Chapter 7
The following morning dawned bright and cloudless. Darcy seemed to think himself clear in the head and lungs; his wife disagreed.
“Elizabeth, I must leave this room else I shall go mad.”
He looked at her, his brow furrowed in the same manner as the two little boys pacing eagerly in the corridor, waiting to visit their papa.
Darcy was still tired, still pale, and thinner than he had been days earlier, before he had fallen so ill; but freshly shaved, his curls clean and combed, in a loosely tied cravat, waistcoat, and banyan, he looked as hale as most men.
Not as hale as his usual self, of course; from the first time Elizabeth had seen him, six years ago at that fateful assembly, Darcy had exuded a strength and vigour most men could only envy.
Now, rather than tower over her, projecting those qualities, he sat on the end of the bed in their chambers, looking up at her wanly.
Sighing, she sat next to him and stared at the door which she had kept guarded these past few days. “You will not pick up our sons nor wrestle with them, nor do anything that would tax your strength.”
“You have not ruled out hugging them or kissing you, so I shall believe myself to have won a great victory.” He smiled and pulled her close, his face in her hair, and breathed in deeply. “I know I have said it before, Lizzy, but I am very sorry to have caused you such grief.”
Elizabeth’s arms tightened round his waist. She could hear—feel—his breathing, no longer rattling in his chest but still with a hoarseness she could not like.
“I hate that our children have seen me so ill. Especially now, at Christmas, when their spirits are high and all should be joyful.”
“We are joyful now.”
“When—” He lifted his head from hers and joined her in observing the door.
“My mother was often ill, as you know, and my father kept me from her bedside. I fought it every time, thinking I could be of help, that she needed me, until finally, a few weeks after Georgiana’s birth, I was admitted to her rooms to read with her.
” His voice dropped. “While she was pale and weak, it was the sadness, the melancholy, that was so pervasive and so frightening. Nothing I said or did—telling her what I could of Georgiana, or talking about my lessons, reading her stories, or singing—raised her spirits. My father was right to keep me away, for it is that image of my mother that has stayed with me.”
“Because she did not improve, Fitzwilliam. Mrs Reynolds told me Lady Anne had never been robust, nor had the vigour you—and I—enjoy.” At his wary expression, she explained, “I was fretful over your concerns when I was pregnant with Bennet, and I asked her about your mother.”
He took a deep breath, prompting him to cough. A good, healthy cough, she thought gratefully.
“The boys seem unharmed by seeing me so low,” he said.
“They never saw you at your lowest point, my love. When they came in with the snow, you were sleeping. Edwards had you tightly wrapped in blankets and had combed your hair as best he could. Even then, Henry did not like your beard. He was afraid you would frighten poor Cat.” Elizabeth laughed as she recalled the rare moment of levity from the past few days.
“Aye, but Mama is the heroine of the past week,” he said, leaning down to kiss her nose before murmuring, “I shall thank you in every possible manner in a week or so, when I am certain not to embarrass myself by coughing or falling asleep atop you.”
“A prudent decision, my dear.” She stood and went to the door, opening it a crack and whispering, “Papa and I shall meet you in the drawing room, boys.”
“Hooray!”
As their sons shrieked and scampered off with their nurse, Elizabeth turned to her husband. “They would like to surprise you with the decorations they helped to gather. I thought it best if they are not underfoot with us on the stairs.”
It was a wise decision as it took Darcy twice as long as usual to walk down the corridor, descend the steps, and make his way, Elizabeth clutching his arm and James hovering behind them, to the drawing room.
Elizabeth watched his expression as he took in the scene. Baskets of holly, laurel, ivy, rosemary, bay, and mistletoe sat just inside the door. Bowls of chestnuts, berries, and oranges covered a table.
“Papa, look at the oranges we picked. Henry helped too.”
“You did a fine job. Pemberley is very festive.” One hand on a sofa’s arm, Darcy knelt down to his sons. “And have you a kissing bough? It is Christmas Eve. Your mama will need kisses.”
The boys looked at him eagerly. He laughed, though his laughter soon became a cough, and sank into the sofa’s cushions. As Elizabeth frowned, he raised a hand as if to wave away any concern. “I am well. Merely happy.”
Two hours later, properly dressed and fortified by tea and a hearty meal, Darcy stood with Elizabeth to greet the Bingleys as they swept into the house, bringing with them the brisk December air and a cacophony of joyful cries and wailing babies.
Once all the children went off with their nurses and maids, the four adults took a moment to gather themselves. Darcy was the object of their scrutiny. Jane gave him a gentle smile, but Bingley eyed him closely.
“You all right, old man? You are a bit pale still.”
“I am well and tired of being fussed over. It is Elizabeth who deserves all praise and care now.”
Suddenly the doors blew open again.
“Brother!”
“Georgiana!”
She flew into Darcy’s arms. Her husband of barely one year, Andrew Hartley, explained that a ride through the snow seemed less distressing for Georgiana than remaining in his parents’ home with two squabbling aunts, so there may have been some prevarication that a Darcy family concern required their departure to Pemberley.
After a moment studying his brother-in-law, he said, “I do not think it was an exaggeration after all.”
Brother and sister walked off together. Elizabeth turned to Mrs Reynolds as the housekeeper said, in a pleased but knowing voice, “A fire was lit earlier in Mrs Hartley’s rooms. It is Christmas, and she has never not spent it with Mr Darcy.”