“He was being a ridiculous arse, he is much nicer when you get to know him. I promise you.”
“I don’t think I want to get to know him,” she pouted stubbornly. “I’m planning on staying out of his way for the next few weeks.”
“That’s a shame,” he grinned. “You got him so riled up that I am convinced he fancies you.”
“He does not.”
“Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”
They sat together on the couch, watching some terrible reality show involving screaming half naked woman and a lot of inflatables. Instinctively she leaned her head against his chest, and he rested his arm around her shoulder.
He nuzzled into her neck, kissing the soft curve between her shoulder and ear gently, and he could smell the warm ginger and cinnamon perfume lingering on his skin. She had worn this for years now, and the merest hint of it sent him careering back through time.
A hundred memories.
A hundred moments.
Lizzy Darcy smelled like home.
1811
The fire had caught just before midnight, silently climbing its way through the entrance hall and up the newly finished grand staircase, catching light to the dried foliage and greenery decorating the banisters, creating a trail of destruction. At the stroke of twelve, Staughton and the other senior male servants ran through the house waking up the residents, leading them to safety and ensuring that all members of the household, regardless of status, were accounted for.
Elizabeth and her family watched in their nightgowns as teams of men from all over the estate formed a bucket brigade to put out the fire. Darcy, his face covered in soot, was at the front – trying to control the flames. At just after midnight, the fire was out; the scorched remains of a medieval tapestry still smouldering in the early hours of St Stephens Day as the toll of the courtyard clock chimed into the night.
Mrs Reynolds organised for the guests to be moved away to rooms in the west wing of the house, the furthest point away from the scene of the fire. As usual she noticed that Mrs Darcy’s mother was on the verge of hysterics and made arrangements for her to be administered with large amounts of brandy and a sedative.
When her husband was confident that the fire was now out, he found Elizabeth in the servants hall, a coachman’s jacket wrapped around her, pouring out small ale for the young men who had helped him to fight the flames. She looked exhausted, he thought. Through all of it, his main concern had been her.
“Is it over now?”
He nodded and, with no regard for decorum, held her close to him, pressed to his heart, in front of anyone who could see, whispering prayers of gratitude that no souls had been lost that day. Darcy was not a particularly religious man, but he decided there and then that God, who had deigned to save all of those most precious to him, was worth thanking indeed.
“The fire is out, but we will have a lot of work to do.”
His face was pensive as he thought about the heat of the flames, the smell of burning wood and paint.
“Lizzy, I think we should go to Grosvenor Square until the baby has arrived.”
“Leave Pemberley?” Her face turned to a frown, “I understand your reason, but I cannot agree.”
“Mrs Darcy,” he said firmly, “I think I must insist.”
“You may be happy travelling to town in the winter, but I most certainly am not. We will stay here until the child arrives.”
“Lizzy…” his voice warned, but she had already crossed her arms against him.
“Fitzwilliam! I will not say another word on it, the baby will be born at Pemberley. At home.”
The youngest Darcy confirmed his agreement with kicks and thuds so fierce that Elizabeth was convinced her son was going to be a great sportsman. She hoped that this boisterous babe was a boy, partially due to Darcy’s innate longing for a son and society’s expectation that she provide an heir as soon as possible, but they had discussed the possibility of a girl and he was similarly delighted at the prospect of a headstrong daughter with fine eyes.
This horrible incident taught Darcy that he was just one person, in a team of slightly over a hundred, who worked tirelessly to ensure that Pemberley continued to thrive and grow. He gave permission for following day to still proceed as the annual day off for his staff and authorised the distribution of the sum of one pound to be paid to each upper servant and 10 shillings each to be paid to the rest.
Mr Staughton, the butler who had been in charge since before Darcy was born, had resisted this, stating that the servants of the house were only doing their duty and that there was no requirement for additional reward outside of their own wages, but Darcy insisted, most adamantly. He knew that, if he had the taste for gambling, he could easily lose that total amount in half an hour on the tables at his club in Bermondsey, but he was aware that this small gift would make a significant difference to the lives of the Pemberley family and he wanted to show his utmost appreciation for their efforts.
It was Twelfth Night, but the annual day of celebration was muted this year. Elizabeth retired early, before dinner, causing a level of concern amongst her husband and Jane, who knew it was most unlike her sister to miss out on any fun, especially when in the company of her father, and she took it upon herself to see how she fared. She gently opened to the door of her sister’s room and saw her sitting up, bedclothes thrown back, the stench of vomit in the air.
“Lizzy,” she exclaimed as she hurried towards where her sister sat in obvious discomfort. “What has happened, what is the matter?”
“Jane,” Elizabeth said pitifully, “there is so much pain. So much, I can’t bear it.”
Mrs Bingley put her arm around her sister, holding her close to her, she was acutely aware of what was happening. Elizabeth’s nightgown was drenched from the waist down, the pallor of her face, the pain radiating through her - Jane knew, from her own experiences, that the eagerly anticipated Darcy baby was preparing to make an appearance.
“Lizzy, it’s time.”
“No,” she exclaimed. “It is too early, it cannot be…”
Her voice took on a wailing tone and she grasped Jane’s hand tightly as the wave of pain came over her again.
“I must call for Fitzwilliam, Lizzy,” she said softly, removing her own hand from her sisters and ringing the bell for attendance. “It’s going to be alright, you have ten times the resilience I have, and I managed perfectly well. I found that if you concentrate as the pain washes over you, you can –”
She was unable to finish as Elizabeth screamed out in agony. Ellen knocked on the door and entered as Jane yelled at her to fetch her master. Even though she was concentrating on the wave of pain as advised, Elizabeth noted that she had never heard Jane yell at anyone before.
Darcy was enjoying a game of billiards with Bingley and Mr Bennet when the under-butler advised that this presence was requested upstairs immediately. As he reached the landing, he could hear his wife, obviously in great amounts of distress; it was so reminiscent of the haunting cries of his own mother that he felt immediately nauseous fearing the worst. He paused for a moment before recovering his composure and entering the room.
“Is it now? But you said February… surely this is too early, is it too early?” he pleaded with Jane for confirmation.
“They say that it is not an exact science…” she reassured. “But for the sake of Lizzy and the baby, you need to call for your doctor or ask the servant girls if they know of a local woman who can get here quickly.”
Darcy was holding onto her so tightly, helping her move and breathe and tolerate this immense pain. It was almost as if she was being wrenched in two, and she did not know how she would bear it.
“Lizzy, what can I do?”
His brow creased, and he looked scared half to death.
“Just stay, please. I need you here.”
Ellen came in with hot water and clean linens, she placed them next to her master and observed her mistress writhing uncomfortably on the bed. E
lizabeth’s maid was a girl of not quite twenty, but she had seen this before and she wanted to help. Mrs Darcy was always kind to her – treating her with a great respect and appreciating the work that she did – and Ellen was grateful to have a senior position with the family when most girls her age were working as under maids. Being the oldest of seven in a household that could not afford a doctor, Ellen had seen her share of births and she knew that she could make it easier for her mistress, could even deliver the babe if she needed to.
“Excuse me, Mr Darcy,” she said hesitantly. “Please forgive me if I speak out of turn, but Mrs Darcy needs to stand. It will help.”
Darcy nodded; he did not know why he was trusting the advice of a servant in the matters of childbirth, but he felt so helpless that any assistance was well-received. They helped Elizabeth to her feet, Darcy supporting the weight of her on his shoulder, her legs buckled again as her body shuddered with the intensity of another contraction and, as she cried out in pain, Ellen could see tears of fear and frustration running down her master’s face.
They had been in this room for what felt like hours now; the yellow walls and heavy drapes felt like they were closing in on him and he felt claustrophobic with panic. He had taken a seat and a shot of brandy as he watched Ellen press cold flannels to Elizabeth’s forehead and whisper words of encouragement. He understood now why men were not usually present during the birth of their offspring; not because of decency, but because this was horrifying – any man subjected to this would surely never want to impregnate his wife ever again and he sincerely hoped that his wife would be happy with just the one child.
“Mr Darcy, the baby is nearly here,” Ellen prompted. “You need to get Mrs Darcy to push when I say.”
“Push?”
“Yes! Stand there,” she said pointing to the head of the bed. “When I say push,” she said to Elizabeth. “You need to push, Mrs Darcy. You need to push really hard.”
Elizabeth nodded, taking her hand in his she squeezed it tightly, looking in his eyes for confirmation that all would be well. He was scared witless but trying to hide it.
“Mr Darcy! NOW!!”
Fitzwilliam Edward, named for his father and grandfather, entered the world three weeks early, screaming loudly as if announcing his arrival. The quick delivery of their son had astonished both Darcy and Elizabeth, but despite being perfect in the eyes of his parents, there was nothing to hide the fact that he was incredibly tiny and at least a month early, indeed Ellen had never seen a baby so small, and she swaddled him in cotton and blankets to keep him warm on this cold January night.
“He will be alright, Mr Darcy, sir,” she said as she passed the boy to his father. “He is strong.”
He looked down at the small pink bundle; how was it possible that someone so tiny could change your entire world.
“My son has the Darcy countenance, don’t you think?”
“Master Darcy is a very handsome boy, sir.”
He held tightly to the newest member of his family. He was Papa now. Elizabeth beamed at him from the bed and he walked over, gently placing the baby in her arms.
“Look what you have made,” the love and wonder in his voice was evident.
“Who we made.”
She seemed so vulnerable and so unlike his normal resilient Elizabeth that he felt a sudden rush of tenderness and feeling, wishing that he could hold her inside his heart and keep her there forever. Master Fitzwilliam Darcy was tiny; barely bigger than a pup, but he would be strong, and he would be loved beyond measure. Elizabeth gazed at her husband with a look that he had never seen before; it was the contented love of a new mother. She nuzzled into him and he kissed her gently as they gazed at the pink perfection of their baby for a long time.
Darcy went downstairs to inform the waiting party of the arrival of his son and heir to discover that everyone had gone to bed; excepting his sister, who was uncomfortably asleep and perched on a chair, and Bingley and Jane who were asleep on couch, their heads resting on each other in a display of comfortable matrimony. Internally he scolded himself for ever doubting the sincerity of Jane’s affections towards his friend. They were the most content and amiable couple that he had ever had the pleasure of spending time with and he delighted in seeing Bingley so happy in his marriage.
He walked over and poured himself a glass of port – it had felt like a long night, however, after checking the clock on the mantelpiece he could see that it was a little after 3am. The whole process had taken just over six hours, and in that time, he had become a father. It was an exceptional feeling, and one that he felt overwhelmed by. For all his emotional reticence in public, or in the presence of strangers, Fitzwilliam Darcy was a passionate and caring man who loved his wife, his sister and now his son to levels of extreme. Standing at the window, looking down on to the snow scattered lawn, he shed a small, significant tear of happiness for his fortunate position in life.
Jane was the first to hold Master Fitzwilliam and declared him absolutely perfect, followed by his Aunt Georgiana, who promised, after observing his long fingers, that she would teach him how to play pianoforte to such a high standard that he would be the most accomplished gentleman in England, as well as being the most handsome. Mrs Bennet found herself predisposed to grand-motherhood, much more so than raising her own children.
“Of course, it is much easier to enjoy your children when you both have such generous incomes.”
Jane subtly rolled her eyes at Lizzy, who offered her son to her mother to hold. Mrs Bennet admired the tiny boy who was wrapped in cotton, his brand-new features visible for the world.
“He looks very much like Mr Darcy, does he not, Lizzy? Yes, he will do very well indeed.”
Maybe it was the way his Grandmama looked at him, or the way she held him, but Fitzwilliam began to scream and there was no comforting him. Mrs Bennet passed him back to his mother, who removed him to the nursery.
“Well,” the older lady harrumphed. “Did you ever see a child so spoiled?”
“Jane! Come and look!”
Georgiana Darcy was beside herself with excitement as she witnessed Charlotte Bingley sitting up on the floor completely unsupported.
Her mother arrived too late, and the baby fell over, crying out as her face landed on the chenille rug. Jane laughed and gathered the child up into her embrace, whilst Georgiana was mortified.
“I am so sorry, Jane,” she apologised. “That was all my fault.”
“Not to worry, a little falling over hurt no-one, and Charlotte is perfectly alright. Do not concern yourself, Georgie, you did nothing wrong.”
Jane and Elizabeth were discussing their mutual plans to visit Hertfordshire for Mary’s wedding the following month. It was also decided that the Darcys alone would call to visit their Aunt De Bourgh and take the newest family member to be introduced to their formidable relative.
“I must say, Lizzy, you are very brave to visit Lady Catherine,” Jane stated, whilst sipping tea and rocking Charlotte on her knee.
Elizabeth smiled mischievously as she reached for a lemon biscuit, “why not at all, Jane. I find that Lady Catherine is a very pleasing sparring partner once one has married into the family and already polluted the shades of Pemberley.”
Mrs Bingley laughed at her sister’s good humour; she did not envy Lizzy for the visit – Lady Catherine terrified her, and her first meeting with the noble mistress of Rosings Park had left her stomach in knots. Georgiana too felt similarly wary of her Aunt and her sudden demands for attention and gratification; it was because of this that she asked Jane if she were able to reside with the Bingleys for the duration of the Darcy visit to Kent to which Jane kindly obliged, the younger Darcy lady content that her remaining time away from Pemberley would be spent in their happy home.
After their wedding, which Lady Catherine had refused to attend, Elizabeth had taken it upon herself to make amends with her husband’s relative, accompanying Georgiana whenever she was summoned to Kent and eventually charming the s
elf-appointed family matriarch with her steady wit and restrained flattery. Darcy had refused to make amends with the lady after her treatment of his betrothed and his refusal to yield had maddened his wife to the point of exasperation.
“Kitty,” Georgiana rose from the settee, “would you care to accompany me in a duet?”
“Only if I can play, Georgie!” Kitty had recently become much improved, “I received some new music today from Mr Worthing and I am eager to hear it.”
“Mr Worthing?” Georgiana whispered excitedly as the two women walked across the drawing room, and through to the hall, “has he been writing to you again?”
Kitty nodded, blushing a deep pink; Georgiana took her by the arm, and they disappeared out of earshot for private chat and secret sharing.
“Well, I am happy that we are all so fortunate to be together after a tumultuous few days,” Mary stated, in a bold new voice that she had been practicing and everyone agreed that, for once, she was completely accurate in her assertions.
Darcy was in the nursery, his waistcoat removed, his cravat loosened, his shirt pulled loose, his boots off, and he was sitting in the rocking chair in his stockinged feet, cradling his son in his arms whilst simultaneously telling him an incredible story of pirates and shipwrecks.
Fitzwilliam cooed at his father, which caused him to smile to himself. The boy was getting stronger every day, the frightening nature of his early birth assuaged by his good-tempered nature. He was, Darcy thought, the most amenable child that he had the fortune to meet, and he counted himself very fortunate that he belonged to him.
“You can put him down, you know.”
Elizabeth was standing at the doorway, dressed for dinner, her new Darcy Pearls necklace shimmering at her throat.
“I don’t think I want to.”
“You must, for we have guests and you are half-dressed,” she walked over and ruffled his hair. “Don’t let becoming a Papa make you forget your obligations.”
Becoming Lady Darcy Page 8
