Epilogue #2
For a long time, Miss Bingley sat in contemplation of the notion. Elizabeth did not think Marianne breathed a single breath throughout. At last, she said, “Afterwards, I think I should like to go to the Continent. People there have a broader view of things.”
“Italy,” Elizabeth suggested. “Or Barcelona. Our musical friends, the Esparzas, might have some suggestions for you or know who could help.”
“Everything would be arranged,” Marianne promised breathlessly. “You would not have to fear for anything.”
The difficulties she had during the birth of her twins had left Elizabeth thinking she was likely unable to conceive another child.
It left her rather wistful—Bennet’s infancy had been fraught by so much anxiety in so many different ways, while the twins left her ill for a time and exhausted for an even longer period.
She always thought, privately, that it would be nice to have just one more child.
Girl or boy, it did not signify, but her heart felt there was one more to be had.
Alexandra Fitzwilliam was born on a fair day in April 1818.
She was a gentle, sweet baby whose looks bespoke her Fitzwilliam heritage.
When they joined the new family at their country seat, Elizabeth fell instantly in love with her, as did Lillian and Saye, who had themselves managed only two boys to that point.
“An heir and a spare,” said Lillian with a cheeky smile at her husband. “Now I need someone to keep me company in the drawing room.”
“I shall take you upstairs right now,” Saye promised with a grin. “Richard, which room should you like us in?”
“None,” said Richard. “And pray do not tease so when my daughter’s ears can hear you.”
Miss Bingley had refused to hold her, would not even look at her. “I cannot do this otherwise,” she said, with a slight tinge of apology in her words. “Eliza, you will understand me.”
And strangely, Elizabeth did. She knew not how her former adversary did it, but Miss Bingley left her bed mere days after the delivery and was on her journey to Italy in only a week or two.
Jane and Bingley received a letter from her some years later, telling them she was married to an Italian nobleman and had a son and two daughters.
They replied to her but heard nothing thereafter.
With all the perverseness of fate, Marianne found herself increasing shortly after Alexandra’s birth. “It will go the way of the others, I am sure,” she told Elizabeth and Lillian. “I just wish I could hurry it up—I am too busy with dear Alexandra to be laid up forever.”
Oddly enough, it did not. One of the midwives Marianne consulted told her that with all her anxiety gone, it likely made her womb more hospitable to the child. Thus it was that Marianne found herself with a son in 1819 and another in 1821. A third son was born in 1825.
Jane and Bingley had five children, as did Lydia.
Kitty had only two before childbed fever nearly killed her.
After that, there were no more for Kitty, though she was content.
Mrs Collins, as she liked to be called, had one well-behaved son and one prim daughter to her credit.
Elizabeth hoped for Mary’s sake that she had barred her husband from her bed.
But for Elizabeth, the elusive child, the one she felt would make them complete, did not come. Years passed, and her fortieth birthday soon loomed.
“Forty!” She exclaimed one day to her husband. “How is it possible?”
She was sitting at her dressing table, staring at a dreadful array of grey hair amongst the arrangement of her curls.
“And still as beautiful as ever,” Darcy proclaimed, bending to kiss her.
“That is always easy for men to say. They do look handsome with some grey at their temples—quite distinguished. Ladies just look…older.”
She supposed she must be glad for, no matter that her waist was thicker and when she smiled, her eyes crinkled too much, Darcy’s ardour had not dimmed a bit.
They often embarrassed their children, particularly Amelia, who at sixteen, found her parents’ delight in one another unseemly.
“I suppose all children are disgusted by imagining their parents in the activity that they know was needed to create them,” said Darcy.
For Elizabeth, it was a peculiar time. Mr and Mrs Bennet had recently passed away within days of one another, and her children needed her less and less.
Bennet was at university, surrounded by dozens of friends, and was in and out of the house like a whirlwind—when he came home at all.
Amelia and Arthur would soon be out. Amelia was already a noted beauty, and with her fortune, Elizabeth was sure she would marry quickly.
With a sigh, she told her mirror, “I daresay, then I just wait for grandchildren.”
As soon as she said it, the odd gassy feeling she lately had been experiencing hit her again.
A strange burble, deep within her—she suspected it was due to eating too much cheese, or perhaps coffee?
She knew not. Rising from her dressing table, the feeling grew stronger, almost as a…
well, it felt very much as it did when she was increasing with the children.
“You know,” she said to her husband as they walked through town later that day. “I have had the most peculiar sensations in my stomach. Almost as though…”
“As though what?”
“Well, it is nothing of course. What could be more unusual than a woman of my years, with three children nearly grown…?”
“What is it you are saying?”
“Nothing. I am saying nothing.” She smiled up at him. “Forget I mentioned it.”
But Darcy would not forget it. He asked about ‘the burble,’ as they called it, over the next few weeks, at last insisting that a midwife be sent for.
“You should not be the first,” the midwife said, tossing a scornful look at Darcy. “Some men never do outgrow their boyhood appetites.”
“Never,” Darcy mouthed silently at Elizabeth, “until I am dead.”
“I do not think I need to tell you what danger comes with a woman of your years having a child.” The midwife then rattled off every possible disagreeable effect of the pregnancy, from fainting spells to death, and stomped away promising to look in on her in a month.
“A baby,” Elizabeth said with no little wonder in her voice.
“A baby,” Darcy confirmed. “But we must keep you healthy. No bulbous veins or unseemly fits for you, my love.”
Besides the unexpected nature of it, Elizabeth’s pregnancy caused her little to complain about. There were raised eyebrows amongst the ton and much slapping of his back from Darcy’s friends, but on the whole, most were happy for them.
Although it had been over sixteen years, when her time came, Elizabeth’s body remembered exactly what to do. The large, squalling girl who arrived—Violette, they decided—was not her easiest delivery, but it was easy enough.
They presented her to her older brothers and sister when Elizabeth felt well enough for everyone to join them in the drawing room upstairs. Bennet was amazed by her, Amelia was entranced, and Arthur thought she was the prettiest of all of them.
Elizabeth was at last contented, looking around her at the handsome, tall people who were kind and of good character. She smiled at her husband, who was telling them all that they needed a family portrait done, and she had but one thought in her mind.
We are at last complete.
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