Page 72

Pemberley

October, 1816

“How is Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy?” Charlotte Collins demanded, quickly removing her bonnet and handing it to a nearby maid.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was pale, but he managed to speak without a tremor, “Her midwife says that her labor is not progressing normally.”

Charlotte bit her lip and turned to face her husband who had been distracted, as usual, by the William Turner landscape painting in the front hall.

“Mrs. Darcy’s baby is having potential difficulties,” she informed him.

The parson nodded grimly, “You have my bag, my dear?”

“I do,” she assured him quietly.

Mr. Collins strode up the stairs toward the birthing suite, leaving Mrs. Charlotte Collins to place a gentle hand on Darcy’s rigid arm, “Pray for Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy, and be at peace. Mr. Collins is quite experienced.”

“Thank you,” Darcy replied, tears forming in his eyes. He was a brave man but childbirth was a dangerous business. Would he lose his precious Elizabeth today?

Mrs. Stewart, the midwife, turned with a mixture of indignation and relief at the sight of Mr. Collins. On the one hand, she was vaguely offended that a man and a parson with more book knowledge than practical experience would be assisting in the birth of Mrs. Darcy’s baby. On the other hand, the man had shown remarkable ability in several very tricky cases in this region of Derbyshire.

“Mrs. Stewart,” Mr. Collins acknowledged, glancing around the room, “I trust you have washed your hands and donned clean clothing?”

“Yes,” she replied wearily. This obsession about cleanliness was, she believed, quite absurd, but she would humor the man.

“My baby,” Elizabeth Darcy cried out, her face contorted in pain as another contraction bore down. “My baby!”

“Do not fear, Mrs. Darcy,” the midwife said quickly, “Mr. Collins is here.”

“Please save my baby,” the Darcy matriarch sobbed.

Mr. Collins glanced around and shook his head with dissatisfaction, “I must have soap and hot water.”

“As you wish, Mr. Collins.”

***

Fitzwilliam Darcy paced in the library.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

After the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Collins, Darcy had retreated to the nursery to cuddle his precious daughter Rosemary, who was almost three years of age. The little one naturally had no idea of the drama unfolding in the birthing suite of the great mansion of Pemberley, and Darcy had been comforted by the little girl’s dark curly head and lisping speech.

But a few minutes ago, his daughter had been put to bed by her nurse and now Darcy was alone in the library, quite unable to do anything but pray ... and pace.

The door opened and Charlotte Collins entered with a rather shaky smile on her face, “Mr. Darcy, your son!”

His heart seemed to stop for a moment, and he let out a great gasp of relief before surging forward to look into the slightly squashed face of his baby boy. The infant’s lips pouted out and he looked indignant about being removed from his warm and comfortable abode, but he was, even to Darcy’s quite inexperienced eyes, a healthy color.

“How is Elizabeth?” he demanded sharply.

Charlotte heaved a deep sigh, “I believe she will be well. It was a difficult delivery as the baby was breech and Mr. Collins used forceps to deliver him, but she is conscious and speaking so ...”

She trailed away and put a comforting hand on his arm, “Continue to pray for her, Mr. Darcy, but I believe she will be well. Mr. Collins is stitching her up now.”

Tears fell from his eyes now, tears of joy and fear; joy that his son was safely born and fear that Elizabeth might still succumb to puerperal fever.

***

“Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth murmured, her fine eyes focused on her husband’s dear face.

“Elizabeth,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “Are you well?”

She nodded slowly, sleepily, “I will be well, my dear husband. Do not be afraid.”

He gulped and glanced at the baby, who was being expertly wrapped up in a blanket by the midwife after having received his first meal from his mother.

“Mrs. Darcy should rest,” Mrs. Stewart said firmly.

“Of course, of course,” Darcy agreed, leaning over to plant a kiss on Elizabeth’s forehead. “Thank you, Mrs. Stewart.”

“You are quite welcome, Mr. Darcy,” the woman replied, following Darcy outside the birthing suite with the baby in her arms.

The door closed behind her and she lowered her voice, “I did not care to say this in front of Mrs. Darcy, sir, but I do not believe the baby would have lived without Mr. Collins. I am experienced with birthing, but this one was excessively complicated. I must give credit where credit is due.”

“Thank you,” Darcy choked out, suppressing a sob. He looked down into the sweet face of his baby boy and praised God that both mother and child were safe and well.

***

“I believe they are quite cubic, do you not think, Charlotte?” Mr. Collins declared proudly.

Charlotte was busily knitting a pair of pink socks for her own baby girl, which had the advantage of keeping her hands busy as she processed her anxiety over the last hours. Elizabeth had come close to a catastrophic delivery that easily could have taken both mother and child.

She looked up to gaze fondly at her husband, who was carefully cutting sugar lumps. His obsession with creating the perfect sugar lump was odd, but she was glad to humor him.

The door to the parlor opened and Mr. Darcy strode in, his face slightly pale.

Charlotte was on her feet in an instant, “How is Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy?”

“She is well,” the master of Pemberley declared. “Mr. Collins, I must thank you for your service to us today. We will forever be grateful. Mrs. Stewart says she thinks it unlikely that the baby would have been born alive without your help.”

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Collins replied, looking rather startled. “Er, it was entirely my pleasure, Mr. Darcy! Indeed, I found it quite fascinating and instructive; your son is the first breech child I have delivered using my new forceps! They are derived from the Chamberlen instruments which were used in France hundreds of years ago and kept secret by the Chamberlen obstetricians. I found my new forceps quite useful in reaching in to grasp the baby by the buttocks ...”

Fitzwilliam Darcy, who had not slept well the night before, who had paced the library for hours, who had hardly eaten and drank, found this description too much for his fragile consciousness. He swayed suddenly and would have fallen if both Mr. and Mrs. Collins had not grabbed him, each by an arm, and guided him to a chair.

“My sincere apologies,” Mr. Collins said remorsefully, “my enthusiasm for medical procedures leads me to be a little too ...”

“Descriptive,” Charlotte finished. “Mr. Collins, please do summon two footmen. I believe Mr. Darcy would be best off retreating to his bed.”

***

“He is a hungry little fellow, is he not?” Elizabeth commented fondly, gazing down on the bald head of her infant son. Baby William Darcy was eagerly suckling his mother’s milk, making enthusiastic grunting sounds in the process.

“He is indeed,” Darcy agreed in a besotted tone.

He trailed a hand over his son’s head and then moved it to his wife’s cheek. Elizabeth was in some pain from her delivery but her color was good, she was eating well, and Mrs. Stewart had assured them both that there were no signs of infection in spite of significant injury during the birth. No doubt Mr. Collins’s boiled silk thread was helping, though Darcy did not know how.

Nor did he care. God on high had blessed the Darcys with a wise and gifted friend in the form of Mr. William Collins, and Darcy would forever be grateful.