Page 75 of Lizzie’s Spirit

Michaelmas had passed without any sighting of the Grosveno r. It was normal, Darcy reasoned, for ships to be delayed. The end of September was the earliest he could have expected Elizabeth; now, halfway into October, he was becoming increasingly impatient.

Three weeks into the month, he received a message from his agent in London that a recently-arrived packet had hailed the Grosvenor east of the Madagascar coast. Calling at both Cape Town and St. Helena, the ship could not expect to reach London before late November.

“Georgiana,” he called, for he knew his sister was next door in the library. “Can you assist me?”

“Of course, William.” She came into the study.

“I’m not sure, but how many days are there…” he paused, a little embarrassed, “… between conception and birth?”

“Oh, don’t be missish, William, I’m well aware of the time it takes to grow a baby. We were taught such at school—some forty weeks since the last menses, less a fortnight.”

“Two hundred and sixty-six days!” Tears came to his eyes. “Georgie, Elizabeth could already have delivered.”

** *

Pemberley, October 23, 1813

Saturday morning, they took an early breakfast. Darcy wished that only his father, Georgiana, and himself to be present.

His father laughed. “I’ve never been more pleased, Fitzwilliam, to see you and Georgiana so happy.

For, even though we’ve not met her, your Elizabeth has made this family whole again.

I do believe our Anne and Frederick are joining us in the toast. Raise your glass—to Elizabeth, my lovely second daughter, sister to Georgiana and beloved of Fitzwilliam. And to the heir of Pemberley.”

“Elizabeth! Lizzie!”

Their soft exclamation filled the room, spilling out of the open door, rolling over the manicured lawn of the park, and drifting across the waters of the lake that shimmered in the early dawn.

In their hearts, the sound never dwindled.

They were all in anticipation of meeting the one person who had filled a hole in their lives since Frederick had gone and, before him, Lady Anne.

***

The next morning, Darcy and Georgiana were again sitting to an early breakfast when Winthrop knocked and entered the parlour. He faltered—his manner unsteady.

“Master Fitzwilliam, Miss Georgiana.” He struggled for breath, his eyes blurring as he held back his tears. “I am so sorry… but your father, Mr. Darcy, passed in the night.”