Chapter 31
PEMBERLEY
ONE YEAR later
“Fitzwilliam, hold me, hold me more tightly than you’ve ever done before!
” I was alone—no! Fitzwilliam was with me; I clutched his hand.
A maid—Sally?—wiping my brow. There was nowhere for the babe to go but out.
How long did this inescapable pressure last?
An hour, twelve hours, a day? I knew not; time lost all meaning.
Abruptly, I felt relief from the burning—the babe dropping into the birth canal. Oh, what a wonderful feeling! The pain irrelevant; I felt so powerful.
“I can see dark hair, Mrs. Darcy!” Mrs. Reynolds?
Carefully, she wiped the child with a soft cloth. Then, taking twine, she bound the cord that had given it life in the womb, cutting it with her knife.
“Your son, Mrs. Darcy,” she said, handing the tiny infant to me.
“No,” I whispered, squeezing Fitzwilliam’s hand. “Our son, little Ben—Bennet Fitzwilliam Darcy. Ex amore, vita—Out of love, life.”
* * *
Of course, the greatest irony was that Mama, Jane, and I all gave birth to our sons within the same week.
Dear Mama—forced to postpone her tour when she discovered that, rather than the climacteric—the turning point for women as the body aged and her courses ceased—she found she was increasing.
She and George Darcy had certainly promoted domestic felicity as enthusiastically as decreed by the scriptures.
And dear Jane, she found she too was increasing.
The Bingleys were staying at Pemberley while renovations were carried out on their recently purchased manor house near Knutsford in Cheshire, just thirty miles away.
Mr. Pettigrew, the family physician, thought it unwise for her to travel.
Thus, three former Bennet ladies increased, were excited and cheerful, became irritable and cranky, often anxious and worried, and found it impossible to play the piano-forte with a great bulge between them and the keys.
But they were always loved and cherished by their husbands, the best of men.
Mama was often pensive, worried that the child growing within her would, perhaps, fail to prosper or be stillborn as Mary was.
Jane and I did as much as we could to reassure her that all would be well.
But it was a like a blind man telling a rider in a steeplechase that all would be well as they raced across open country, over ditches, and hedges.
Every day, Mr. Darcy walked out with her, letting the gentle fragrances of Lady Anne’s roses calm Mama’s nerves; he himself always providing a strong and secure shoulder to lean upon. Just like my Fitzwilliam did for me.
I do not believe Pemberley had ever seen a week quite like it: I gained a nephew—Jane and Bingley’s; a brother—Mama and George Darcy’s; and, a son—Fitzwilliam’s and mine.