Chapter 4
Once Darcy had settled back into sleep, Elizabeth rose, eager to see the children.
They were fresh from their baths, and she sat with them by the fire to comb their wet hair, reassuring them that their papa would soon be well and come and play tin soldiers and tell them stories.
Oh, the stories he made up! Elizabeth was certain at least one of the young housemaids lingered about simply to hear them.
Bennet’s lip quivered when told his father remained abed, and he handed Elizabeth one of his soldiers.
“He is my favourite, Mama. He can fight Papa’s fever. ”
The tears that stung Elizabeth’s eyes must not fall; she could not allow her sons to see her weep.
She took the red-coated soldier—a colonel, she was certain of it—and hugged Bennet.
Henry, drowsy and missing the lap that held him for stories every night, sniffed back tears and, like his older brother, offered his own tonic for Darcy.
He thrust his wooden tabby at her. “Here, Mama. Cat can sleep with Papa.”
Now her tears fell. “Henry, who will sleep with you?”
“I shall.” Bennet put his arm around his brother’s shoulders, but Henry, his bottom lip quivering, still looked forlorn.
“Such a sad face, Fitzwilliam. You and your sons look remarkably similar when unhappy,” said Elizabeth, her attention focused on their youngest child’s reddened gums and miserable disposition.
Impatience warred with amusement as she gazed at her husband, leaning against the wall of Netherfield’s nursery, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
“If you wish me to tuck in my lower lip, I shall argue your point. I prefer to put it to far better use.” Darcy pushed off the wall and joined his wife on the bed. He looked fondly at the teary-eyed bundle in her embrace. “My poor boy. Will he sleep tonight?”
“I must believe so.”
“Bennet was dependable in his nocturnal duties.”
“No, he was simply easier in settling for his nurse. Henry is less amenable to arms that are not mine.”
“In that he is much like I,” her husband replied smugly.
As if in agreement, Henry let out a loud cry. Giving Darcy an amused glance, Elizabeth tucked a cold cloth under the baby’s gums.
“Unlike here, there is ice to be had everywhere in Derbyshire. No need to store it for teething babes.” Darcy gave her a doleful look. “I know we had to come to Longbourn for your mother’s sake, but it is our first Christmas away from Pemberley.”
“The first in three years of marriage, and truly, it will be the last. I have instructed Mama that apoplexy, or, as this was, a hint of apoplexy, is not to be had again so close to Christmas.”
“Her letter about your father was quite—”
“In her character? Yes.” Try as she might to be charitable, Elizabeth could not allay her suspicions that her mother’s frenzied missives about Mr Bennet’s health were cunningly timed to ensure her and Darcy’s attendance for Christmas at Longbourn.
“Despite our fears, your father is hale and well and eager to regain his seat in Pemberley’s library.”
“As am I, darling. My seat, my bed, my home…” She relished the heated look her pouting husband swept over her, until Henry moaned and went fully limp in her arms, past his distress and fast asleep.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she whispered. “All of Charlotte’s children have struggled terribly to sleep whilst teething. ”
“That is to be laid at her husband’s door,” he said drolly. “Our children are perfect.”
Elizabeth, smirking, gave a dramatic sigh. “Mayhap we should keep our perfect family small and add no more babies? Two will be enough?”
She stood and walked to the cradle, placing Henry inside and arranging the blankets around his sleeping form. “If we determine the chance of a difficult child is too great, we must stop those practices that might create one.”
Darcy started and practically jumped to his feet. “How impertinent you are,” he said in a low voice. “That is advice best given to Bingley and your sister.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. Three years married and Jane was expecting her third child.
Her sister’s letters told of a perfect life with perfect children and a perfect husband, her confinements light and easy.
Letters from her mother told a different tale; it would appear that after losing her favourite daughter to the whims of the army and Wickham’s grasping nature, she had lost her other favourite to unceasing baby making, blanket knitting, and food mashing.
Soon she would lose her to the estate Bingley had recently purchased in Derbyshire.
And after nary a ball at Netherfield in the past two years, she thought, laughing.
The touch of her husband’s hand on hers recalled Elizabeth from her musings. “We are incapable of creating any child short of perfection,” he said, tenderly stroking his youngest son’s hair. “Even this one. He cries only because he craves his mother. As do I. Often and always.”
“Now?”
“It goes unsaid.”
“Say it.”
“I want and desire you.”
Elizabeth’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. His senses and sensibilities were in harmony with hers, and she knew he needed soothing after four days of travel culminating in a boisterous dinner at Longbourn.
“Wonderful man, now that Henry is in his bed, please take me to mine.”
“Ours.”
The bedsheets beneath Darcy’s fevered body were soaked with sweat, and the wet, rasping rattle of his laboured breathing filled the room.
Elizabeth feared he might break a rib with the vehemence of his coughing.
Although conscious, he was scarcely sentient and could hardly swallow the honeyed tea they forced past his lips.
He had managed three spoonfuls of warm broth earlier today before turning away to cough.
Her heart sank as she touched his arm; he was shivering even though his face was coated in a sheen of fevered sweat.
After ensuring his chest poultice was in place, she began laying cold, damp cloths on his forehead, neck, wrists, and ankles.
A knock at the door caused her to turn, and Mrs Reynolds entered.
“I have brought broth and tea for you and the master.”
Elizabeth nodded her thanks but made no move towards the tray.
“Mrs Darcy, you must take care of yourself. For the children, you must rest.”
He would not rest, he did not rest, her mind cried. Darcy had stayed at her side when she was so ill carrying Bennet; and when Henry had had the colic and cried for hours, it was her husband who had walked him through the corridors of Pemberley so that she and Mrs Vickers could sleep.
“I shall,” she assured the housekeeper. “I shall sleep when he does. Tonight, I promise.”