Epilogue
EPILOGUE
July 22, 1813 Pemberley
“ R elax now, Mrs Darcy. The next one’ll come soon enough.”
Elizabeth collapsed into her pillows in a sweaty heap, the tension in her abdomen temporarily abating. It would not last long; the contractions were, at last report, less than a minute apart. It would all be over soon, for better or worse.
Her pains had come upon her yesterday during her daily walk round the lake. She had felt miserable for some hours prior to that but had thought nothing of it; being so heavily pregnant at the height of summer meant she was thoroughly wretched much of the time. It was only when a sharp pain forced her to halt beneath the arching shelter of a willow, clutching her belly, that she suspected it was more than the usual malaise. Poor Darcy had turned absolutely white and spirited her up to the house with alacrity, shouting at the top of his voice for help.
With the mistress due at any given moment, help was quick to arrive in the form of Mrs Reynolds, who had ordered the servants about like a general arranging her troops. In short order, the master and mistress’s bedroom had been transformed into a birthing chamber, the midwife, Mrs Green, was called up from the village, and her fretful husband had been banished to the library, where his sardonic father-in-law was meant to keep him occupied. The housekeeper, worth more than her own weight in gold, had even managed to keep Mrs Bennet’s nerves in check by setting her up in style in the attached sitting room with a maid to distract her and smelling salts conveniently to hand.
More than a day later, the birthing process was reaching its crescendo, and a weary Elizabeth was well and truly anxious for it to be over. Her energy was flagging after labouring for so many hours together, and she was not sure how much longer she could persevere.
She turned to look out of the open windows along the far wall, where a full moon watched the proceedings with an impassive face. The wind was picking up, and she could hear leaves rustling and smell the heady perfume of roses wafting on the air. She breathed it in, drawing strength from nature as she had always done.
She would not give up. She could do this. She was eager to meet her child, to hold him or her in her arms and see their precious face at long last. She wanted to count their tiny fingers and toes, kiss their cheeks, and dote on them endlessly.
Moreover, Darcy was depending upon her to come out of this ordeal alive and well. They were meant to grow old together and raise a whole parcel of little ones, and it would not end here.
I can do this!
Her belly drew taut again moments before Mrs Green cried, “Here it comes! Bear down, Mrs Darcy. One more good push ought to do it!”
Elizabeth gritted her teeth and put every ounce of her remaining strength into the endeavour, taking hold of the sheets with a white-knuckled grip as she curled in on herself and bore down hard. Blood thundered in her ears so loudly that she only vaguely heard the keen encouragements of Mrs Green. And then?—
A cry. It warbled somehow above every other sound in the room, clear and loud as a bell.
“Congratulations, ma’am! It is a strong, healthy boy.” From the next room, Elizabeth heard her mother’s celebratory wail.
She gasped out a sob as she once again fell to the mattress, utterly spent. Even as she lay there panting, she reached for the squirming miracle that was her son. “Let me see him.”
“Right away, missus, just let me clean ’im up first,” said Mrs Green, handing the child off to a blanket that was held open by Mrs Reynolds. The dear lady’s cheeks were wet with tears as the midwife tied off his umbilical cord and hastily patted him dry. The poor lad squalled mightily at this treatment.
It felt like ages, but was probably less than a minute, before Mrs Reynolds brought the child to his mother’s waiting arms. Elizabeth struggled into a sitting position, helped into it by Blake, who had assisted throughout the birth, to receive him. The moment he settled against her chest, his crying ceased, he opened his eyes, and he stared at her with a stoicism that reminded her of his father. She could not help an exhausted, slightly mad, laugh at how perfectly Darcy he was.
Those pensive eyes were a captivating blue-grey, a shade or two darker than his father’s but very much Fitzwilliam in lineage. No one will ever doubt his ancestry. She thought he might have her nose and mouth, but in general he was cast in Darcy’s image. His dark curly hair—a whole head full of it—might have come from either of them.
Stroking his downy soft cheek with a trembling finger, Elizabeth took the liberty of introducing herself. “I am so pleased to meet you, Bennet. I am your mama.”
Bennet squinted at her a long moment, then reached out to clasp her finger within his tiny fist. Elizabeth smiled at him and shook it gently, as one does with a new acquaintance. It was an odd thing, having a child; she felt simultaneously as if she had known and loved this tiny being for so long already and had only now been afforded the opportunity to truly get to know him.
I am a mother now. Dear Lord, I am a mother. She could not quite grasp the enormity of it all.
A loud bang interrupted their moment as the door flew open and crashed into the wall. Her husband, it seemed, would be kept at bay no longer and strode into the room with purpose. Just behind him, Elizabeth could see her father lingering in the doorway, chuckling and shaking his head at his hasty son-in-law. “The birthing room is no place for fathers, Darcy.”
Darcy paid Mr Bennet no mind, nor the shocked cries of the women present, from the midwife to his mother-in-law, all of whom were attempting to expel him back out into the corridor—he only had eyes for his wife. He stalked across the carpet in half the steps he usually took and was kneeling at her side within moments. “Are you well, my dearest?”
The poor man was so wan and pale that Elizabeth was more worried for him than for herself. There was no question that he had been awake, likely pacing, since her labour began, and he must have been exhausted. She was quick to put the worst of his fears to rest. “Better than well, even. There are no words to describe it.” Emotion caught in her throat, forcing her to pause. “Meet our son.”
For the first time since his encroachment, Darcy’s gaze flickered to the bundle in Elizabeth’s arms to behold their child. She witnessed the very moment that wonder bloomed across his features.
“A boy! A boy, Mr Bennet, did you hear? A boy!”
Darcy’s reverence dissolved into a grimace as Mrs Bennet’s voice interrupted the introduction. Elizabeth, still rather muddled, could not help a laugh. Oh, Mama.
“Yes, my dear, I heard. A boy at last. He is liable to be spoilt by the great number of doting aunties he has.”
“Nothing you say can vex me, Mr Bennet, for I am overcome with joy. Young Master Darcy —how well that sounds!”
Mrs Bennet might have continued her ovation for hours were it not for the strong wind that blew into the room and flickered all the lights. Along with it came a great deal of leaves and a variety of different rose petals, raining down upon those gathered like a fragrant deluge. Mrs Bennet somehow managed to catch a clump of them in her mouth and ran from the room coughing and sputtering. Elizabeth was pleased to see Blake follow her parents out, trusting that she would see to the situation.
A good number of the leaves and rose petals settled on the bed, while the servants dashed to force the windows closed against the wind. It somehow felt like a lovely tribute to such a momentous occasion.