Once, My Dear #3
Mr. Bennet, ever patient, stepped forward, hands behind his back. “Barrow.”
“Mr. Bennet.”
“You have been summoned for good reason.”
“Aye,” Barrow replied, his voice rough as weathered leather. “But I be not fit for the master’s house.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps not for the drawing room. But this is no time for propriety. This is a matter of life.”
“I know of no dogs in the manor.”
“That is true. We have no bitches waiting to birth a dozen whelps.”
“Then, what? Sir.”
“We have a mistress struggling to birth the heir.”
Barrow’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “I know the ways of beasts, sir. Not gentlefolk.”
“Barrow, tonight, the mistress is but another creature of nature.”
Barrow stiffened.
“And nature does not wait for propriety.”
Barrow’s jaw flexed. Then, with a stiff nod, he stepped into Pemberley for the first time.
Mr. Bennet led him through the entry hall, where they encountered Mrs. Reynolds. She took one look at Barrow and froze, eyes wide with disbelief.
“What are you doing, Mr. Bennet?” she demanded, aghast.
“Saving a life. Two lives, preferably.”
Her lips pressed into a firm line. “The stable master cannot tend to the mistress.”
“Why ever not?”
“He delivers foals and calves, not babes.”
Mr. Bennet remained unperturbed. “We have few choices at this point.”
“It is not proper. It cannot be done.”
Barrow shifted on his feet and turned as if to retreat. Mr. Bennet caught his arm. “It can be done. Why do you say it cannot?”
Mrs. Reynolds bristled. “He is not presentable.”
Mr. Bennet exhaled in relief. “Oh, is that your only concern?”
“It is.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Bennet turned swiftly to a footman. “Summon Mr. Bartholomew.”
The footman blinked. “Who?”
“Mr. Darcy’s valet.”
“Oh- Barty!” The footman dashed off, vanishing up the stairs.
Mr. Bennet rolled his eyes. The mighty Pemberley. Ha!
When Barty returned, he surveyed the group with a knowing glance. “Mr. Bennet. Mrs. Reynolds. What has brought Barrow to these hallowed halls?”
Barrow dipped his head. “Ask Mr. Bennet.”
Barty folded his arms. “What do you require, Mr. Bennet?”
Mr. Bennet gestured to Barrow. “Make him a gentleman. You have an hour. Less would be best.”
***
A loud commotion in the hall preceded a burst of cold air. The sitting room door swung open, and Darcy strode in, his face grim and dust-streaked. His coat was torn, his cravat missing, and his hair was damp with sweat and melted snow.
“Elizabeth-” He nearly collided with Mr. Bennet. “Good heavens, I-” His voice faltered as his gaze landed on the closed door of the infirmary suite.
“Peace, Darcy. All is in hand.”
Darcy stared at the door as if he could bore holes through it. “Forgive me. I would have been here sooner had not-”
The birthing suite door cracked open. Merritt poked her head out. “Mr. Bennet, where is-” She stopped short. Her expression shifted. She stepped fully into the room and pulled it closed behind her.
“Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied.
“How fares Mrs. Darcy?” he asked.
Merritt glanced at Mr. Bennet. “We await aid, sir.”
Darcy looked between them, his countenance stern. “Will someone have the goodness to explain what, precisely, is afoot?”
At that moment, the sitting room door opened. Mrs. Reynolds entered first, trailed by a well-dressed gentleman. Barty, last, hovered near the threshold, arms folded, eyes dancing.
The visitor appeared aged, distinguished, and capable -every inch a seasoned professional. Relief flooded Darcy’s face as he stepped forward.
“Thank you for making the arduous journey, doctor.”
Barrow’s eyes widened. He shot a look at Mr. Bennet, his expression a mix of astonishment and alarm writ plain. Mr. Bennet merely winked.
Mrs. Reynolds, still visibly uncertain, wrung her hands, then stepped forward. “This way, sir. The mistress and heir await.”
She beckoned. Barrow hesitated -but only briefly- then followed her into the chamber.
The door closed.
Darcy continued to stare at it.
Mr. Bennet braced for reproach. He had wagered Elizabeth’s life -and the child’s- on a notion. Instinct dressed as reason. A dangerous gamble, one no rational man would easily forgive.
Darcy’s standards, as both a husband and a man of consequence, would not suffer such recklessness.
Yet, when his gaze lifted, his eyes -though questioning- held no blame, only gratitude.
Still, Mr. Bennet remained wary. He knew Darcy would soon suspect the tale held more artifice than truth. To forestall the inevitable inquisition, he gestured at the torn coat and muddied boots.
“You cannot meet your child in such a state.”
Darcy blinked. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Mr. Bennet’s voice softened, just enough to betray his heart. “It is Christmas Eve. Dress as a father ought.”
***
Darcy stood before the looking glass; hands braced on either side of the washbasin. The storm howled beyond the great house, rattling the windowpanes. Barty had scrubbed the dust from his skin, replaced his ruined garments, and yet -the ache in his chest remained.
I should have been there.
His reflection did not waver, though his breath had. With deliberate care, he extended his arms to allow Barty to fasten his cufflinks, smooth his waistcoat, and tie his cravat.
He would not let Elizabeth see his fear.
***
Mr. Bennet exhaled. Another skirmish averted. For now.
Thirty minutes later, the truce shattered.
A pristine Darcy swept into the sitting room, suspicion bright in his eyes.
“How, pray, did the doctor brave the snow?” He held out his hand palm up, forefinger extended.
“The roads are impassable.” He added a second finger.
“The snow is undisturbed.” Then his thumb -three fingers displayed.
“By what means did the doctor arrive?” Darcy’s eyes narrowed as he continued. “He did not fly in.”
Mr. Bennet, his expression untroubled, folded his hands behind his back. “No, he walked.”
“That is not possible.”
“It is- from the stable.” Mr. Bennet kept his countenance as Darcy’s face shifted -confusion, shock, disbelief… and then suspicion.
A silent moment passed.
Then another.
“No! Surely someone else-”
Mr. Bennet interrupted him. “Who? Tell me -who else in this house has brought life into the world? Barrow has done it a hundred times. More than any of us can claim.”
Darcy’s voice was sharp. “It is no time for your sportive nature.”
Mr. Bennet did not flinch. “Where my Lizzy is concerned, I never make sport.”
Darcy’s face assumed a mask of hauteur, something Mr. Bennet had not seen since they first encountered each other in Meryton two long years past.
“You are willing to wager two very precious lives -on a stable master?”
Mr. Bennet placed a firm hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “I am willing to save them however I may.”
Darcy dropped the mask. His shoulders sagged. He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand.
He straightened, nodded once, and walked off without a word.
***
Inside the chamber, Barrow took in the sight of the mistress of Pemberley struggling on the birthing bed. Elizabeth, although in constant pain, focused on the unfamiliar figure standing before her.
She inhaled sharply, trying to steady her breath. “Who- who is this gentleman?”
Mrs. Reynolds hesitated. She noted the subtle shift in the stable master’s stance -the quiet confidence of a man who had delivered life countless times. His weathered hands, steady and sure, betrayed no unease.
This was familiar ground to Barrow.
She adjusted the pillows behind Elizabeth. “He is here to help, ma’am.”
Elizabeth groaned, another pain wracking through her. “That is not an answer. Who is he?”
The gentleman seemed uncertain.
“You are not known to me. I do not know you.”
Mrs. Reynolds pursed her lips. “He is…” Her gaze flickered toward Elizabeth, hesitation shadowing her otherwise composed features. “…well-versed in such matters.”
Elizabeth stared at him. Intently. No! It cannot be. “Mr. Barrow? Is that you?”
Barrow dipped his head. “Aye, ma’am.”
Her breath hitched. Another contraction began. She panted through it, eyes closed. Blessedly, it ended.
“What? How? Who?”
“Mr. Bennet, ma’am.”
Elizabeth let out a deep, shuddering breath. Her body trembled with exertion. A pained moan escaped her lips as another contraction surged through her. Through gritted teeth, she exhaled.
“Of course -my father.”
Mr. Barrow turned to Merritt. “What have we here?”
“The babe will not come,” Merritt said softly.
“If it be like a calf, there be times they must be shifted. Turn them just so. A foal must be guided, not forced.”
I will get my retribution, Papa. What am I? A bred heifer? A brood mare?
What followed was unseemly by any genteel measure, but necessity brooked no objection.
Elizabeth closed her eyes.
Merritt’s fingers laced with hers -steady, strong. She recognised the grip. Knew the quiet strength behind it.
The linen shift had been drawn up. She heard cloth rustle, felt movement around her, but saw nothing. Cold air whispered across her bared belly.
Then -hands. Unfamiliar. Broad. Deliberate.
They pressed upon her swollen abdomen. Firm. Sure.
Discomfort bloomed. Then pain.
She gritted her teeth.
More pressure. A shift. A pinch. One hand braced low. Another pressed high.
Something within her turned -pulled- like a corset in reverse.
She cried out. The ache consumed her.
Fingers palpated her belly.
Then -relief. Sudden, blessed relief. A loosening. A lightness.
A voice reached her through the fog -low, calm, resolute.
“Mistress, when the next pain comes, push forward.”
Elizabeth gripped the sheets. The next contraction came, fierce and unrelenting.
“Push.”
With a strangled cry, she obeyed, pushing through the agony. Firm hands guided her.
Mrs. Reynolds murmured encouragements. Merritt’s fingers tightened in hers.
One more push- one final scream-
And then-
Silence.
Broken by a single, indignant wail.
***