Once, My Dear #2
With Georgiana and Mary remaining with Lady Matlock for the Season, Darcy had retained a live-in pianist to attend her during the term.
Across the room, Miss Margaret Somerville sat with perfect posture at the pianoforte, her fingers moving with graceful precision through the opening bars of The Holly and the Ivy. The melody, light and familiar, drifted through the chamber like a lullaby caught in snow.
Elizabeth smiled faintly, her eyelids heavy.
“Does the music please you, Mrs. Darcy?”
Elizabeth, half-drowsing, blinked languidly. “Very well, Miss Somerville. You play beautifully.”
The younger woman inclined her head, accepting the compliment without false modesty. “Your husband was most particular in his choice of instrument,” she said, letting her fingers drift idly over the keys. “It is finer than any I have played before.”
Elizabeth’s lips curled slightly. “Yes, well- Mr. Darcy does nothing by halves.”
A faint smile touched Miss Somerville’s lips, but she did not comment further. She turned again to the keyboard, this time slipping into a sonata by Herr Beethoven. The adagio movement lulled the chamber into hush, each note falling like snow against the windowpanes.
The child within stirred -not with gentle nudges, but with something deeper, more insistent. A low warmth gathered at the base of her spine.
Not yet, she told herself. It is too soon.
Miss Somerville’s gaze flickered toward her, the barest hint of curiosity in her eyes.
“Shall I play something softer?”
“Perhaps something from Mr. Clementi.”
A moment later, the delicate strains of a sonatina filled the room -a melody light as lace, utterly untroubled by storm or season.
But Elizabeth’s body told another tale.
The pains had begun -not sharp, but steady, like the Brighton tide pulling away from shore only to return, stronger, each time. She drew a slow breath, palm pressed firm against her abdomen. Be still, little one. Your time will soon come.
Another pain lanced through her. She clenched her teeth.
The music faltered; the soft notes of heaven quivered -then faded into silence.
“Mrs. Darcy?”
Elizabeth forced a smile. “It is nothing.”
The wind howled. The window panes rattled. A log split in the hearth with a sharp crack. Embers fell like sparks from heaven.
Her father entered. He looked between her and the pianist, then settled back upon her.
“Where is your husband?”
“Is something amiss, Papa?” Elizabeth parted her lips to ask -but another, more forceful pain struck. She grunted to keep from crying out.
She counted silently until it passed.
“He is on the upper floors,” she said at last. “He wished to inspect for damage before the storm grows worse.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. “A sound choice.” But his frown lingered. “I presume he did not go alone?”
“I believe he took several footmen. There was concern about the eaves and the attics. He feared loose tiles.”
“A fool’s errand in such weather, but it is like him to ensure the house remains afoot.” Mr. Bennet noted Elizabeth’s face, drawn tight with effort.
“I would have him here now,” he muttered, half to himself.
***
Elizabeth’s breath caught as another pain gripped her. This one did not pass so quickly.
A sudden warmth surged beneath her, soaking her through before she had fully registered what had happened. A sharp, breathless moment of realization -then the pain returned, deeper, more insistent.
She touched the wetness beneath. “Papa?”
Mr. Bennet leant forward. “I believe the babe means to come.”
A silence fell -thick and heavy as the snow outside.
Elizabeth’s face paled. “But… what am I to do without Jane?”
Mr. Bennet helped her rise.
There remained no choice. He rang a small bell. A footman appeared at once.
“Mistress?”
“Ask Merritt to join us.”
He bowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
The door did not quite slam as he departed, but his boots beat a heavy staccato upon the marble floors.
“Calm my fears, Papa.”
Mr. Bennet squeezed her hand. “Be thankful your mother chose Jane’s side for this ordeal.”
Elizabeth laughed aloud -then groaned.
Mr. Bennet felt helpless.
“Pray, recount your favourite birth tale. Who among us was the easiest to come forth?”
He chuckled. “I regret to say that it holds true to this day. Your sister Jane entered this world with the same placid grace that marks her still.”
“You were present? In the room?”
“I was. You know full well I am a connoisseur of novelty.”
Elizabeth slapped his arm.
Mrs. Reynolds arrived with Merritt, who took Elizabeth’s right arm; her left was now enclosed in her father’s two capable hands.
The trio proceeded to the birthing suite. Slowly.
“And what of me, Papa? Did I arrive with all the expected drama? Did I cry?”
Bennet eased her into a chair as Mrs. Reynolds disappeared through the inner door.
He kissed her forehead.
“Once, my dear.”
***
The house stirred like a hive. Mrs. Reynolds issued orders with the authority of a battlefield general -hot water, warmed blankets, more firewood.
A scullery maid tended the great copper kettles, ensuring an endless supply of boiling water.
A footman, arms laden with fresh bedding, dashed through the corridor.
Another oversaw the stacking of logs beside every hearth.
In the kitchen, Cook prepared chicken and beef broth.
An hour passed. Then another.
The household kept at its work. Mrs. Reynolds oversaw the heating of water, the gathering of linens, and the fortification of the infirmary.
Mr. Bennet remained close, eyes moving between Elizabeth, the door, and a folded newssheet. His presence steadied her. She reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Darcy should have returned by now.”
Mr. Bennet glanced up. “I daresay he should have.”
“Surely even he would not tarry this long.”
Mr. Nathaniel Reynolds entered, his posture stiff, though his eyes -so like his aunt’s- betrayed concern. “Begging pardon, ma’am, but-”
Mr. Bennet’s brows lifted. “Yes?”
“Mr. Darcy is… delayed.”
A hush fell over the room. Elizabeth turned, her voice thin. “What has happened?”
Reynolds glanced between them, clearly reluctant. “It is the attic, madam. The entryway collapsed- just as the master passed through. The storm must have weakened the beams. The door frame came down, blocking their exit.”
She gasped. “Is he injured?”
“No, ma’am. But they are trapped inside. The men are working to clear the debris, but the structure is unstable. They must shore up the beams before removing the rubble -or more could fall.”
Elizabeth’s breath quickened, her pain momentarily forgotten. “How long will it take?”
“Hours, ma’am.”
***
Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Bennet stood in the infirmary’s sitting room, their voices low.
“Mrs. Darcy is in a difficult way.”
“What are you saying?” Mr. Bennet asked.
“She labours hard. With little progress to show.”
“What are you saying?” he repeated.
Mrs. Reynolds looked grim. “Our tenant wives have mostly untroubled births, as they are active.”
“Lizzy is very active.”
“For an estate mistress, she is. But Mrs. Darcy is not a common woman.”
Mr. Bennet almost smiled at the unintended poetry of it. But he knew she meant it in all seriousness.
“Where is the accoucheur?”
“Monsieur Laurent would have arrived long ago, if not for the storm. He would know better than me.”
Mr. Bennet gestured for her to continue. “Yet-”
“I am no expert,” Mrs. Reynolds replied. “But the babe has not turned.”
***
Mr. Bennet stood by the hearth, outwardly unruffled, though the faint flicker of firelight did little to warm the cold pit in his stomach. Elizabeth was strong -had always been. But even the strongest were not spared the dangers of childbed.
Fanny had nearly died with Lydia.
The memory stirred unease. He forced it aside.
Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and assumed a mien of calm he did not feel.
Elizabeth required more than comfort. She required experience.
A thought -errant and unwelcome- surfaced.
Barrow.
Mr. Bennet stiffened.
The notion was absurd. A stable master attending the mistress of Pemberley? His mind recoiled.
Then hesitated.
The man had delivered foals and calves with skill unmatched by any surgeon.
Was it so different?
His reason whispered against it -impropriety, scandal. But instinct, raw and unyielding, pressed otherwise.
He exhaled slowly, decision settling in his bones.
“Needs must,” he murmured.
His conscience settled like a stone -but if it saved Elizabeth, the weight was worth bearing.
Mr. Bennet poked his head out into the hall. A footman turned to him.
“Yes, Mr. Bennet?”
“Send for Barrow.”
The footman marched off.
Mr. Bennet returned to Mrs. Reynolds.
“I shall remain here. I am sure you have other matters to address at this time.”
She looked as though she might object, but he waved her off.
Better not to have a witness.
Minutes later, a knock sounded on the door. Reynolds entered.
He bowed.
“Sir, as requested, the stable master has come.”
“Where is he?”
“He remains in the kitchen.”
Mr. Bennet raised his eyebrows. “By someone else’s direction?”
“No, sir. He will not enter the manor proper.”
Mr. Bennet’s brows furrowed. “Does he know I requested his presence?”
“He does, sir.”
“Why is he not here?”
“He says he is not presentable, sir.”
“Huh,” Mr. Bennet grunted. “I believe the stable master requires persuasion of a different sort.”
Mr. Bennet, followed by Reynolds, entered the kitchen. The air swam with the aroma of broth mixed with steam. Pots full of boiling water crowded the stove.
Barrow stood beside the large cutting table, gnarled hat in hand.
The stable master was a man of grizzled years, his face worn by wind and toil.
His coat, though thick, bore patches of wear, and his boots, caked in mud and ice, told of a life spent in the barns, not in the refinement of Pemberley’s halls.
Snow dusted his collar, and his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, flickered between Mr. Bennet and the threshold he refused to cross.