Once, My Dear
Barry S. Richman
Derbyshire
Mrs. Snow fell in measured silence over the Derbyshire Peaks, a short precursor to a world soon muffled in a white hush.
Pemberley, proud and stately, stood watch as the storm gathered.
Smoke curled steadily from its chimneys, the hearths within already kindled against the cold.
Yet in the stillness of its halls, a quiet anticipation took root -something waited.
By nightfall, the house would no longer sleep.
***
The previous day…
The journey had been slow and treacherous.
The carriage rocked unsteadily along the winding road to Pemberley, its wheels crunching over the hardened snow.
Inside, Darcy sat beside Elizabeth, whose hand rested lightly on the roundness of her belly, her expression serene despite the discomfort of travel.
Across from them, Barty and Merritt, valet and abigail, spoke only in hushed tones, their eyes drawn not to their employers but to the frost-rimed hills and black-boughed trees slipping past the window.
The reason for their journey had not been for Elizabeth's sake but for Jane’s. Bingley had purchased Highmore Hall, a neighbouring estate.
Their first child had arrived four days prior -a daughter, strong in lungs and spirit.
They had named her Elizabeth Jane, though Bingley already called her his little Beth.
Elizabeth had insisted on their presence, convinced that her own confinement lay weeks ahead. The accoucheur had assured them the Darcy babe would not arrive until well after the new year, and thus they had braved the journey, despite the gathering storm.
Mrs. Bennet had refused to return to Pemberley. The moment Jane's cries of pain began, she took to her salts and her bed, lamenting the misfortunes of childbirth spoken of with theatrical fervour.
Kitty had remained in Meryton with Aunt Philips. The new vicar had sought her hand, and she had assured their father the days preceding the February nuptials would be marked by the utmost propriety. If only Lydia had been of the same mind.
It fell to their father to represent the family at Pemberley, as the Bennet parents -both expecting grandchildren in the same month- had better, in his words, ‘divide and conquer’.
He had departed one day earlier, a bemused fare-thee-well communicated from atop a borrowed horse.
Across from them, Barty cleared his throat. “Sir, a word -if you please.”
Darcy arched a brow. “Now?”
Barty inclined his head, glancing at Elizabeth, who merely smiled, indulgent of the valet’s perpetual attentiveness. “I would not trouble you, but the matter of the attics remains unresolved. The inspection was meant to have been completed a week ago.”
Darcy exhaled through his nose. “The beams?”
“Aye, sir. The men set braces where they could, but the far eaves required further assessment. The storm shall test their strength.”
Elizabeth murmured against his shoulder. “You must see to it before the worst of the weather arrives.”
Darcy studied her face, noting the exhaustion beneath her serenity. “I shall handle it in due course.”
Barty tilted his head, skeptical. “With all due respect, sir, I should rather you handle it before the nursery’s ceiling becomes part of the floor.”
Merritt, who had thus far remained silent, pursed her lips. “Perhaps not the most reassuring image, Mr. Bartholomew.”
Barty merely shrugged.
Darcy nodded. “Very well, Mr. Bartholomew. When we arrive, I shall see to the attics first. Before we dine.”
Barty leaned back with practiced ease, the corner of his mouth twitching in that familiar, almost imperceptible way. He always bristled at Bartholomew -though he bore it in silence, as if martyrdom suited him. “A prudent decision, sir.”
Elizabeth made a sleepy sound of agreement. “Do not linger, husband. I shall miss you.”
Darcy kissed her temple, inhaling the scent of lavender lingering in her hair. “I shall not be long.”
Outside, the storm gathered strength, the wind now howling through the trees.
The senior gardener, Hayes, stood at the head of the last bend in the road. As ancient as the Spanish chestnuts lining the final stretch to Pemberley House, he had seen many winters, but his expression betrayed deep concern.
Darcy rapped on the carriage frame. When they rolled to a stop, he lowered the window. “Hayes, how fares the estate?”
Hayes did not immediately turn, his focus still locked on the distant mountains. He rolled his shoulders under his heavy coat. “It’ll be the devil, young master. The very devil, I says.”
Darcy followed his gaze. An oppressive mist curled over the peaks like a shroud. That bodes ill tidings.
“Take care, Hayes.”
The gardener finally looked at him, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. “Fortify the manor, sir. Right quick, I’se says.”
Darcy signalled the driver to continue. As the carriage rolled forward, Elizabeth shifted beside him. “He is rarely one for dramatics.”
Darcy embraced her tightly. She snuggled deeper into him. “No, he is not.”
***
Their carriage rounded the final curve and crunched slowly across the front drive. Footmen flung open Pemberley’s great doors before the vehicle had come to a full stop.
Lantern light spilled gold upon the marble steps.
Darcy descended first, boots sinking into the snow. He turned and offered his hand to Elizabeth.
She took it with a soft smile -then shrieked as he swept her into his arms. Laughing, she nestled against him while he carried her briskly up the steps.
Inside, warmth embraced them. The scent of beeswax, pine and evergreen lingered in the air.
Boughs, bright with holly berries and scarlet ribbon, wound the stair rail in celebration of Christmas.
A sprig of mistletoe crowned the entryway.
Brass sconces glowed on the walls, their candlelight illuminating polished wood and stone.
Mrs. Reynolds approached at once.
“Welcome home, sir. Ma’am. All is prepared. Fires lit in every chamber.”
Darcy nodded his thanks. “Is there aught to report?”
“Nothing beyond the storm’s mischief. The necessary footmen await your direction.”
He glanced toward the main stairs. “Very good. I shall inspect the attics before dinner.”
“And Mrs. Darcy?”
Elizabeth answered for herself. “I will take tea in the music room. Merritt, you are to attend me.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Barty appeared from the shadows near the hearth. “Sir. If you would follow me.”
Darcy pressed a kiss to Elizabeth’s gloved hand. “I shall return before the tea cools.”
“That depends entirely on the attics, does it not?”
***
Below stairs, a knot of young footmen and maids huddled near the windows, their breath fogging the glass as they watched the storm consume the world beyond.
The snow did not fall in flakes but in dense, unrelenting sheets, turning the horizon white in a manner none had seen before.
The Peaks had vanished, the trees bowed under a heavy burden, and the wind howled through the eaves like a restless spirit.
“It ain’t natural,” whispered a maid, clutching her shawl tighter.
“The Lord’s anger,” murmured another, her voice low. “Did you not hear of the storm of ’97? Old Mrs. Tilley says the trees snapped like twigs and a child was stillborn at Highmore Hall.”
“Enough of that,” Mrs. Reynolds said briskly. “There is work to be done, and I will not tolerate foolishness. Pemberley has stood against many a storm, and today is no different. Off with you. All of you.”
The servants scattered, though the murmurs of dread did not fade entirely. The fires roared high. Shadows flickered on the walls. The wind outside rattled doors, whistled through keyholes, and, in many an imagination, shook the very bones of the great house.
***
Upstairs, Elizabeth Darcy sat by the blazing hearth in the music-room, her hands caressing the mountain her belly had become.
The faint scent of beeswax and cinnamon drifted on the warm air -festive remnants of a household readied for Christmas.
Herr Beethoven’s sonata lulled her into a welcome state of ennui, each note drifting through the air like the falling snow. The child within had been restless all day, but she had not spoken of it. It was Christmas Eve, and she would not burden her husband with unnecessary concern.
Darcy had done more than any man should.
While in town, as she had increased during the pre-summer months, he had secured the famed accoucheur Monsieur Jacques Laurent.
The refined gentleman had seen what lay ahead for his homeland and escaped Paris three years prior. His reputation amongst the first circles guaranteed him respect, even at the height of the Napoleonic War.
At their first rendez-vous, he had offered pamphlets from the Maternité de Port-Royal and the école de Sages-Femmes -papers written by French physician Jean-Louis Baudelocque. She had read the informational reports of forceps delivery and pelvimetry.
He had also prescribed music as a balm for confinement. Mary and Georgiana had leapt at the notion. The music room at Darcy House became a ceaseless recital under their eager hands.
“We two aunts shall ever be remembered by our future niece or nephew as the relations that brought music to their ear.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth had replied. “This child shall have an appreciation of music unlike any other.”
“Including Lady Catherine?” Darcy asked drolly.
Three hands covered three mouths to hide their mirth.
“Should we consider a Parisian confinement?”
Darcy had shaken his head. “As much as I would like to grant you this wish, the estate -the county- demand the heir be born in Derbyshire.”
She had smiled. He had not understood her jest. He took it instead as a call to action.
Upon their return to Pemberley, Darcy led her to a renovated games parlour. That masculine space had become two rooms -a birthing suite and a sitting chamber. The infirmary rivalled a Parisian hospital in its modernity. Elizabeth had followed his narration with fascination.