Epilogue #3
They stayed connected, breathless, her face smiling - for the first time in weeks, his hand reaching for hers, planting a kiss in her palm, the chaise now structurally compromised.
A long, blessed silence. Just their breathing, steadying.
Then, very softly: “Did it work?” he whispered.
Elizabeth blinked up at him, dazed.
“If not, we shall try again in twenty minutes.”
Darcy, panting: “Just give me a scone and a minute to stretch.”
* * *
Elizabeth was asleep before her husband had even caught his breath.
Still tangled in the ruins of her shift, one leg tossed carelessly over the edge of the chaise, her hair an unholy mess of pins and triumph, her mouth just barely open.
Darcy stared at her, utterly undone.
He reached to smooth the hem of her shift, tugging it gently over her thighs. Then retrieved a throw from the near settee and draped it over her with the same tenderness one might reserve for holy relics.
She didn’t stir. Just murmured something incoherent, a smile ghosting her lips.
Darcy’s heart clenched. He kissed her forehead, soft, humble.
Then stood, gathered himself, and began to redress. His shirt clung damply to his skin, his breeches bore the unmistakable marks of both exertion and Elizabeth’s thighs, and his cravat had gone entirely missing, likely somewhere under the chaise, alongside his dignity.
He didn’t care.
He only buttoned enough to seem respectable. Just as he opened the door, Mrs Evans stood there again. Same tray. Fresh tea. Slightly paler complexion.
They stared at one another.
Darcy blinked.
“Ah,” he said, ever the statesman. “Perfect timing.”
Without a word, Mrs Evans extended the tray.
He took it.
She eyed the inside of the room over his shoulder.
As she turned, he added, “And perhaps… bring more scones.”
The birthing room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of lavender and chamomile.
A fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth battling the chill of the Derbyshire night.
The midwife, a stern yet kind-eyed woman named Mrs Langley, moved with practised grace, arranging linens and checking the birthing stool, a sturdy, horseshoe-shaped chair designed to aid in delivery.
Elizabeth, clad in a loose-fitting chemise, paced slowly, her hand resting on the small of her back. Each contraction brought a pause, a deep breath, and a determined exhale. Darcy remained by her side, offering silent support, his hand ever ready for hers to grasp.
Mrs Langley approached, her voice gentle yet firm. “Mr Darcy, it’s customary for husbands to wait outside during the more… intense stages.”
Darcy hesitated, glancing at Elizabeth.
She met his gaze, her eyes fierce yet vulnerable. “Stay,” she whispered, reaching for his hand. “Please.”
He nodded, squeezing her hand gently. “I am here.”
* * *
As the hours wore on, Elizabeth settled onto the birthing stool, her body weary but resolute. Mrs Langley knelt before her, ready to assist. Darcy positioned himself behind Elizabeth, supporting her back, his presence a steady anchor.
“On your next contraction, Mrs Darcy” the midwife instructed.
Elizabeth nodded, gripping Darcy’s hands tightly. As the contraction surged, she bore down, her strength and determination palpable.
With a final, triumphant cry, the room was filled with the sound of a newborn’s first wail.
Mrs Langley smiled, wrapping the infant in a warm blanket. “A healthy daughter.”
Tears streamed down Elizabeth’s cheeks as she cradled her child. Darcy leaned over, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“You were magnificent,” he whispered.
She looked up at him, exhaustion and joy mingling in her expression. “We did it.”
Elizabeth sagged back against his chest, her body trembling from exertion, her skin aglow with sweat and triumph. The baby latched to the breast; her small body curled against Elizabeth’s chest like she’d always belonged there.
Darcy had never known silence could feel so loud.
The midwife, competent and brisk now that all was well, examined the placenta with practised efficiency and cut the cord.
She murmured something about herbs and broth, but Elizabeth didn’t seem to hear her.
She was too busy whispering to the little creature on her chest, stroking her tiny back with loving fingers.
Darcy swallowed. Hard.
He reached out, brushing a damp curl from her temple. “Do you want to rest?”
She nodded faintly, eyes half-lidded. “But not without her.”
“I would not dream of it.”
Very gently, he slid one arm beneath her knees, the other cradling her shoulders, and their daughter. Elizabeth didn’t protest, didn’t argue. Just curled tighter around the baby as he lifted them both with slow, deliberate care.
She wasn’t light. Nor was she easy to carry, exhausted and loose-limbed and cradling something infinitely more fragile.
But Darcy had never carried anything more precious in his life.
He crossed the room and laid them gently on the bed, arranging the pillows behind Elizabeth’s back, her hair spilling like ink across the linen. She was already drifting, lashes fluttering as she held their daughter to her breast, the baby still suckling in slow, sleepy pulls.
Darcy pulled the coverlet up over them both.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Elizabeth’s bare shoulder.
“You are…” he whispered, too moved to finish the thought.
Elizabeth’s eyes opened just enough for her to murmur, “You will make the tea, then?”
He let out a shaky laugh. “With scones.”
She smiled, barely. “Good. I am starving.”
And as she drifted into sleep, still wrapped around their daughter, Darcy sat beside her like a sentry, one hand resting lightly on her knee, the other curled near the baby.
No words. No noise.
Just the three of them. Together.