Once, My Dear #4
The echoes of pain, tension, and urgency had faded, replaced by the softest of sounds -a newborn’s cry, weak at first, then growing strong, defiant.
The room had emptied of all but one.
Elizabeth lay spent against the pillows, her breathing finally regulated. With a wide smile, she reached for her child. Merritt, with tear-streaked cheeks, placed the babe in her arms.
“Here he is, madam. Your son.”
Elizabeth’s vision blurred, exhaustion mingling with the first wave of true, aching love. A tiny, wrinkled face, flushed pink with life, pressed against her breast. His lips parted and a lusty wail filled the room, his small fists clenched as though already prepared to battle the world.
She traced a single fingertip over the downy softness of her son’s hair.
A sharp breath sounded from the doorway.
Darcy.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her gaze to her husband.
He had not rushed in like a man undone but stepped forward with quiet urgency, his movements controlled despite the storm that had raged both within and without. His cravat sat impeccably arranged, his waistcoat buttoned, his coat perfectly in place. The very picture of composure -but for his eyes.
There, his turmoil lay bare.
Dark and intent, they swept over her, searching for signs of pain, of exhaustion, of reassurance.
A gentleman always, he did not betray the fear that had gripped him, but she saw it -in the faint parting of his lips, in the way his fingers flexed, in the nearly imperceptible breath he exhaled as his gaze settled upon her, whole and alive.
He had dressed carefully, perhaps ritually, as if preparing to face whatever fate awaited him upon his return.
His hair, tamed into order, held the faintest sheen of dampness from a fresh combing.
The lace at his cuffs was crisp, unmarred, elegant.
Even his boots bore no trace of his ordeal -polished to an effortless gleam, as though he had walked through the night untouched by the world’s chaos.
He did not speak at once. Instead, he regarded her with measured solemnity.
Elizabeth offered him the smallest of smiles.
“You have been long, my love.”
***
Darcy’s breath caught -a strangled sound lodged in his throat. He sank to his knees beside the bed, one trembling hand reaching to cradle the back of her head, the other hesitantly brushing against the child.
“I should have-” His voice broke. “I was trapped. I could not-”
“You are here, my love.” She turned her face into his palm, her fingers covering his where they lay upon their son.
A shuddering breath left him, and he bowed his head and pressed his lips to her damp forehead. He remained there, silent.
The baby let out another loud wail -loud, righteous, alive.
Darcy lifted his head and took his first true look at his son. His heir.
For a long moment, he did not speak. He could not even breathe. His hand, scratched from the wreckage, hovered just above the child’s head. So small. So impossibly real. He curled his fingers -then, at last, settled lightly on the downy pate.
“He is perfection itself.”
Elizabeth exhaled a small laugh. “He is loud.”
Darcy huffed a breath, but it was half a sob. His hand finally settled -lightly, reverently- on the infant’s soft curls. “So small,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Darcy exhaled, shifting forward, his forehead briefly pressing against Elizabeth’s. Then, slowly, carefully, he leaned down and kissed the child’s brow.
He had dreamed of this moment, feared it, longed for it.
Now it was here.
“What shall we call him?” he asked, voice hushed.
Elizabeth lifted heavy lids, a glint of mischief in her gaze. “I had considered Fitzwilliam, but I find I am rather fond of another name.”
Darcy tilted his head. “Oh?”
She lifted the baby slightly and gazed down at him with the softest of smiles.
“Bennet Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Darcy swallowed hard. “You would… you would name him for your family?”
Elizabeth blinked. “Were you not named in the same manner?”
“I was. It is an ancestral affectation -quite dated, I daresay. Not a tradition.”
She drew Bennet close and inhaled the soft scent of his scalp. “I find I am rather partial to Derbyshire affectations.”
She kissed the babe’s cheek. “Are there other Derbyshire traditions you think we ought to heed?”
Darcy smiled -widely, with dimples upon each cheek.
“Snow.”
***
Christmas Day 1818
Pemberley
Snowflakes fell thick and swirling beyond the great windows of Pemberley, each tumbling from the heavens like a benediction. Elizabeth stood beside Darcy, one hand resting lightly in his, the other cradling the gentle swell beneath her bodice.
Between them, their son bounced on his toes, dark curls wild with excitement.
“It snows! It snows!” Bennet Fitzwilliam Darcy cried, his bright eyes alight with wonder.
Elizabeth smiled down at him. “Indeed, my love, it does.”
He turned to her, curiosity brimming in his face. “Mama, where does snow come from?”
She exchanged a glance with Darcy. “Your father has the answers to such things.”
Bennet tugged on his father’s hand, insistent. “Papa?”
Darcy arched a brow. “It is formed in the clouds when the air is cold enough.”
Bennet turned back. “Why does the air want to make snow?”
Darcy exhaled, amused. “Enough of theories, my boy. Let us go outside and enjoy the medium rather than discuss it.”
Moments later, bundled in warm coats and scarves, they stepped out into the crisp winter morning. The snow crunched underfoot as Bennet raced ahead, slipping and sliding in joyful abandon. His nurse followed behind, a comedy of concern as she fussed over his every stumble.
Elizabeth slipped her arm through Darcy’s. “Let us pray he exhausts himself within the hour.”
Darcy hummed in agreement. His gaze never left their son. “And we shall be summoned to admire every flake he gathers.”
A delighted shriek rang through the air. Bennet, triumphant, had flung himself backward into a snowdrift, his arms and legs flailing. “Look, Mama! Papa! An angel!”
Elizabeth laughed, her breath curling in the cold. “You shall have wet stockings before long.”
He was once again on his feet. Elizabeth decided to take pity on poor Nurse, who looked as though she might trade her boots for brandy.
Bennet tumbled into a soft drift at her feet, giggling, his cheeks flushed with cold.
“Mama,” he asked breathless. “Have you ever seen so much snow?”
Elizabeth looked to Darcy. He chuckled.
She rubbed her belly, her palm warm through wool and muslin. The child within shifted -a flutter, no more.
She bent, cupping Bennet’s chin.
“Once, my dear.”