed her hand.

Fitzwilliam was working in his study when a knock sounded upon the closed door. At his "Enter", Mr. Eastman stepped in.

He appeared to be very fidgety, not sitting immediately when he was invited to, and even then, remaining at the edge of his chair.

"Mr. Darcy," he began, but paused and attempted to start again. "Mr. Darcy, I have just spoken to your sister, and ... " his eyes seemed to be fixed on the wall behind Fitzwilliam's head, "She has agreed to marry me ... If you will but give your consent." He stopped, and waited expectantly, his eyes finally meeting the other gentleman's.

Fitzwilliam could not help but feel some sympathy, having been in this same situation not so very long ago, and as such, considered his words carefully before he answered, "You do realize that she is too young."

"I understood that you might feel this way, Mr. Darcy," his words were coming very quickly now, "Your wife informed me you might ... but I would wait ... we would wait ... perhaps a year? Would that be long enough?"

Fitzwilliam, meanwhile, having heard his wife mentioned, was only half listening now, wondering what she may have said to this young man. He realized, suddenly, that he was to have given an answer, and as Mr. Eastman watched him, he asked impassively, "You would be willing to wait a year?"

"Yes, of course."

Fitzwilliam studied him, "Mr. Eastman, my sister is not spoiled, but she has been ... protected. What could you offer her that would keep her satisfied ... happy?"

"I know that I do not have much in the way of material possessions, Mr. Darcy, but I earn a good income. I almost always have commissions. She would certainly have shelter, food ... all the essentials ... and, she would have my affection and respect." Continuing earnestly, he added, "I understand that you, probably, did not plan on having an artist for a brother-in-law, but I would take care of her, I promise you that."

"Well, Mr. Eastman," he said as he stood, "If you and my sister are willing to wait, I see no reason to stand in your way. You have my consent to marry Georgiana in one year's time."

They shook hands solemnly, and Mr. Eastman thanked him, but before he left, Fitzwilliam said, "If you see my wife, would you ask her to come in to me?"

Five minutes later, Elizabeth entered, asking, "You wished for me, my love?"

Her cheeks were rosy from the chill wind outside, her hair mussed from just removing her bonnet, but he thought her appearance fine. Now, at nine months pregnant, she positively glowed. A beauty, he thought pensively, which seemed to radiate from within.

Gazing at her, he almost forgot what he wanted to speak to her about, but as he moved around to sit on the edge of his desk, he recalled the subject, "I understand that you have assisted in arranging the engagement of Georgiana and Mr. Eastman."

As she had just been informed by both parties, she did not pretend ignorance, and replied calmly, "I merely suggested they should wait ... I had supposed that you would wish them to." then, meeting his eyes, she added, "I believed it the most practical resolution."

"Did you?" He held his hand out to her, so that when she came forward to take it, he pulled her gently towards him. She fit very nicely against him when he was sitting thus, and he slid his arms around her waist.

Studying his face, she asked him, her eyes smiling into his, "You do not really mind, do you?"

He kissed her then, he could not help it, and, as she slipped her own arms around his neck, he answered, "No, I do not mind."

Then she explained, as if she needed to, "I believe they are suited to one another, Fitzwilliam."

"As are we?"

She smiled, "As we are."

Mr. Eastman left the following day, as planned, promising to stop again on the return trip in three weeks time. Although Georgiana appeared happy, she, much like her brother, did not display deep emotion publicly, and Mr. Eastman, basically a quiet man, kept his feelings to himself as well.

They should have a peaceful, if not an interesting marriage, Elizabeth thought, watching them. At least, Fitzwilliam and myself are opposite in some characteristics, keeping us uncertain of the other one's feelings, and therefore, not likely to take much for granted.

Chapter Fifteen

Posted on Tuesday, 19 March 2002

November continued cold. The coldest in fifty years, according to some of the locals, and as if it needed to be proven, a snowstorm hit on the unprecedented date of the twentieth. Everyone was snowed in for almost a week. The only way to get through was by sled, and that was only if the horses were able to manage the drifts. There were no posts, and no way to get out and take a walk, as Elizabeth longed to do.

She was restless, unable to find an occupation which would keep her satisfied. Even sewing baby clothes had lost its charm, and she yearned for an immediate thaw to melt the snow.

The local doctor had stopped a week before to speak with her about her delivery, promising her husband that when she was ready, he would get through to them, no matter what the weather.

Georgiana did not seem to notice the isolation, but she had been in another world since Mr. Eastman's proposal, and so was not helpful in easing Elizabeth's boredom.

Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, had taken to watching his wife when he thought she was busy, and would not notice, but she did, and this vigilance did not help her mood.

She knew he was worried of her going into labour before the roads were cleared, or, that when the time actually came, another storm might hit. At this point, however, she just wanted to have it over with ... and soon.

Feeling as though this pregnancy had lasted much longer then nine months, she was weary from being always uncomfortable, not sleeping well, not being able to get outside, and last but not least, the constant backache from the added weight.

One afternoon, as she was sitting on the settee before the fire in their room, and could not get comfortable no matter what she did, tears of hopelessness began to slide down her cheeks. She wanted it to be spring, she wanted this baby to be here, and she wanted to be anywhere but where she was. She was ashamed of the tears, but she could not seem to stop them. Placing her face in the crook of her arm, which lay upon the armrest, she presented the very picture of desolation. This, then, is where her husband found her sometime later.

"Elizabeth," he inquired, upon observing her forlorn position, "What is the matter, my love?"

Then, as it occurred to him, "It is not the baby, is it?"

"I wish it were," she sighed, not raising her head.

Studying her desolate figure, he seated himself beside her, drew her to him, and then placed a gentle kiss upon her forehead.

Despite her advanced size, his arms could still reach all the way around, and wearily she leaned against him.

At length, he said, stating an obvious fact, "You are tired."

She did not answer, but only stared morosely into the fire, as he continued to speak with great sympathy, "My poor Elizabeth, you have been through so much."

He held her thus for several, silent moments before she finally said, "Fitzwilliam?"

"Yes, my love."

"I am afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of all of it ... having the baby, being a mother, being responsible for something so tiny ... it is all very overwhelming."

"You shall be a wonderful mother."

"You are only saying that to make me feel better ... how shall I ever know what to do? The only babies I remember were my sisters, and I was not responsible for them."

"You will know."

She looked up at him, wanting to believe him, "Will I? How will I?"

"Because you always know."

"But this is different ... this is new. How does anyone know?" She was quiet, then, "Fitzwilliam?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't it worry you?"

"Sometimes ... but I am not alone, and neither are you. Elizabeth," he assured her reasonably, "We are in this together. Granted, it is all very new, but I am not going anywhere ... I shall be here when you need me."

She appreciated his words, but he could not understand what she was feeling ... nor should he. This really was something with which she was going to have to confront on her own. After all, childbirth was perfectly natural. Women had babies all of the time, and nothing tragic happened ... at least not often.

But, she would not let herself dwell on the cases which ended less than blissfully. I am healthy, she told herself, I am young, there is no reason why this birth should be more difficult than any other ... yet, it was the unknown which continued to concern her.

As the days passed, and December the first came and went, she began to go from concerned to impatient. The baby had shifted, meaning, she was carrying it lower, and that alone should count for something, shouldn't it? What was worse, everyone in the household appeared to be tiptoeing around as if she were going to drop this baby at any moment.

Oh, if it were only so simple, she thought dismally.

One morning, Fitzwilliam woke her with a kiss so sweet that she had to ask sleepily, "What was that for?"

"Happy Anniversary, my darling Elizabeth."

She opened her eyes wide and looked into his, astonished. She had been so preoccupied with this pregnancy that she had completely forgotten the date.

Feeling a little guilty, she put her arms around his neck, and returned, "Happy Anniversary, my love." adding, "I am sorry I forgot ... I suppose that I have been thinking of other things of late."

He smiled at her, teasing, "It shall give me something later to hold over you."

As she moved into his arms she thought about the past year. So much had happened; London, her miscarriage, her losing her way, discovering the "lost" Darcy children, Mr. Jeffries, Mr. Eastman, the Bingleys having their baby, her own pregnancy ... so many things in such a short time!

And she and Fitzwilliam, how had they emerged from all of this? Closer? Yes, very. More understanding of each other? Sometimes ... although it appeared to be an ongoing learning experience. Did she love him as much as when they were married? She did not have to think long on that. Yes, and more, because she had learned so much about him. She admired his compassion, respected his opinion, cherished his moments of openness, and lived for his kisses.

She had to smile at this last. It seemed so unimportant, but it was a symbol of the intimacy that they shared, and she, quite simply, enjoyed receiving them.

Desirous of one of these at present, she said softly, "I love you, Mr. Darcy," as, willingly he complied, his arms tightening around her just before he responded, "I love you, Mrs. Darcy."

They stirred themselves, finally, deciding that it was past time to be out of bed, but as she stood up, she was astonished by a sudden drenching of her legs and feet.

Oh, my God, she thought to herself, then aloud, "Fitzwilliam, I ... I'm going to have a baby."

Glancing over at her, he noticed her attention focused upon the state of her gown, which was clinging wetly to her legs.

Realizing what must have happened, he was beside her immediately, "Good Lord, Elizabeth. Are you all right?"

Concentrating on containing her own excitement, while very much aware of his, she attempted to calm him, saying, "No, do not panic yet, please ... I have to think."

What was it that the doctor had told her? Contractions, wait for the contractions, so, she waited the whole of five minutes, but nothing of further importance occurred.

A little disappointed, she announced at last, "I must get cleaned up."

By this time, he could not help but be perplexed by the evenness of her manner, "Elizabeth, shouldn't we be sending for the doctor?"

"No, not yet. It might be hours yet, and he is busy. He told me to wait."

"Wait for what, exactly?"

She looked at him, resigned to the fact that her child would not appear instantaneously, despite his, or her, preferences, answering, "Don't worry, Fitzwilliam. I was told that the first one may take hours and hours. We do not need the doctor yet, but," she added with a hint of optimism, "It is a start."

All that day, they waited. Fitzwilliam spent his time between watching her, and observing the skies. The day was fine and clear, but if one snowflake should appear, he was going to send for the doctor immediately.

She did not feel even a twinge until evening, and then, they were so irregular and mild that she refused to let him dispatch anyone yet. By midnight, she finally agreed, the contractions becoming a little stronger and closer together. The doctor arrived within the hour, but since nothing much was happening, he made the best of it and fell asleep in the chair closest to the fire.

She overheard one of the maids saying to another, "My, but Mrs. Darcy is calm."

And she was ... amazingly so. She laid on her bed, read a book to pass the time, conversed with her husband, and attempted to sleep, but because of her anticipation, could not.

By two o'clock in the morning, the contractions were closer, but still a good ten minutes between, and, realizing that it was going to be a long night, she told her husband, "You may as well go and lie down ... if anything happens, you shall know."

So, reluctantly, he left her to rest in the adjourning bedroom, not so much because he was tired, but in hopes that, perhaps, it might hurry things along.

The pains became abruptly sharper and closer together by four, though yet irregular, and she found herself having a harder time catching her breath between them. Also, the fatigue from so little sleep was beginning to wear on her, not a good sign, she suspected. The doctor roused himself soon after, instructing the two maids to start gathering clean linens, several basins, and vats of boiled water.

The commotion of people coming and going alerted Fitzwilliam, and he returned to the room, asking his wife, "Is it time then?"

Having just finished a deep contraction, she, a bit out of breath, answered, "Yes, my love, it is time."

He took her hand, a mistake, since another pain was upon her, and, afterward, it took several minutes for the feeling to return to his fingers.

At his look of alarm, Mrs. Reynolds hustled him out, saying, "Please, Mr. Darcy, sir, wait in the other room ... we'll let you know when you are needed."

So, he retreated to the other bedroom, but did not sleep, deeply disturbed by the unfamiliar cries of pain coming from his wife.

She was being pulled in half, relentlessly, unceasingly. She heard someone say, "Go ahead and yell, Mrs. Darcy. No one will mind."

But she could not get her breath, the pain was so intense. She heard a man, the doctor, say, "She is getting tired, we must ... " but the rest was lost as another contraction overtook her. She tried to think of something else, something pleasant; spring and the hills around Pemberley ... so calm, so warm.

Again a voice interrupted her thoughts, "Mrs. Darcy, you must stay awake, you have to push."

She wished to sleep so badly, she was so very tired, but an excessively difficult pain would come over her then, and there would be nothing else but that.

Somebody was wiping her face while someone else was imploring, "Mrs. Darcy, ma'am, you must push!"

Their voices becoming more insistent, more difficult to ignore.

"Support her!" she heard the doctor order, and abruptly, hands were placed behind her shoulders, holding her so that she was forced to sit up midway.

She wanted to lie back, she wanted to sleep, but a pain which tore through her like lightening awoke her suddenly, and, instinctively she pushed.

Continuing to do so, she felt as though she were being turned inside out, as if she would never be allowed to rest again, until the doctor announced, "There's the head! Keep pushing, Mrs. Darcy!"

When she was positive she had no strength left in her, he urged, "One more ... just one more." With every ounce of energy remaining in her body, she pushed again.

Relief swept over her upon hearing him declare triumphantly (as if he were the one giving birth), "It is a boy!"

She laid back, exhausted, comprehending slowly the import of his pronouncement ... a boy, her son.

She heard a baby crying, and the doctor's voice again, gentler now, "One more time Mrs. Darcy ... for the afterbirth."

After that, they left her to sleep until, sometime later, she felt something being laid against her arm.

Opening her eyes, she gazed upon him for the first time. He was wrapped tightly in a blanket so that the only visible part of him was his head. His skin was red and wrinkled, his hair, black and thick. His eyes were closed, the lids appearing almost transparent. His little chest was moving in and out rapidly with the labour of his breathing, and his mouth was puckered, as if for a kiss. She studied him, almost in disbelief. This is what she had carried for nine months? It did not seem possible. But, as she watched this incredibly tiny person, other feelings took over ... a tenderness, a quiet joy filling her completely.

At some point, she became aware of someone standing by the foot of the bed, and she looked up to meet her husband's eyes. He appeared to be nearly as tired and worn as she, for, obviously, he had not slept either, but at that moment, she thought he looked perfectly well. He was staring at the bundle beside her with the same disbelief with which she had felt only moments before, mirrored in his expression.

Wanting something to break the silence, she said in a voice sounding unlike her because of her fatigue, "Mr. Darcy, come and meet your son, James Fitzwilliam Darcy."

A flicker of a smile crossed his lips before he bent down to kiss her on the cheek. A chair had been placed beside the bed, in which he settled himself, his gaze not leaving his son.

"Take him, my love." she encouraged him, and he, with some trepidation, picked up their child, to hold him uneasily against his chest.

Speaking at last, his voice a bit strange as well, although from lack of sleep or emotion, it was uncertain.

"He is so small," he observed.

She managed a smile, "He looks very small right now against you, but I assure you, he did not feel that way a short time ago."

He relaxed as he held him, getting used to the size and weight. He studied his face just as she had, but all he said was, "He does not resemble either of us, does he?"

"Not yet. I think babies generally look alike until later, after a few days, perhaps."

She thought her husband was doing remarkably well with him, considering that his experience was as limited as her own.

It was not until then that she noticed the light coming in through the windows from outside.

A new day. Her son's birthday. It really was rather amazing, she thought dreamily, how quickly things change. Even though it had not seemed so quick at the time, yet still, only one day, and now they were parents.

She was just drifting off to sleep while thinking about it, when she heard her husband's voice, very quiet, "Elizabeth, thank you."

"Mr. Darcy, we have a problem."

It was afternoon now. The doctor had been in to check on Elizabeth, but as he came out of their room, his voice sounded very serious, filling Fitzwilliam with foreboding. Continuing solemnly, he explained, "Your wife is losing a lot of blood ... she should not be." He was quiet for a minute, then, almost to himself, "It must be the afterbirth ... I thought I had gotten it all, but apparently not."

Suddenly, he became businesslike, "I shall need an assistant, one of those girls from this morning will do." Then, wishing to clarify further, "I have to take care of this now, Mr. Darcy. She may not have much time left." Turning abruptly, and well aware of the consternation left upon his listener's face, he went back into the room, closing the door behind him. A few moments later, one of the chambermaids also went in, her face very solemn.

Still trying to comprehend what he had been told, Fitzwilliam felt himself in a state of shock. What had the doctor said? Bleeding to death? How was that possible? He had seen her not two hours ago, before he had finally gotten a short nap ... before this.

Afterwards, when the doctor had left with a promise to stop back that evening, Fitzwilliam sat by her bed and watched her. She was so pale ... appearing almost ghostly against the pillow. Her lashes looked black upon her cheek, her breathing was shallow. Taking her hand into his only succeeded in alarming him further, as it felt not dissimilar to holding a piece of ice.

"Elizabeth," he said it aloud without intending to, "Do not leave me ... "

Was this, then, the cost for their child? Her life for his? He would not accept it. He could not. "Elizabeth," he repeated, his voice breaking, "Please come back to me."

She was standing by the lake, the sun shining upon her face, small waves lapping at her feet. A little girl was standing off to the right of her, long brown hair tied with two ribbons down her back. She was wearing a yellow dress, and as she turned to look at Elizabeth, she saw that it was Melanie. Melanie Darcy.

"Come, Elizabeth," she called, holding out her hands, "Come and stay with me." But somewhere behind her, her husband's voice. Distant, but repeating her name over and over. Melanie heard it as well, her eyes turned toward the sound. She shook her head playfully at Elizabeth, saying, "You must come back another day ... look for me, Elizabeth." Then she ran off, her feet leaving small prints in the sand. Turning around to seek the source of the voice, Elizabeth cried, "Where are you?"

As she began to walk to where she thought he might be, she suddenly found herself surrounded by trees. Unfamiliar, formidable, making her aware that she was again lost.

When she could hear him no more, she began to run, calling, "Fitzwilliam, I am coming. Please, wait for me."

His own voice rose and faded as waves pounding against a shore, until she could no longer understand what he was saying.

"Fitzwilliam, don't leave me here." she beseeched him, stopping to listen, until, at last, she heard his words again, "Elizabeth, come back to me."

Perhaps if she reached out her hand, she would find him, but empty air met her fingers.

In despair she called again, "Fitzwilliam, don't leave me."

He saw her lips moving , but no sound emerged. Taking her hand into his again, he strained to hear her words. Realizing that she was repeating his name, he, with new hope, answered, "Elizabeth, I am here."

Intently, he restated it again and again until, at last, her eyelids fluttered open and she lay gazing at him in wonder.

"Fitzwilliam, here you are." she said in wonder, as if he were the one who had been so near to death.

"Elizabeth," in his relief, his voice shook, "I thought that I had lost you."

She shook her head weakly at him, "No, my love, I am not going anywhere ... "

He managed a watery smile, and with a hand which would tremble despite his willing it not to, smoothed her hair back from her forehead, as he replied, "I am very glad."

Chapter Sixteen

Posted on Tuesday, 19 March 2002

"Oh, Elizabeth, he is so sweet." Georgiana smiled as she held her nephew, snugly wrapped in a blue woolen blanket in her arms.

James Fitzwilliam Darcy was now five days old, and already adjusting to being the center of attention. Georgiana, alone, held him every chance that she could, although she tried to keep her visits short so as to allow her brother and sister-in-law time alone.

Propped up on pillows, a stack of paper, ink and a quill before her on a lap desk, Elizabeth was attempting to finish the birth announcements. She had been ordered to stay in bed for a minimum of two weeks, but as she already felt fine, the recuperation time was beginning to seem overlong. She did not dare to rebel, however, as Fitzwilliam had directed everyone who saw her during the day to "Make certain Mrs. Darcy remains in bed."

He, himself, had not left her for the first three days, and would not even allow her to get up to pick up James. Instead, he brought him to her, which, she secretly believed, simply gave him an excuse to hold his son more often, himself. In fact, at times, he did not appear to be in too much of a hurry to hand him over to his mother, and, if she had not been nursing him, she probably would have him very little.

When he was finally required to return to the business of running Pemberley and it's surrounding interests, she, at last, had some time to become acquainted with her baby. Still, there were not too many spare moments that her husband was not again with them in their room.

"It is too quiet downstairs," he would explain, and even took his meals with her, since she could not leave her bed.

Now, she was concentrating on her correspondence, the monotony of writing the same message to so many people making her arm weary. She looked up as Georgiana spoke, and smiled fondly at the sight.

"Really, Georgiana, you are becoming quite the expert at holding him ... and in such a short time, too."

"It has been an education, I assure you. I suppose if I had younger brothers or sisters, he would not be so wondrous to me as he is ... but, Elizabeth, you must admit that he is."

"Yes, she agreed readily, "He is."

Returning to the task at hand, she was now quite willing to be done with it. She tried to recollect if anyone may have been forgotten. Heaven forbid any relation or friend should feel slighted by not receiving such a note.

Satisfied, at last, she set the ink and quill on her bedside table and the lap desk onto a chair.

"There, that is done. Georgiana, if you think of anyone whom I may have overlooked, please, do not tell me! I believe I shall wait a full five years until the next child, just so I don't have to write these announcements again too soon."

"Elizabeth," Georgiana said hesitantly, "Did you happen to remember Lady Catherine? I mean ... I know that Fitzwilliam is angry at her yet, but perhaps if you sent her one, they would patch things up."

Elizabeth saw the sense in what she said. She had not been comfortable knowing that she had been the cause of the rift between them, and had been searching for a solution since their marriage. This could be it.

"You are right, Georgiana ... and, after all, she is your aunt and Anne is your cousin ... they certainly ought to be informed."

Retrieving the writing materials, she wrote one last (she hoped) announcement, then with a conspiratorial smile to her sister-in-law, put it on top of the stack ready to be posted. She lay back then, closing her eyes, and for just a moment was thankful for the extended bedrest. James was beginning to fuss a bit, a cue for Georgiana to hand him to her to be fed.

In making the decision to nurse him herself, instead of using a wetnurse, she knew that she was probably defying some unwritten law among the privileged class, but she did not care. It gave her the chance to have him to herself for a little while, and she firmly believed that it would forge a strong bond between them, even, perhaps, later on. She studied his features as he nursed.

Since his birth, his hair was not so thick, his skin had become a more natural color, and his eyes, although still cloudy, were clearly blue. Mrs. Reynolds had told her that most babies were born with blue eyes, but usually by the time of their being a few months old, their true color would appear. She hoped they would turn out to be brown and framed with thick lashes like his father's. He had his coloring already, so it was possible ... perhaps even probable.

Georgiana had been embarrassed when first she witnessed Elizabeth feeding him, but she was becoming used to it, and, she felt, was growing more adept at ignoring it altogether. So, when Elizabeth asked her if she had heard from Mr. Eastman lately, she could converse as if they were in any ordinary place doing ordinary things.

Just as he had finished eating, and was drifting off to sleep, they heard Fitzwilliam's step upon the stair. He smiled at them both as he entered, but Georgiana, wishing to allow them some privacy, soon excused herself and left.

After he had kissed her, and gently touched James' cheek, Elizabeth said to him, "I received a letter from Jane today, my love. They are looking for a house near here ... have you heard of any which might be available?"

He considered for a moment, "I have not yet, but I shall inquire. How near do they wish to be?"

"Within fifty miles, I am sure. It would be nice to have them be so, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, of course. I shall see what I can find out," he promised, "Perhaps there will be something fairly close."

The tone of his voice made her look at him curiously, "Do you know of a place, Fitzwilliam?"

He only shook his head, smiling mysteriously. At once wondering what he might be up to, she did not, however, persist in her inquiries, as she was well aware that it would do her little good. For, whatever he had in mind, he would only disclose it when ready.

That night, after dinner, Elizabeth broached the subject of Fitzwilliam returning to their bed. He had remained in the adjourning bedroom while she was recuperating, and as she was feeling much better, it seemed to be a logical time to end his exile.

He thought otherwise. His reasons sounded perfectly sensible: She needed more time, more rest, he slept easier if he did not have to worry about disturbing her. But, although they all seemed reasonable, nothing could alter the fact that she missed him dreadfully, that she wanted him back with her. He insisted he felt the same, but she could not help sensing his reticence, and, she was hurt by it.

Sometime during the night, something awoke him. He lay half-asleep for some minutes trying to decide what it had been, and whether he had dreamt it. Then, he heard it again, a deep intake of breath. He sat up, threw his legs over the side of the bed, and was immediately greeted by a rush of cold air. Pulling the coverlet around him like a cape, he walked into their bedroom. The only light was coming from the moon shining through a window onto the empty bed.

"Elizabeth?" He said her name hesitantly.

Where could she have gone?

Then her voice answered from the area of the settee which sat before the normally lit fire, now only glowing embers, "Go back to bed, Fitzwilliam."

"Why are you out of bed?"

"I am thinking."

"You could not do that in bed?" He sounded incredulous.

Good God, it is cold, he thought to himself. He made his way tentatively to where he placed her voice, stubbed his toe, swore under his breath, and asked again, "Elizabeth?"

"Fitzwilliam," she said impatiently, "Please go back to bed."

He realized she was not on the settee, but on the floor directly in front of it.

"Why are you sitting down there? Isn't it a little cold?" he inquired, attempting to keep his voice calm.

"I think better here." She, on the other hand, sounded furious.

He sighed. This was not going to be a short discussion with a quick resolve, and then back to his warm bed, he could tell.

Sitting on the floor next to her, still trying to awaken himself completely, he questioned, "What is the matter?"

"There is nothing the matter," her tone belying her words, "Go to bed."

"Elizabeth," he said reasonably, "There is obviously something wrong. Did I do something to upset you?"

"No." her voice was so tight, he knew she was very close to tears.

He attempted to find her hand, but she would not relinquish it.

"Why are you angry?"

"I am not angry." she answered illogically.

He would have to try a different tact. "If you are not angry, then what are you?"

"I am hurt."

"Can't you tell me why?"

"Because you ... because ... oh, go to bed, Fitzwilliam." she almost sobbed but caught herself just in time.

He took the corners of his cover in each hand and wrapped it around them both, so she was warm against him. Resisting at first, she finally allowed him to keep his arms around her, even though she was not yet ready to concede.

"Now, my love," he kept his voice gentle, "Why are you hurt?"

"Why do you not wish to sleep in our own bed with me?" She burst out suddenly.

"Did I say that?"

"You did not have to ... you can think of every reason in the world ... I would have to be blind not to see it."

"Elizabeth, I thought I was being considerate of you."

"No," now she was angry anew, "If you had considered my feelings, you would not have found so many reasons."

Though he did not see the logic in her argument, he tried to return to his point, "You need time, my love."

"I have had all the time that I need ... apparently, you have not."

Silence, while he formed an answer, his brain still foggy with sleep. Finally, "Do you want me to return tonight ... now?"

"No, never mind. Go back to your own bed, Fitzwilliam."

That, obviously, was not the right thing to have said. He tried again, "If you wish it, I shall come back tonight."

"Do not do me any favours."

He was getting nowhere, he should see. He leaned his head back against the settee and concentrated on clearing his mind. Women were just not logical, that was all there was to it. They were led by their emotions and then expected when to know exactly what they wanted without actually coming out and saying it.

So, he thought, at last, how were they going to come to an understanding on this?

After several moments of silence, he asked, "Elizabeth, what do you want?"

She began to cry then in earnest, her face in her hands, "I want you," she sobbed.

He held her without speaking, until she had quieted. Then, softly, "My love, I want you also ... more than you shall ever know. I am sorry you believe I feel otherwise." He paused, considered, and continued, "And, if it sounds as if I do not wish to come back to our bed, I am sorry about that, also."

She was silent now, listening to him.

He took a deep breath, knowing that these would be the most difficult words for him to say, "When you were so ill, after James was born, and I believed that I was losing you ... I could not bear it, Elizabeth. It would have been like the sun going out." Her arms went around him slowly, as he talked. "I thought you were gone." He had to stop for just a minute to get his voice under control, "But, thankfully, you did recover ... you came back to me. I knew it was a miracle ... it had to be. I realized, before anything else, that you needed to get well ... completely well ... that I could not risk losing you again." His cheek was against her hair, "If I am overcautious, I apologize. But, Elizabeth, I can not go through that kind of hell twice in a lifetime."

Her face was buried into his shoulder, so her voice, when she spoke, was muffled, "You are making me feel quite selfish."

She sighed, "But, Fitzwilliam, I am well ... truly I am ... and I want you back with me ... I need you to kiss me good night and good morning, and I need to feel your arms around me before I go to sleep ... is that self-indulgent of me?"

"If it is, then we are both so ... I need those things from you also, my love, but I have to know that you are ready ... that we shall not be risking your health for whatever immediate gratification might result."

"And who should decide whether or not I am ready? If I believe that my recovery would be hastened by the physical contact of my husband, then who is to say that it shall not be?"

"You believe that?"

He felt her lips on his, "With all of my heart."

"Elizabeth," he warned, "You are not playing fair."

"Am I not?" She kept her voice innocent, as she slowly and softly kissed him a second time.

"Elizabeth," he sighed, admitting defeat at last, "Can we go back to bed at least?"

"Together?"

"Yes, all right, together ... and may God have mercy on my soul."

"So long as I may have everything else."

Continued In Next Section