There were other issues of propriety, however. Initially, Darcy thought it only proper to withdraw when the babies were brought to Elizabeth to nurse.
“I shall trespass no longer upon your privacy,” he said stiffly.
But he had been away for so very long, she was loath to allow him leave her side at all.
“My privacy is yours as well, sir,” she tartly reminded him, then gently, “Please stay. We have been so very long apart, I long for your company. Furthermore, if you excuse yourself from me when I am in this attitude—I am so often thus—ere long I shall not know your face.”
Jane Bingley had been devoted to her sister’s convalescence, but anticipated the intimate turn of their conversation and had betaken herself to find occupation in another room. As for Darcy, every consolation to his wife was his ambition. Even so, he found it oddly unnerving to share the same room with his wife’s undraped breast in the company of others—even if only her maid Hannah and the wet-nurse Mrs. Littlepage. He chastised himself for entertaining such petty qualms. To be disordered by one’s lessers was insupportable—a failing to overcome. He had gained forbearance of Elizabeth’s maid’s bustling about over the years. Thereby he lectured himself that a nurse was no different and set about ignoring her presence as well. Decorum was still a sizable consideration to him, but for some time it had been set aside in favour of pleasing Elizabeth. Hence, however reluctantly, he did as she bid and did not take his leave.
Although confessed to no further disconcertion, his posture whilst Elizabeth nursed was quite formal. Indeed, it replicated the stance that he took upon more formal occasions—weight balanced on one foot, his hands carefully clasped behind him. Even after many days of witnessing of these feeding rituals, he stood with such rigidity that his wife grew impatient with such a display of reserve—he had certainly had time to acclimate himself to the doings. She believed her motherly duties to be no less than a communion—one that should be cherished by them both. Other husbands might eschew such an intimacy, but not hers. She knew better of his nature. He had no need of defending his manhood from what might be accused of being a purely womanly pursuit. What was important to her was important in equal measure to him. Their long separation and lately arrived parenthood could not have altered that. She would not allow it.
“Pray, come to me,” she bid, holding out her hand.
He took a step in her direction but again reclaimed the same formal posture and undertook maintaining it with unflinching diligence.
“Nearer, please,” she insisted.
He dutifully shuffled his feet a bit, but he moved not an inch nearer. If she hoped for conversation, she was to be disappointed there as well for he spoke not a word until their son was at last sated. Thereupon he issued a small exclamation of approval.
“Ah,” said he.
He was clearly of a mind that was the extent of his duty as a doting father, for thereupon a complacent smile overspread his countenance.
From her place propped up amongst the pillows, Elizabeth looked not half so happy. She wiped Geoffrey Darcy’s tiny chin and then handed him off to Mrs. Littlepage. Nurse carried him across the room and placed him in an ornately carved oversized cradle. The cradle was an object that Elizabeth held in particular regard. It had been in disgraceful disrepair when she had rescued it from the farthest reaches of Pemberley’s attic rooms, but it had cleaned up nicely. There had been a different, but equally beautiful cradle crafted for her first confinement. It had disappeared after that stillbirth—she had never asked, but only supposed that her husband had it put away. When she began to feel movement with this pregnancy, she knew that preparations for a new arrival were imperative. She had inquired of Mrs. Reynolds of that cradle’s whereabouts, but the old woman shook her head.
“Nay. It’s done and gone, it is,” she said. “Mr. Darcy himself took an axe to it—had it used as kindling, he did. He said he wanted nothing left of it.”
It had been such a sorrowful time for her, Elizabeth had not fully realised the toll it must have taken on Darcy as well. The thought of what anguish must have driven him to split to pieces that tangible reminder of their loss with his very own hands grieved Elizabeth to the quick. Indeed, so distressed was she, Elizabeth turned away to reclaim her countenance. When Mrs. Reynolds observed her mistress’s countenance troubled by her disclosure, she did not regret that she spoke the truth, only the wound that the truth caused. She had within her means, however, a salve. She snapped her fingers when it came to her.
“This way, m’lady,” she said over her shoulder, for she was already scurrying up the corridor.
Elizabeth had to rest on the third set of stairs, propping her arms on her blossoming stomach. Mrs. Reynolds stopt as well, allowing Elizabeth to catch her breath and ascertain that what lay before them was, indeed, worth the bother.
“’Tis! ’Tis!” Mrs. Reynolds assured her.
At last they found the room that was a virtual treasure trove of infant paraphernalia. Mrs. Reynolds picked her way through the melange to where a cradle stood beneath a dusty muslin cloth. She pulled the cloth from the cradle with a flourish so grand that Elizabeth could not actually see the cradle until the dust had settled. When it had, she was unequivocally delighted. The cradle had once been white and only a trace of gold leaf remained, but still quite evident on the headboard was the Darcy crest. Elizabeth couldn’t imagine why Darcy had not offered this one for their own use before. But then, she supposed, if they had, it would now have been kindling. Mrs. Reynolds tsked at its condition, but Elizabeth saw its potential. Indeed, she oversaw its reconditioning herself—busy work she made for herself in the long, dark days of Darcy’s away.
Now, the cradle sat in full view of Darcy upon a daily basis. Elizabeth knew that he must have recognised the crest, yet he had not commented upon it. Knowing her husband as she did, Elizabeth knew it was possible that it was a reminder of a past event of which he did not choose to speak. Moreover, he disliked pointless sentimentality. It would fall to her alone to be delighted in seeing their babies asleep in the very same cradle in which their father once laid. With the appetites they exhibited, however, she knew each baby would soon need its own.
Mrs. Littlepage sat herself down on the stool next to the illustrious cradle, crossed her plump arms, and commenced to rock it with one foot. Elizabeth had watched carefully as Nurse took the baby to the cradle, and kept her in her eye until certain her son was then settled into a nap. Thereupon, with precision that had come about by some innate instinct, she expertly transferred the second baby to her opposite breast. Gently, she prodded the little chin with a forefinger, urging her to nurse. In due time, Janie did, but her eyes kept drooping. Elizabeth jiggled her several times to keep her awake long enough to take her nourishment. Observing this delicate complication, Darcy’s ceremonious demeanour allowed him to go so far as to shift his weight to the other foot.
Without raising her eyes to her husband, Elizabeth inquired, “Pray, did you know that your lips are pursed of late to a vexatious degree?”
Indignant at such an accusation, he objected, “They are in no such attitude.”
He was quite certain he harboured no resentment of any kind, thank-you-very-much—and he most certainly did not begrudge such small bundles their mother’s time. So emphatic was his non-perturbation, he felt compelled to alter the subject of such discourse. In preparation to do so, he moved nearer the edge of the bed and watched intently as Elizabeth idly drew her finger across their daughter’s silken forelock. He cleared his throat. Thereupon, he frowned.
She ceased her caressing, but did not then turn her gaze in his direction.
Said he, “How long will they remain in their present state?”
“Pray, to what state might you refer, sir?”
“Misshapen,” he said. “Their misshapen state.”
“Misshapen?” she repeated, her lips now pursed, then added
primly, “I have not the pleasure of understanding you.”
“Yes. I must take leave to observe that they appear to have been pulled up from the garden—like some sort of squirming root vegetables.”
She rose upon her elbow as far as she could without disturbing her nursling and looked directly and indignantly at him.
“That is an appalling thing to say! They appear to be no such thing!” said she. “Pray, how can you speak so ill of such beautiful babies—your own babies?”
With this response, she settled back and busily set about straightening the rutabaga’s gown before glancing up to gauge the impact of her retort upon the tuber’s sire. She had to quash the inclination to remind him that said root vegetables were of his loins, but both Hannah and Nurse were in easy listening distance. Hannah was compleatly trustworthy and inexplicably unflappable, but Elizabeth dared not speak so plainly in front of the newly employed nurse. Hence, rather than speak of his fruitful loins, she allowed her gaze to slowly take in the length of his frame. She did not see what this measure wrought upon his countenance for she looked away immediately, fearful that she had issued an invitation that she was, regrettably, in no condition to entertain. She substituted that overture for one of a less sensual nature by humming the familiar notes of a lullaby and patting the bed next to her in an invitation for him to join her.
He did not sit, but moved nearer and turned his head sideways in seeming rapt contemplation of his daughter’s features.
He smiled and said, “I believe I see a distinct resemblance to your Uncle Phillips, Lizzy.”
“I fancy not,” Elizabeth retorted. “It could not be possible—he is but an uncle by marriage…”
She pondered the recollection of her Uncle Phillips’s broad face—for the case could be made for his resemblance to a potato. Her eyes darted back to her husband, who had the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—only then did she understand his tease. She narrowed her eyes at him, but could not keep from smiling in return. She even took a swat at the side of his leg. Quite unexpectedly, he threw his head back and laughed.
That was a fine sight for her to see. Almost every moment since his return had been so tried by some sobering event that Elizabeth was giddy with the prospect of recapturing the gentle banter that had once been central to their private discourse. That laugh above all else signalled a return to normalcy. Yet she had no more than breathed that inward sigh than he undertook a most abnormal action. He reached out and grasped the straight-backed nursing chair next to the bed and, in so swift a motion he might have done it every day of his life, turned it backwards against the bed and sat, straddling it. He then rested his arms on the top of the chair-back and put his chin upon his folded forearms. From this attitude he watched the baby’s doings quite intently. Elizabeth, however, was so astonished at his manoeuvre that she did not immediately realise their daughter had fallen asleep. He, of course, had and was one step ahead of her.
“The baby…” he said, pointing to the sleeping infant.
“Yes, yes, I see,” she said with a small degree of irritation—somewhat discombobulated still not only by what he had done but that he had, with such undue haste, become her supervisor.
Daintily, she nudged Janie from sleep, but to no avail. Again she prodded her, this time adding a gentle shake. The baby remained steadfastly asleep. Indeed, a slight snuffle came from the back of her throat.
“Perhaps if you tickled her feet,” he suggested.
Stubbornly, she rejected such a notion. After a bit of jiggling and no tickling, Janie once again began to nurse.
“One must not excite them unduly,” Elizabeth lectured. “It disturbs the digestion.”
“I see,” said he with a smile (one she did not happen to observe).
She had never been one to seek insult. It was her study to rise above such things. But one so egregious as to affront her fledging mothering skills was a test.
Regardless, she loosed one hand from its hold on the baby and took his. He squeezed hers once as if to let it go, but did not. He ran his thumb across her fingers and then brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.
She rethought her pique. It was quite unreasonable to be both unhappy at his reserve and irked at his interference. Moreover, although her own life had been upended to a startling degree, she had near a half-year to adjust to the coming of a child (albeit that it was not one babe but two had been an enormous astonishment)—he had them quite unceremoniously thrust in his arms not a day after he returned to English shores.
Elizabeth looked down upon one-half of that surprise with uncommon tenderness and pride and was nearly overwhelmed with emotion. If her sensibilities were stunned, she could but guess her husband’s disconcertion. Outwardly, he had been all graciousness. However, she knew his sensibilities had to have been abused abominably. The thought of what struggle he must be enduring to maintain his closely regulated bearing stirred her heart. She tore her eyes from her daughter’s contented face and looked upon her husband’s. Behind doting eyes, his countenance bore an odd expression. If called to describe it, had she not known better she might have concluded it was a bit forlorn. Although he prided himself upon his inscrutability, she recognised his moods and the tiny manifestations they took upon his aspect. Hence, when he exposed a disconsolation even to her, it was of no small significance.
“Nurse,” she said abruptly. “Nurse!”
The nurse gave a start as if caught in her own nap, but quickly stood and curtsied.
“Leave us.”
Although with this demand, Elizabeth’s voice lost its initial stridency, it was still an order. Without looking in the direction of her mistress, Nurse hustled towards the door. Elizabeth nodded once to Hannah, who anticipated her own dismissal and was then on her way out the door as well. Elizabeth watched her cross the room and held them both in her eye until the door had closed behind them. Without looking to her husband (who appeared almost as startled as had Nurse), she saw that her command had not stopt Janie from falling asleep once again. But this time Elizabeth did not rouse her. Rather, she gently shifted her tiny body to the side and adjusted her blanket.
“Shall I take her to her bed? Are you unwell?” Darcy queried, a little worry crease appearing between his brows.
“Neither,” she whispered. “Leave her be. If you move her she might awaken.”
Having her husband take his daughter in his arms and carry her to sleep beside her brother would have been a delightful sight to witness, but she dared not risk awakening her. For the first time she bethought her heretofore unwavering resolution to not allow either baby out of her sight for a single moment.
Fortunately, Janie continued to sleep and she did not have to make that decision.
“Come to me, my love,” she said, arms extended to her husband.
He looked at her rather curiously before looking over to the peaceful, sleeping face of his daughter. A little bubble erupted from Janie’s lips as she made sucking sounds in her sleep. With unparalleled precision, they turned to each other and silently shared their opinion of the unqualified adorability of such an act. Elizabeth had turned back to look upon her daughter’s burbling when, as adeptly as he had brought it beneath him, he removed the chair and returned it to its place. Then, he carefully pulled himself next to Elizabeth upon the bed. Slipping his arm around her shoulders and stretching his long legs the length of the bed, he anchored one ankle over the other. He took a ferociously long time settling himself, perhaps in want of disallowing himself to notice that his wife had neglected to re-tie the opening of her gown. Happily unawares of the distraction she exacted, she nestled contentedly against his chest and allowed her fingers sneak between the buttons of his waistcoat.
To once again feel the indention of his frame and warmth of his body next to her upon the mattress was very nearly exhilarating. He had not engaged in such a posture since
the day he had fallen fast asleep from sheer exhaustion after a furious ride across half of England to reach her. She looked lovingly upon him, for he was draped across the bed in incongruously formal attire. His impeccable grooming bid her recollect the disastrous state of his ensemble upon his arrival at that tumultuous homecoming. The summer heat had bid him to shed his coat and neckcloth somewhere along the road. Hence, he had lain across the counterpane in shirtsleeves and breeches, his face nearly as caked with dust as his boots. She had thought he had never looked more handsome.
Her reverie was disturbed by his inquiry, “How long shall the little one sleep?”
“It is not how long, but how deeply will she sleep,” replied she.
“I see.”
“I fear I am still…indisposed,” she ventured, “from the rigours of childbirth. It will be some time before I am myself again.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Lizzy. Such matters have not entered my mind,” his voice was all assurance; his countenance, however, looked less certain.
For such matters had entered his mind. They had entered his mind on numerous occasions to the point of preoccupation. There was no one of whom he might enquire as to the length of her convalescence with any degree of decorum, hence he was quite happy that she had brought the issue to light herself. Yet, “some time” was not a comfort. It was, however, something to look forward to.
Darcy & Elizabeth Page 2
