Darcy & Elizabeth (34 page)

The All-Knowing Mother

In having only to sit and watch for five years as her two younger sisters between them birthed seven children in that good time was not, however meagre, without its advantages for Elizabeth Darcy. Her mind had not been at all idle. In such close proximity to Jane's children, often having them stay with her at Pemberley, she was privy to their every sneeze and wheeze. (By her own design, Elizabeth was much less in Lydia's company, but there her learning was keen as to what methods to eschew.) This close scrutiny birthed in her no small conceit of what her own abilities would be when she became a mother. She was happy to admit (even if only to herself) of knowing every particular when it came to nurturing offspring. What with the little waggon she and Georgiana had gone out in upon the lands surrounding Pemberley nursing the ill and the downtrodden, when it came to afflictions she fancied herself an equal to Georgiana as a well-spring of curative knowledge. That was not, of course, an opinion she would dare share with her. (Stealing her thunder, she supposed, would not lead to a felicitous sisterly bond.) Still, when at last she had children of her own, she thought herself better prepared to weather the storms of their indisposition than any other mother in the county.

But then, it is said that when the flight is not high, the fall is not heavy.

***

By the first remembrance of their day of birth, Janie Darcy was sporting a summer cold. Geoff's constitution fared better, but his favourite coral teether was being worked on with such regularity it kept the front of his gown perpetually damp with drool. These small tribulations caused their mother little concern, although their father's fastidiousness did keep him somewhat nervous of taking hold of either of them. His abhorrence had commenced upon holding little Janie when she issued a sneeze. She had given such a sweet little shiver in its aftermath that he had been amused and looked lovingly upon his darling daughter.

“Lizzy,” he said. “Did you hear that? Our brave Janie has just sneezed!”

He lifted the baby triumphantly before him and only then realized that with her sneeze she had expelled a string of mucus extending halfway down his waistcoat.

“Oh dear God in heaven!” said the fastidious Mr. Darcy upon this realisation. “What the devil is that?”

Elizabeth rushed forth to rescue little Janie, who had suddenly become to her father an object of danger, for she was crinkling her nose as if ready to explode once more. However, as her nasal passages had been cleared the first time, this explosion was less lethal. In that annoyingly knowing way that only seasoned mothers could enlist, Elizabeth took her from her father's arms and gave her to Margaret, then rather coyly took his pocket-square and brushed away the offending slime. He stood still as a statue, arms extended and a look of utter disgust upon his countenance whilst she attempted to remove all evidence of the impudent discharge.

“I have never witnessed anything so ghastly in my life!” he announced.

“Stay close, dear husband,” she laughed. “One may yet upend their breakfast—or worse.”

“I fear I will not be disposed to witness that,” he sniffed. “I must hasten to have this waistcoat burnt.”

She continued to work on his waistcoat long after any residue remained, finding amusement in how brief a time it took to render his expression from indignantly appalled to unabashedly amatory with only a saucy gaze from her upturned eyes.

“I pray we will embark soon for Brighton? I fear our children are much in need of a sea remedy,” said she.

Elizabeth continued to blot at his waistcoat as she spoke. Darcy found her newly acquired motherly self-possession exemplary (and not a little inviting). He retrieved his pocket-square and then looked upon it before changing his mind, holding it by two fingers an arm's-length away for her to take.

“We have only to fasten the trunks on the coach,” said he, dropping the offending cloth into her outstretched hand.

She took it and almost stuffed in her bodice for future use before thinking better of it and tossing it aside. (He looked relieved that she had.) He took his leave and Elizabeth turned her attention back to her children. As she did, she gave a small, self-satisfied waggle of her shoulders, but of this she was compleatly unaware.

Inasmuch as Miss Margaret Heff was in great awe of the Master of Pemberley, she did not observe either the waggle or the Darcys' exchange. She had done the considerable feat of being handed off Janie whilst keeping her eyes compleatly averted. She was a simple girl, come to the grand house with much the same veneration as if she entered a cathedral. Her introduction to the gentry had been the single winter she helped in the house of Squire Thorne. He had been a plump, rumpled man with thin legs, straw hair, and no good word to say to anyone. She did not much like him, but she did not fear him. Although he had yet to speak directly to her, she feared Mr. Darcy. Some called him handsome. She did not observe him to be so. Granted, he was fit and his features were agreeable, but she saw upon that proud countenance an expression of most unambiguous dourness that affrighted her quite beyond all good reason.

Before she had set foot in what she knew must be the finest house in England, her sister Hannah had assured her that Mr. Darcy was not quite as forbidding as he appeared. But that was little comfort in that he could have been half as forbidding as he appeared and still been a very forbidding man. Then again, Mr. Darcy's disagreeability was compleatly redressed by Mrs. Darcy's kindness. That good lady was quite easy. Indeed, she was easy and kind and clearly devoted to her children. Moreover, Mr. Darcy seldom came into the nursery. Not unlike the houses of other gentlemen, when his children were to be seen, they were brought to him. In other houses, however, custom had it that children were brought not only to the father, but to both parents, and then but once a day. In Pemberley, Mistress was in and out of the nursery all the day long. This, of course, was in addition to the numerous times each day they were brought to see their father. All this bundling about of babies ran Margaret quite ragged, but she dared not quarrel with the arrangement.

The other peculiarity about this procedure was that once the children were brought to their parents in the salon they favoured for such meetings, Margaret was dismissed. Hence, Mr. Darcy's conduct towards those children behind closed doors was unbeknownst to her. Moreover, Margaret knew enough not to be inclined to inquire. Regardless, it was altogether curious.

That particular day, Margaret had been taken quite unawares when the apparition of Mr. Darcy had invaded the nursery. If she had not known better than to think such a thing, Margaret might have believed that Mr. Darcy's tarriance there was solely to visit his ailing children (for they had been kept much to the nursery). But they were not all that sick and that would have been an exhibition of fatherly concern that some might believe untoward. Mr. Darcy was most attentive to seeing decorum upheld. Hence, she dismissed that notion out of hand. As forbidding a man as Mr. Darcy would not be subject to the sentimentality of an expression of paternal affection. The fathers of her acquaintance may have been fond of their children, but they knew enough not to display it.

To her credit, Margaret Heff was an unerringly good judge of what was and was not an illness, Mrs. Darcy her acknowledger and supporter. However, nurse's unerring disadvantage, at least insofar as her current employer was concerned, was that this repository of information brought with it elucidative intelligence of an inflammatory nature. Indeed, when a disorder had been determined, nurse's single evil increasingly exposed itself as a penchant for prattling on about the accompanying terrors with relentless enthusiasm. This was, of course, much to Mrs. Darcy's accelerating chagrin.

“Fine notion, mistress,” said Margaret, once Mr. Darcy's bootsteps had faded off down the hall. “Brighton is a fine place, not like I hear Bristol. That town's waters are rotten with the leavings of the cess-pit. Fancy that! All those fine folks, swimming in…” here Margaret stopt and reconsidered her remark, “swimming in with Lor' knows what!”

She laughed a small laugh at the folly of gentlefolk. She and Mrs. Darcy had quickly fallen into such an amiable camaraderie that she often had to remind herself to whom she spoke. For her part, Mrs. Darcy encouraged this intimacy, believing a kinship with her children's nanny an advantage to them all. Hence, Mrs. Darcy endured this small accident of language and any others in all good humour.

Margaret returned Janie to Mrs. Darcy and took little Geoff into her arms, then sat down to wipe his chin clean with the hem of her initially spotless apron, saying, “I do dread the babes' teeth working through. It is a cruel time for them. It's a sad truth that more wee ones die from a fever at this time more than any other—that or the smallpox. It can sneak up on them when they are in such a state.”

Mrs. Darcy abandoned the wise, all-knowing nod she had been affecting and an expression overspread her countenance of alarm and shock. This alteration upon her employer's countenance was heeded late on, and Margaret silenced herself, allowing the recently lost colour to return to Mrs. Darcy's cheeks. Without Jane at hand to reassure her, Elizabeth was fast in the grips of near panic.

Whether Elizabeth was dragooned into action in the face of such danger or her mind had already been settled in that favour is of little concern. As it was, the sea air was beneficial and Mrs. Darcy was happy to set up house there until each and every tooth in her children's heads worked its way free. Although she knew she must report the intelligence of their children's perils to her husband, she vowed to do so with the utmost discretion. It would not be helpful to alarm him unduly. It would just be additional excuse to escape London without comment from the all and sundry. But as she gained the corridor and started for his study to tell the tale, she compleatly forgot herself and her promise.

“Darcy, dearest!” Elizabeth called, then louder, “Darcy! We must make haste for Brighton!”

The Indecisive Confinement of Mrs. Fitzwilliam

Fitzwilliam and Georgiana had been home to Derbyshire County but briefly in their year-long tour of England's spas. Their travels took them to the chilly coast of Kent and Margate, then they skirted Ramsgate altogether and strove on to the smaller Sussex towns of Littlehampton and Worthing. Whilst they journeyed, Fitzwilliam resolutely dragged his game leg from site to site, insisting it was no bother whatsoever. For Georgiana's part, she assured him that he looked quite dashing driving a gig rather than on horseback—and as the double-vision that had long troubled him had abated enough for him to at last toss aside his eye-patch—she could compliment him on that as well.

Still, it was evident he yearned to be able-bodied enough to return to the saddle and enjoy the long rides that he and Darcy were at one time accustomed to taking. He missed them less for the reassuring sensation of a brisk mount beneath him and the scent of saddle leather as for the company of his good friend. Hence, when they finally made their way to Brighton, he was quite unhappy to find that they had arrived before Darcy and Elizabeth. When at last he espied their arrival, he betook himself directly to their apartments—only to find the new parents still all in an uproar. Little progress had been made in situating their retinue. Fitzwilliam had to laugh at the throng of beings their first trip from home required. For the number of trunks still sitting on the landing told the tale of just how many were in their entourage of babies, nurses, and maids. His own quite simple situation in Georgiana's able hands meant Fitzwilliam was quite at his leisure to ridicule Darcy's.

“I say, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, endeavouring to disguise a grin. “You are laden with more provisions than required by both Wellington and Blucher together!”

Darcy stood amidst the mound of baggage that had barely dwindled from the day before. He looked about him as maids and footmen heaved and pulled them about.

“Such disorder looks to be indefensible, indeed. But you cannot imagine what folderol two so small can demand.”

As he spoke those words, it occurred to Darcy that Fitzwilliam's understanding of such matters would soon be tried. He had finally accepted that his sister was no longer a deflowered virgin but a mother-to-be who would soon bring forth a living, breathing infant. Indeed, once his sister's marriage had taken place, the sense of betrayal Darcy had felt towards Fitzwilliam had all but vanished. To see his sister happy at last had done wonders to return him to good humour.

At least initially.

As the months had worn on and the Fitzwilliams did not return to Derbyshire, sending only brief letters admiring the landscape of their latest holiday vista, Darcy had become alarmed.

“Pray, should not they make their way home for Georgiana's upcoming…event?” Darcy inquired, as if to reassure himself that his mental calendar had not failed him.

“One would think…” replied Elizabeth cautiously.

She had no more clue than did Darcy why all their carefully phrased letters inquiring of Georgiana's health had been ignored. The return letters, written in Georgiana's precise script, said nothing but of the excellence of their happiness, the fineness of the vistas, and wishing the same for the Darcys. There had been no announcement of a child born dead, or for that matter, alive. They did, however, enclose an itinerary. Hence, the Darcys' trip to Brighton was designed to coincide with that of the newlyweds. Because of all that lay untold, any riposte he would have liked to have employed in response to Fitzwilliam's gentle teasing remained unspoken.

They quickly made arrangements to meet for dinner; Darcy was quite anxious to see his sister and endeavour to determine her condition. Upon this reunion, their astonishment was compleat. For the nine-month anniversary of their nuptials saw Mrs. Col. Fitzwilliam sporting a pregnancy that could at the most be only of six-month maturation. Darcy frowned, uncertain what to make of any of it. Had his sister in this short time miscarried, then conceived another child? Elizabeth was better at hiding her disconcertion, and offered hugs and kisses all around. When at last they were seated, Darcy repeatedly looked to Elizabeth with the question in his eyes he dared not put to his sister. Elizabeth was less concerned than simply curious. Her husband's glances told her that it would fall to her to learn the particulars. Georgiana, however, was not forthcoming with them. As Elizabeth had been the original conduit of Georgiana's notification of her quasi-defilement, she thought she was owed some sort of explanation, but knew she must await a private moment before pressing the issue.

From first they met, Elizabeth and Georgiana had been fast friends. There had been little that they were not eagre to share. Georgiana had confided in Elizabeth some of her very deepest feelings. Or, rather, they had shared their most intimate longings until Georgiana had fallen in love with Fitzwilliam. Other than providing the confidence of her pregnancy, Georgiana had reinstated the reticence of her girlhood. Elizabeth very much wanted to return to their easy company and affection. Her endeavours to engage Georgiana, however, seemed a bit dull-witted.

“Pray, are congratulations in order soon?” she asked Georgiana.

Georgiana answered without resorting to artifice, “Yes. Yes, they are.”

Now that the obvious had been established, Elizabeth meant to delve further, but did so with caution. She chose her time carefully. When she found Georgiana cooing and admiring Janie and Geoff, the time appeared to be ripe. However, Georgiana avoided her gaze. Elizabeth knew a subterfuge when she saw one, and devoted an aunt as Georgiana was, she did not think interest in her niece and nephew supplanted her own condition.

“When do you expect to be confined?” Elizabeth asked innocently.

“Martinmas?” was her reply, less a statement than a hope.

“Am I to understand that…you have suffered a disappointment prior to this happy news?”

At this direct query, Georgiana stood and looked directly at her interrogator.

“No, I have not.”

Elizabeth could not let it go. She feared that in being Georgiana's informant to Darcy and then subsequently successfully persuading him to support her marriage to Fitzwilliam that she had been an unwilling agent of Georgiana's deception of them all. She did not look upon that office with a kind eye. It briefly crossed her mind that Georgiana meant to recompense her for the compliment of Fitzwilliam's one-time regard. If she had, then—
touché
, Georgiana. But she could not think so meanly of Georgiana or her motives. She remained dogged, however, in determining what had come to pass.

“No?” she repeated, determined to be blunt, “All has been well? You have not miscarried?”

“No, I have not.” With this admission, Georgiana did not look particularly chagrined, nor did she sound particularly convincing (nor did she appear in want of it) when she said, “I was initially mistaken.”

“I see,” was Elizabeth's only reply, knowing it was an understanding between them that, indeed, see she did.

There was no further word on the matter from either of them. But Elizabeth did repeat the conversation verbatim, and with all due inflection, to Darcy. Once she convinced him that she was not a conspirator in this matter, he was even less amused than was she. But as a new child was expected, they believed it to be in the best interest for all concerned to consider the subject a
fait accompli
. That this adjustment was right and true was reinforced by Georgiana's evident bliss and the return of reason to Fitzwilliam's countenance.