My Dearest Mr. Darcy: An Amazing Journey into Love Everlasting tds-3

by Sharon Lathan

  “You have opened a bit more, Elizabeth, and the baby is lower. The contractions will come quicker now and be stronger. You will need to stay in bed, but can move about however you wish, lying to the right side often the most comfortable. William, erase your frown before it permanently creases your face and assist your wife into a dry gown.” George rose, crossing to the midwife and nanny for a quiet conference.

  “Here, Lizzy, lift up and we will remove this wet gown,” Jane spoke softly, voice as serene as always cutting through Darcy's coursing panic. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing briefly for a silent prayer before aiding Jane in dressing his wife. In seconds they had Lizzy settled comfortably, propped on several pillows and Darcy's torso, Jane departing to speak with Mrs. Reynolds regarding a fresh juice order.

  “Beloved, you should change into dry clothing,” Lizzy murmured. Another pain, far more intense than anything previous, had faded. She trembled slightly, faint and incredibly tired as she melted into Darcy's stalwart embrace, fingers laced with his and lying on the top of her swollen abdomen.

  “It is insignificant. I will not leave you again, so do not ask.” His grip tightened and he pressed his cheek into her hair. “I love you, my dearest wife. Are you certain you are comfortable?”

  “As much as is possible,” she laughed faintly, closing her eyes in an attempt to doze even if only for a second. “Comfortable” in any definition of the word became impossible as the subsequent hours unfolded. The contractions lengthened in both duration and intensity coupled with an increased frequency, which meant less time for her to recover in between. Those precious minutes were hastily consumed with ragged breathing and searing back pain. Somewhere in the midst she was incessantly plied with sips of water and cubes of sugar to keep up her strength.

  Through it all Jane maintained her post to Lizzy's right side. Her placid strength, tranquil tone of speech, and gentle persuasion calmed Lizzy greatly. Since childhood Jane had been the steadying, rational voice amid Lizzy's ofttimes chaotic, impetuous nature. So it was now as Jane stroked her hand and forehead, murmuring pacifying sentences, relating memories of peaceful moments and places from their youth all designed to distract and soothe. It was successful to varying degrees as the afternoon waned into early evening.

  Darcy kept his vigil to his wife's left side. Where Jane was the temperate tranquilizer, Darcy was the stabilizing stone. At times it was purely physical: his sturdy physique and capable hands essential for support and penetrating kneading to aching or cramping muscles. Other times it was his manly voice with resonant tones as he spoke of his love and pride, his soft lips brushing over her temples and knuckles, his fiercely kind eyes as he gazed with bottomless wells of adoration and encouragement. He seemed to instinctively know what she required at any given moment. If it was tenderness, then his voice and touch softened, stroking soothingly. If it was focus, then his voice deepened into the familiar ring of the Master of Pemberley, commanding her to concentrate and breathe.

  “I cannot do it! Please make it stop!” Lizzy gripped his hand during one such incident, the spasms burning through the middle of her body in a fury. Her eyes were tightly shut, sweat beading on her brow, and head tossing to and fro while she whimpered.

  Darcy grasped her cheeks in hands of iron, face inches from hers, voice low and resolute, “Elizabeth, look at me! You can do this and you will! Now, focus on me and breathe. Inhale deep, that is it, now exhale, good, and again. No! Open your eyes! Focus on me! It will pass. Breathe again and one more is gone, all the nearer to seeing our son. Excellent! I am so proud of you, Elizabeth.” And the litany would continue with kisses and caresses until the next pain.

  None in the room sensed the internal struggle Darcy endured. A juvenile but persistent part of his soul wanted to scream in frustration, to rage against the impotence of a situation where the generally authoritative man of power was at the mercy of forces beyond his control. A small but very loud voice inside his head yelled at him to run, far away to some distant corner of the mansion where he could curl up into a fetal ball and hide from witnessing the agony suffered by the woman he loved more than life. Yet with typical, well-honed Darcy steel and discipline, he squelched those inner urges, recognizing them as childish and demeaning. Primarily he understood that despite his dismay at watching Elizabeth in her travail, there was in truth nowhere on earth he would rather be. As awful as it was at times, he knew he was providing a necessary service to his wife and partaking in a miracle. Always central in his mind's eye was the image of their baby, conceived in tremendous love, who would make his, or her, appearance to the world in due course. The thought of missing that advent was intolerable.

  Dr. Darcy and Mrs. Henderson sat across the room, silent for the most part as they observed the unrelenting process transpiring on the bed. On occasion George would rise to assess Lizzy's progress, declaring with satisfaction that all was proceeding as expected. His dry humor, usually rather biting and sarcastic, was gentle with the perfect blend of wittiness and sensitive timing to ease the building strain. Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Hanford sat near the fire, keeping it blazing and rotating the waiting towels and linens. The housekeeper quietly communicated with Marguerite and Samuel, who loitered outside the room awaiting instructions for hot water or other supplies, and relayed information to Miss Darcy and Mr. Bingley. In fact, the entire household collectively sat on tenterhooks, no real work being accomplished as they awaited the news that all was well with their Mistress.

  As dusk fell over the landscape, lamps lit and fires built, Lizzy successfully made the transition into the final stages of the birth process. Like all women down through the long ages since Eve, Lizzy instinctively sensed the subtle alteration in the contractions accompanied by an intense pressure felt low in her pelvis. Primarily it was an indescribable, uncontrollable urge to forcefully expel the cause of all her agony. It overwhelmed her reason, breathing no longer a viable option as the burning to her groin intensified torrentially; the heaviness demanding she hold her breath and bear down.

  This she did, surprising her two companions who attempted in vain to persuade her to concentrate, but spurring her two childbirth professionals to jump up and lunge toward the bed. Darcy recoiled in shock when George sat efficiently on the end of the bed, spreading Lizzy's legs as he lifted the sheet. A quick probe confirmed what he suspected and after a nod to Mrs. Henderson, who turned to Mrs. Reynolds for instructions, he looked to Darcy with a beaming smile.

  “Elizabeth is completely open now. Henceforth begins the real work, all else thus far leading up to this.” His fingers were between her legs, carefully palpating as she began to relax into Darcy's waiting embrace. “Elizabeth, look at me. Very good, dear. Now listen carefully. Your baby is very low and ready to be born. You are as open as you can get, making room for his body. Still, as I have discussed with William and he has shared with you, this can take time. The infant still has some distance to travel and you must use the remaining pains to bring him forth. Do you understand so far?”

  They both nodded, Darcy wiping his wife's brow and neck with a wet cloth while Lizzy panted. Dr. Darcy resumed, “The contractions will space out a bit, but when they occur you must hold your breath and bear down, hard, with each one. It will hurt, Elizabeth, but you must persevere. Breathe when necessary, but keep pushing toward your derriere until the pain halts.”

  “How long, Uncle?” Darcy asked in a hoarse voice.

  “Let us wait and see how the next few contractions proceed.”

  A flurry of activity erupted in the room. Fresh buckets of water were brought, George washing his hands and soaking several rags. Additional lamps were lit for illumination.

  The Darcys noted none of it. Lizzy reclined on her husband's warm chest, cocking her head to better see his luminous visage. She smiled, raising a hand to stroke his cheek, and Darcy almost fainted with a surge of breathless joy. Never had she been more beautiful to him than at that moment. Her hair was disheveled and loose from its braid, face flushed a
nd slightly puffy, lips dry; yet she exuded a radiant happiness that transcended the particulars.

  “I love you, Elizabeth,” he whispered, cupping her face. “Thank you for allowing me to be a part of this miracle.”

  She laughed, eyes twinkling and for the first time in hours responding with the friskiness of his Lizzy apparent. “Well, Mr. Darcy, considering you were an integral part of the inception of the miracle, it is only apropos you are present at its consummation! I would not be in this predicament if not for you and could not survive it without you. Now, do your job and hand me that glass of water.” She pursed her lips, blowing a kiss as she patted his smiling mouth with her fingertips, Darcy chuckling in a liberating release of nervousness as he reached for the indicated liquid.

  The difficult task of laboring in tandem with forceful muscular spasms intent on expelling a somewhat pliable but bulky body through a physically much smaller space commenced. Neither Darcy wasted the effort at this juncture to marvel at the awesomeness of the operation. Instead, Lizzy embraced with enthusiasm the ability to be proactive for a change. The pain was intense, but at least she was doing something rather than lying inert at its mercy. Darcy quite simply could not think beyond the fact that he would lay eyes on his child in a matter of minutes. He was giddy with excitement.

  Lizzy was serious and centered, not really needing the ceaselessly spoken encouragement now gushing from every mouth in the room, but appreciating it nonetheless. A half hour of concentrated effort passed, Lizzy exhausted and aching in every muscle, but strangely exhilarated and energized. Dr. Darcy kept to his seat, one hand on her abdomen under the draping sheet and the other stretching the flesh surrounding the birth canal. Mrs. Henderson stood by Lizzy's bent left knee, supporting and watching. Jane, per the midwife's teaching, did the same to the right leg. The sheet occluded full view, of which Darcy was thankful, and maintained modesty as much as is feasible in such a situation.

  “Elizabeth, William, I can see the crown of your baby's head. There is lots of dark hair, not surprisingly. You are doing an excellent job, my dear. He is very low and it should not take much longer.”

  However, three marvelously executed pushes later and the baby had not budged. Dr. Darcy, face impassive, deepened his probing. Lizzy squirmed, feeling his fingers uncomfortably seeking. “Forgive me, dear, but I need to palpate the baby's head… Ah! Now I see the cause. Typical Darcy, always attempting to be unique and ostentatious.”

  Lizzy snorted, although she had no idea what he meant as far as her baby was concerned, while Darcy scowled. “Perhaps some Darcys I could mention,” he said haughtily. “I, however, prefer to be inconspicuous and ordinary.” Lizzy and Jane both laughed aloud, even Mrs. Reynolds hiding a snicker, to Darcy's confusion.

  “You, my love, are the epitome of all that is not ordinary and at your height and with your presence are far from inconspicuous! We can discuss that later though. What do you mean about the baby, Uncle?”

  Dr. Darcy was smiling at his scowling nephew, addressing the question seriously. “Your child is wishing to be born looking up at the ceiling when he should be facing the floor. What this means is, I need to attempt turning him or the final stage will take longer.”

  “Do you want the forceps, Doctor?” asked Mrs. Henderson.

  “Absolutely not!” both George and Darcy echoed firmly. “Forceps will not touch my son's head unless it is a matter of life or death!” Darcy barked with eyes blazed, Mrs. Henderson retreating a step.

  “Do not worry, William. I can manipulate him with my fingers or, if he is stubborn, deliver him as he wishes. It may be uncomfortable, Elizabeth, I am sorry.”

  She nodded, unable to speak as another contraction struck. The next several contractions were the hardest, Lizzy's discomfort increasing as the infant hesitantly responded to the physician's persistent direction. Mrs. Henderson was mesmerized, having never witnessed such a procedure, Dr. Darcy explaining the technique in quiet undertones as he worked.

  Lizzy strained with the effort, releasing loud grunts and intermittent yells of pain. Darcy held his breath as she did, Jane also unconsciously mimicking the behavior. The room was quiet except for Lizzy's vocalizations and the sonorant urgings of Darcy. He held her enveloped in his arms with her back pressed to his chest, steady hands supporting her arms as she pulled on her thighs with each forceful squeeze.

  “Stupendous, Elizabeth!” the poised physician commented. “Keep your legs open, give him room. The baby has turned and is coming! A towel, Mrs. Hanford, quickly! Harder, Elizabeth, do not stop now even if the contraction wanes. Push him out! Lots of hair, oh yes. Ears, nose, mouth… now breathe for a moment, dear, good girl, let me wipe the face, clear the mucus… Now again, Elizabeth! Let's get those broad Darcy shoulders out… the widest part of all… Yes! Here we are… Ha! A boy! Most definitely a boy!”

  George's laugh was lost in the general mayhem bursting forth. Elizabeth collapsed onto her husband, tears of relief and joy springing to weary eyes. Darcy was laughing and crying, eyes glued to the draped knees of his wife while bestowing kisses to her head and hugging so tightly that if she was any more coherent she may have complained. Jane clapped with joy, Mrs. Henderson reached for the thick string to tie about the umbilical cord, Mrs. Reynolds proclaimed the time as 7:59 p.m. and bounced with delight, and Mrs. Hanford wept silently as she observed the initial movements of the newborn.

  All of it was abruptly pierced by the lusty cry of a healthy set of newborn lungs, loudly protesting the overall treatment being inflicted upon him. George lifted the squalling babe glistening with birth fluid and streaks of blood, still partially blue and attached to his mother with forehead wrinkled in consternation and flailing limbs, for his first inspection by adoring and already hopelessly in love parents.

  “Young Master Darcy, meet your mama and papa!” George declared with pride, holding the wailing and utterly irritated and uninterested infant aloft for another few seconds before placing him onto the waiting warm blankets held by Mrs. Hanford and tying the cord. He spoke aloud while attending to the crying infant, “He is perfect. All ten fingers and toes, color pinking nicely, male anatomy as it should be, head a bit pointed but not too bad, ears well formed, mouth intact… oh, good suck already, typical Darcy, instantly demanding nourishment. Here, Mrs. Hanford, take him.”

  Darcy buried his face into Lizzy's hair, body shaking as he sobbed and caressed her arms, hoarsely crooning, “Elizabeth, I love you so! He is beautiful, you are beautiful. Thank you, thank you, thank you… I love you. We have a son. A son! Our son… so amazing, you are amazing…”

  Lizzy clutched his wrists, turning to capture his mouth for a desperately needed kiss. Their eyes met, radiant and overflowing with love. She smiled, kissed him again and then leaned onto his shoulder. “Beloved, go be with him. I want one of us to be near him giving comfort and it must be you. Please?”

  He hesitated, glancing longingly toward the nanny then back to his wife. “I will stay with my sister, Mr. Darcy. Go to your son.”

  “Jane, after the events of today, do you think you may be willing to address me by my Christian name?” Darcy grinned, Jane blushing and lowering her gaze.

  Lizzy laughed softly. “Please, go to Alexander. Kiss him for me.”

  “Of course.” He cupped her face, delivering another lingering kiss before moving away, relinquishing her to Jane's ministering presence.

  Mrs. Hanford and Mrs. Reynolds knelt by the low table situated before the fire on which lay the wiggling babe. His wails continued, currently augmented by the indignity of a bath. Darcy knelt, teary eyes avidly scrutinizing his son.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Darcy. He is beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. May I touch him?”

  “Certainly!” the nanny said with a laugh. “He is yours, after all.”

  Darcy beamed, hand reaching gingerly to stroke one finger over the baby's breastbone. Darcy caught his breath, freshly amazed at the velvet softness, personally never imagini
ng any skin could be softer than his wife's. Laying his entire palm over the sturdy chest of his son, broad hand covering the whole breast and most of the abdomen with fingertips tickling under his chin. The frantic thrashing eased under the firm pressure, Darcy bending to bestow a kiss to the baby's damp forehead.

  “Sweet Alexander, my son. This is your father speaking. That was from your mother, who loves you so very much. This…” and he kissed the downy cheek, “is from me. I also love you, my precious.” He continued the gentle crooning, the baby having calmed at the loving caresses and sound of the familiar voice. Darcy lifted inches to discover a pair of wide, cerulean blue eyes staring at him with studied intensity, tiny creases between the brows.

  Darcy experienced an electrifying jolt rush through his body and his mouth fell open. Alexander, as if by purposeful intent, encountered his father's little finger and wrapped one chubby fist tightly around. Darcy stifled a sob, blinking furiously as the baby remained locked onto his face.

  “He knows you, sir,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “Keep talking to him.”

  He did, voice rough with choking emotion. Alexander's gaze wandered frequently, but inevitably returned to his father's shining visage and brilliant grin. The women worked diligently, cleaning thoroughly over all skin folds and body parts, scrubbing the mass of curly brown hair until lying in silken waves. In between the singsong droning, Darcy closely examined his son.

  Alexander possessed his father's blue eyes but they were larger and rounder than his, like Elizabeth's, and set under a mildly prominent forehead. The nose was not exactly buttoned as Elizabeth's, but not broad and long as his; time would tell how it evolved. The thick eyebrows were totally Darcy's down to the frowning wrinkles and left arch. He did not have his father's chin cleft, but the overall shape was masculine with a sharp jawline. His fingers were long and hands wide, the feet matching in size. In fact his entire body was long and lean with sturdily defined muscles encased by unblemished ruddy skin. Not a single mark marred his flesh, only the mildly misshapen head preventing him from being flawless.