Chapter 10
The chamber was close and warm, heavy with lavender and vinegar.
Kitty lay propped against pillows, her face pale but composed.
Franny sat at her side, cool cloth in hand, dabbing her brow, whispering encouragement in a voice that trembled despite her effort.
Mrs Gardiner stood near the hearth, calm as ever, while Lady Matlock directed the nurses—a general commanding her troops.
Franny’s hand shook each time she returned the cloth to Kitty’s brow. She tried to still it, tried to remember how she had managed her own confinements with only village women at her side. Jane had come quiet into the world, Lizzy less so, wailing like a storm.
Elizabeth would have shouted this house awake, she thought, glancing at Kitty’s tight lips, her remarkable calm. How different her daughter’s ways, yet how alike in courage.
Her eyes flicked to Lady Matlock, upright and unflinching, and she thought of those nights alone at Longbourn, Thomas pacing in the study, never in the chamber with her.
Would she have welcomed him there? She never knew.
But she had longed for a steady presence, someone like Mrs Gardiner now by the fire—serene, capable.
How much easier it would have been with such women about me.
The midwife knew her task. With practised hands and one last effort, Kitty bore her second child into the world.
One nurse cut the cord; another wrapped the babe in a ready blanket.
“A girl, your ladyship,” she said, handing the bundle to the countess. Mrs Gardiner leant close.
Franny leant as well, straining forward before she even realised it. For a moment the baby seemed only a bundle of linen and soft breath. Then Lady Matlock rubbed her back gently, and at last the eyes fluttered open.
Two amethysts glistened above a perfect little nose.
A rush of memory overcame her—Elizabeth at that same instant, dark eyes startling against pale skin, the wild spark that had never dimmed.
She almost spoke it aloud—how very like my Lizzy—but held her tongue.
This was Kitty’s child, not hers. Still, her heart swelled with the same ache: pride, relief, and that sharp terror of how easily joy might be lost.
Mrs Gardiner gasped, turned to her cousin and smiled. “How delightful.”
Franny’s gaze moved from the child to her sister-in-law, and then to the countess who cradled her grand-daughter. She saw the same violet shade repeat itself—once, twice, three times.
She pressed a hand to her lips, wonder rising through her exhaustion.
“Extraordinary,” she whispered.
“And now we are three,” murmured the countess.
Franny kissed Kitty’s damp forehead, then stroked her daughter’s damp hair back from her brow. “And very blessed.”
Lady Matlock turned with the babe. A nurse fell in behind her, already smiling at the precious weight of news to be carried.
Franny kept her place at Kitty’s side. The cloth lay cool upon the brow; Kitty’s lashes rested half-closed, as though the labour had at last released her.
Kitty’s hand lifted from the coverlet, fingers shaping the beginning of a sign Franny knew too well—unwell, or wrong—but the motion faltered halfway and fell back against the sheet.
Then the midwife’s voice changed. Not louder—only sharpened.
“My lady.”
Lady Matlock stopped at once.
A dark spill gathered beneath the sheet, spreading with quiet certainty.
Mrs Gardiner moved from the hearth without a word.
Kitty’s lips parted. Her eyes rolled up. Her head lolled to the side.
The nurses surged in close.
“Send for Mr Burton,” Lady Matlock said.
“Now.”
* * *
Ashdale, July 1820
Langston crouched on a low stone ledge beside the stables, a thick willow branch in his hands and a blade longer than his palm. His tongue peeked between his lips as he worked, carving shallow cuts down the grain, a pattern forming where bark once clung.
Fitzwilliam sat on an overturned crate beside him. The scent of straw, leather, and last night’s rain drifted through the yard.
“Mind the edge.”
Langston nodded.
“Keep the stroke away from your body. Always away.”
The boy adjusted his grip. Fitzwilliam leant closer, watching the flex in his son’s knuckles. “Good lad.”
Ron stood three paces back, arms crossed, silent as ever. Fitzwilliam noted the faint shift of weight with each gust of wind—vigilance masked as stillness.
Langston glanced sideways. “Papa?”
“Yes.”
“Did you use a knife in war?”
“I did.”
“To kill?”
He paused. The blade in his hand suddenly felt heavy. “Yes.”
Langston stared at the wood. “Did it hurt?”
Fitzwilliam gave the smallest nod towards Ron. The sentinel understood, slipping towards the tack room without a word.
The boy shifted his hand, drew another stroke—then cried out. “Dash it!” His knife clattered to the stones. He clutched his thumb to his chest, face white.
Fitzwilliam dropped to one knee. Blood welled beneath Langston’s thumb, quick and red. He pressed a linen square hard against it.
Langston frowned but did not pull away. His chin trembled once, then stilled.
“A good wound,” Fitzwilliam said quietly. “Clean. Deep enough.”
The blood slowed, steady now. “It will need stitching.” He looked up. “Find Burton.”
Ron was already gone.
Fitzwilliam looked down again.
Langston studied his hand like a page in one of his books. His lip quivered, but he did not cry.
Fitzwilliam sat beside him again. “How is the pain?”
“It burns,” Langston whispered. “It will not stop.”
Fitzwilliam brushed his hair back. “It is our body’s way of protecting us.” He pressed his thumb firmly on the slash. Langston flinched, then exhaled through clenched teeth.
“Why did you do that, Papa?”
Fitzwilliam exhaled slowly, relief flooding his senses. He is my son by name and blood.
And he feels pain. Praise the Lord.
A clink of glass. Light footsteps. Kitty appeared, her gown trailing like a pale ripple, a footman behind with a tray of lemonade. She smiled—then saw the blood.
Her whole body changed. She rushed forward, skirts flaring, the servant halting behind her.
Fitzwilliam raised one hand. Halt.
She stopped mid-stride, her eyes on her son.
What happened? she signed—sharp, furious.
“A clean slice. He was careful.”
He is bleeding, her hands trembled. He is seven, Fitzwilliam. Seven.
“He is seven,” Fitzwilliam answered softly. “And now he knows why the edge matters.”
Langston looked up at her, cheeks blotched but dry.
“I am brave,” he said. “Like Papa.”
Kitty closed her eyes, hands falling to her sides. He could see her rage pass—but not the worry.
Fitzwilliam touched her elbow.
“Burton is on his way.”