12. The Waiting Heart #3
“Madam appears unwell beyond mere chill,” Clarice’s voice cut through Elizabeth’s spiraling thoughts, calm and direct. “Does the stomach also trouble you?”
“I do not know,” Elizabeth admitted, her voice thin and strained. “Everything aches. My head, my throat, and…” She gestured vaguely towards her midsection, the words failing her.
Clarice studied her for a long moment, those unreadable eyes taking in the color in Elizabeth’s cheeks, the press of her hand, and the tension in her frame. “Forgive my forwardness, madam, but might I ask… when did you last experience your courses?”
The question fell between them like a dropped teacup. Elizabeth’s cheeks burned, though the rest of her shivered.
“Before the wedding,” she admitted. “Nearly six weeks now.”
“I see.” Clarice’s expression remained, as ever, placidly unreadable. “And this cramping, is it familiar? Similar to what you feel during your monthly time?”
“I… I cannot tell.” Elizabeth tentatively laid her hand over the ache, so low in her belly, and swallowed back a sudden surge of the oily broth threatening to rise again.
“It feels similar, if not for my stomach turning as though I were pitched about on a riverboat. But that may be the fever, or perhaps…” She hesitated, gathering her courage.
“Now that I am married, I wondered if perhaps…”
She could not finish the sentence. The words “with child” stuck in her throat, too enormous to speak aloud.
“Madam is concerned she might be expecting,” Clarice stated baldly.
Elizabeth nodded, feeling wretched and diminished beneath the blankets. It was not the barn kiss that haunted her, but the earlier one, stolen in a shadowed alley. She would gladly give Darcy an heir, but what if? The question curled in her chest, restless and alive.
“This afternoon,” she said, choosing her words with care, “Mr. Darcy and I, in the barn, we kissed. And I did not know if that might…”
She averted her gaze, swallowing the rawness in her throat, and blinked back the wetness in her swimming eyes.
Her mother had railed against the dangers of kissing, drawing the line of touch at gloved hands before the marriage vows were sealed.
And then, she had spoken of wifely duties—of submitting to a husband’s desires and enduring what must be endured, and somehow surviving the births that followed.
“A kiss alone cannot result in a child, madam.” Clarice’s voice was matter-of-fact, yet imbued with a quiet reassurance.
“You are certain?” Elizabeth heard the desperation in her voice and hated it.
“Quite certain. A kiss, even a passionate one, is not sufficient in the Lord’s design.
More is required.” Clarice paused, seeming to choose her next words carefully.
“And even when a husband and wife join in the marriage bed, children come in His appointed time, not ours. Some couples are blessed quickly. Others must wait.”
“So, if a man kisses me and touches me with bare hands?”
“Only if much more occurred, madam, a thing your husband can and should instruct you in.”
Elizabeth nodded again, recalling the veiled whispers: of keeping still and quiet, of allowing a husband liberties granted to no other man.
“And so, if my clothes were on, even though rain-soaked, and I was alone with him?”
“There would be no child, madam.”
Relief broke over Elizabeth, sudden and fierce, almost painful in its force. She collapsed against the pillows, hand pressed to her aching belly, tears pricking her eyes. Weeks of worry, the ache of George’s absence, and then Darcy—arriving, as ever, to rescue her from herself.
“The cramping,” Clarice continued, “sounds very much like your courses preparing to arrive. It is common for them to be delayed during times of upheaval—a wedding, a new home, the strain of change upon the body. You have had much to adjust to, madam, in a very short span.”
As if summoned by the words, Elizabeth felt a familiar sensation—the unmistakable sign that Clarice had spoken the truth. Her courses had come, late but arriving nonetheless.
“I believe you are correct,” she said, her voice steadier now. “I shall need… that is, if you could provide…”
“Of course, madam.” Clarice was already moving toward the dressing room. “I shall fetch what you require.”
She returned with linens and the necessary supplies, and Elizabeth attended to herself with hands that trembled not from fever but profound relief. When she emerged from the dressing room, pale but composed, Clarice had already changed the sheets and warmed the bed with fresh heated stones.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth whispered, climbing back into the clean linens. “And Clarice, what we discussed—”
“Remains between us, madam. As all things do.”
Elizabeth lay back, her hand resting lightly on a stomach now peaceful, where nothing had been growing after all. She closed her eyes, breathed a silent prayer of thanks, and resolved—quietly, fiercely—to be the wife Darcy deserved.
A kiss was just a kiss. But a kiss woven with affection was rather more than she had bargained for. She would have to adjust her expectations accordingly—though in which direction, she could not yet say.