Page 28 of The Heroic Mr Darcy’s Bad Manners

June 1813.

Elizabeth

“You should not excite your nerves in your condition.”

Elizabeth scowled at her obtuse husband. “My sister is birthing her first child. Not ten wild and untamed horses will keep me from her side.”

He sighed and surrendered, as he usually did when something was particularly important to her. She had not yet needed the silver button, and she rose to kiss his brow before she left him.

“You must see to your cousin whilst I am occupied. He already looks a bit green,” she whispered in his ear and glanced at Richard Fitzwilliam before racing up the stairs.

“No running!” Darcy bellowed from Limerick House’s library.

She had entirely forgotten and modulated her pace to an eager walk. It was yet early days, and her condition did not encumber her movements very much.

Jane was pacing her chamber with her hands on her back.

“Is the pain still bearable?” she enquired upon entering.

Jane smiled in assurance before another pain halted her step. When it relented, she resumed her walking. “How is Richard faring?” How typical of her sister to worry about her husband even at such a time as this.

“He is well taken care of. Between my husband, your father, Viscount Crawford, the Marquess of Worcester, and Uncle Henry, I dare say he will be kept entertained, and quite possibly foxed until you have delivered the babe.”

The breach with Matlock had recently been mended. At Elizabeth’s insistence and cajoling, even Lord Glentworth had buried his resentment for the sake of family. They would never be friends, but they tolerated each other’s company when necessary. So far, no such leniency had been offered to her husband’s aunt Lady Catherine, partly due to her refusal to accept Elizabeth, but Elizabeth had not yet given up hope it could be done with time. After all, one did not get to choose one’s family. Poor Mr Bingley sprang to mind. His sister was still unwed and could not forgive her brother for bungling his courtship with Jane. That was a household Elizabeth was infinitely relieved her sister had not become a part of…

“To come at such an inopportune time,” Jane lamented.

“I dare say Mary does not mind, unless the birth drags out overnight…”

Their younger sister had been wed that morning to the young Marquess of Worcester. The marriage had been a rushed affair, though not due to any impropriety by the newly wedded couple. It was the marquess’s father who had wished the union to be executed with haste. The young buck had been linked to the infamous Harriette Dubouchet for quite some time. According to the rumours, it had ended abruptly when he had caught her in flagrante delicto with General Wellesley. When he soon after began to show a marked interest in the much more suitable and pious Lady Mary, the duke forwarded the match with alacrity.

Lady Glentworth, when Mary’s beau became known to her, had immediately declared her most overlooked daughter to be the handsomest of them all—an irony that was not lost on Lord Glentworth, who made so much sport of his wife that he received the set-down of his life. He had since refrained from mocking her, at least when she was present.

The future duke, and now Mary’s husband, was an awkward fellow. He was not handsome, nor did he bother to make himself agreeable to all, but Mary’s steady presence and obvious admiration had mellowed him into adulthood. And his parents adored Mary. She was not used to such attention but seemed to thrive, nevertheless.

“I think he is coming,” Jane said, jolting Elizabeth out of her pleasant memories.

“Surely not!” she replied before she had the wherewithal to think. She had heard enough tales to believe that birthing a child would take hours upon hours. Jane’s pains had begun less than four hours ago.

“Surely so!” Jane snapped, and the midwife ordered her to bed.

“I cannot walk,” Jane cried.

The door tore open and in strode Colonel Fitzwilliam. He must have been listening just outside the room, and he carried his wife expeditiously to the bed. After fluffing her pillows and making sure she was as comfortable as possible, he tried to remove himself, but Jane would not have it. She grabbed his hand and wailed. All colour left the colonel’s face, and Elizabeth hastened to the opposite side of the bed.

“Pray, let go of Richard’s hand and take mine! Your husband should not be here, Jane.”

Jane appeared not to hear her admonishment. Her face was scrunched in concentration, effort, and pain.

“Too late,” the midwife grumbled, lifting the new-born babe from underneath the sheet. The sturdy boy took one look at the elderly lady and wailed even louder than his mother had just a moment before.

“Well, that was easy,” Elizabeth muttered. “Who would have thought birthing a child could be done with so little inconvenience…” she added, earning a scowl from Jane. She had better make herself useful and relieved the midwife of the malcontent child. She offered to clean him whilst the accoucheuse dealt with the afterbirth. Jane was in no need of her services as she was gently tended by her adoring husband.

An hour later, Colonel Fitzwilliam brought his pride and joy to greet the rest of the family. Jane had fed the babe and was sleeping peacefully.

“He is tiny,” Darcy remarked in awe.

Elizabeth disagreed but refrained from saying so.

“As sturdy a lad as I have ever seen!” Lord Glentworth contradicted.

“I have to agree with Glentworth,” Lord Limerick boasted. “Let me be the first to toast this strapping young fellow, and the sequel to Longbourn, Glentworth, and Limerick. May he live a healthy and prosperous life!”

“Hear, hear!” Worcester and Crawford contributed in unison.

“To Henry Thomas!” Colonel Fitzwilliam announced. Jane had decided to name him after his maternal great uncle and his paternal and maternal grandfathers.

#

June 1815.

“You cannot travel in your condition!”

Elizabeth scowled at her husband, even though she was heavy with her second child.

“I birthed your heir at Pemberley, I might as well deliver our daughter in London. She will most likely want to spend most of her time there in any case. You know, shopping for lace and ribbons.”

It was Fitzwilliam’s turn to scowl at her.

“You cannot expect me to forgo my sisters’ weddings to such prominent figures?”

Kitty had drawn the attention of the widowed Lord Ponsonby nigh on a year ago. Only in the privacy of her own thoughts did she believe the earl had been attracted to Kitty’s cough. He was somewhat of a hypochondriac and relished speaking to exhaustion about any disease, whilst her sister was drawn to his uncommonly handsome face… But due to the discrepancy in their ages, Lord Glentworth had forced them to accept a long engagement. He would not allow Kitty to wed before she came of age, and neither tears nor cajoling had moved him. The time was up and the wedding but a sennight away. Elizabeth could have managed, with a month to go, to return safely to Pemberley before the baby was due, if not for the fact that Georgiana was to wed a fortnight after. She had met the distinguished young colonel through Richard. It was fortunate that the Napoleonic War had ended two days ago, because her intended was French.

“You know how weddings can induce labour,” Fitzwilliam argued.

He was not wrong. Jane had given birth to her son just hours after Mary’s wedding, and her darling Master Fitzwilliam had announced his arrival at Uncle Henry and Aunt Eudora’s wedding.

After Lord Limerick had grieved his wife for three decades, Elizabeth supposed that losing his sister to the houses containing young great-grandchildren in them had prompted him to remarry. He must also have realised that if he chose a woman of sense and education, it was not the worst fate that could befall a man of distinction.

But what could she say that would convince her husband to travel for three days with a heavily pregnant wife only to be subjected to unending social events and her mother’s effusions? She would rather not return the silver button as it had become a sort of sport to never use it.

“You win. We shall travel to London. But mind you, I am planning a very slow journey, so you should order your maid to pack immediately,” Darcy conceded.

It must have been the lure of Georgiana’s wedding. He could not keep away, and he used her silent insistence as an excuse.

“I love you so very much, Fitzwilliam!”

He stood and hauled her to her feet so that he could envelop her within his embrace.

“Not as much as I love you, dear wife. Please, promise not to have our baby until after Georgiana’s wedding. Preferably with a week to spare.”

“Indeed,” she chuckled in the crook of his arm. Such a promise was impossible to keep.

June 1816

Little Anne Francine Darcy had surprised them all by waiting the entirety of a fortnight after Georgiana’s wedding to make her appearance. By the time of his daughter’s birth, Fitzwilliam Darcy believed his family to be complete. It was a known fact that within the Darcy family one was blessed with a son and a daughter, nothing more, though nothing less. Therefore, when an invitation to Lydia’s wedding arrived, he opened it with a more composed demeanour than on previous occasions.

Elizabeth watched him read the missive, then saw him pause, then reread the same sentence over and over again.

“I believe my eyesight is failing. Would you read this for me?” he enquired of his wife.

“Certainly, my dear.”

He handed her the letter with a mien suggesting it contained something particularly distasteful. He pointed at a line, and Elizabeth read it aloud.

“Lady Lydia Bennet of Glentworth to Captain George Wickham. Was that all, dear?”

“It cannot be one and the same. Pray tell me it is not my father’s godson who has imposed upon our family?”

“Oh! They have already wed.” She tried to divert him, but he was like a dog with a bone and only glared at her. “They were married over the anvil at Gretna Green, but my mother is pretending it never happened and is inviting us to what I suspect will not be a simple affair. After Mary and Kitty’s extravagant weddings, she will want Lydia’s to outdo them both.”

“So, he has succeeded in seducing an heiress at last. I am shocked, and grieved I did not have the wherewithal to send him to prison after Ramsgate, at the very least.”

She lowered the letter into her lap. “I am not so certain. Lydia seems to be a willing bride. When the militia moved to Brighton, Mr Wickham was transferred to the navy where he rose quickly in rank and won a substantial sum in prize money. By my father’s account, he is now quite wealthy in his own right, and Lydia’s fortune is tied up in such a way that he cannot withdraw from the principal.”

“You cannot possibly suggest we should attend?”

“I think we must. If only to assure ourselves there is affection between them. Though I suppose even that is too late since they have been wed these three weeks, which may already have had consequences…”

She looked intently at her husband, who immediately understood her meaning.

“I suppose I should be grateful you are not heavy with child this time, or you would surely have delivered during the service.”

When Elizabeth did not immediately laugh at his jest, he eyed her suspiciously. “I hope you were not affronted by my poor joke?” he gently enquired.

“Not at all. I am excessively diverted, first and foremost because you have quite mistaken the matter.”

“Surely not…”

“Would it be so strange? It can hardly come as a surprise…”

Elizabeth raised one eyebrow and let her eyes roam his body in a suggestive manner.

“But…” he stuttered. “No one ever begets more than two children?”

“Do they not?”

“Not a Darcy. May I remind you that even your father had but one sister.”

“How can I forget? But we were just speaking about Lydia. The fifth Bennet sister…”

Darcy rose abruptly and hauled her to her feet. “If you have gained any weight, I cannot detect it.”

“It is too soon to be marked, but there is a tiny bump here.” Elizabeth grabbed his hand and placed it atop the small swell.

Darcy added a slight pressure, and his eyes widened before he laughed and twirled her around.

“Have I told you lately how amazing you are?”

“Not for the last half hour.” She smiled. “Are you pleased?”

“Pleased is an inadequate expression for the joy I feel, dearest. When I believe my life to be complete, you give me yet another gift to rejoice in. Did you know that I once threatened Aunt Eudora to sire fifteen children?”

“Fifteen!” she screeched. “Heaven forfend… I shall as soon ban you from my bed.”

“Our bed, Queen Elizabeth.”

Darcy pulled her close for a searing kiss. “I highly doubt you could abstain for longer than I, my precious and passionate siren.”

He was not wrong, so she did not refute it. Instead, she changed the subject.

“So, when shall we leave?”

Darcy chuckled. “At your service, your highness. I shall leave at my sovereign’s request.”

“Ample rewards await my most loyal subject.”

“Such as?” He kissed her neck.

The approaching sound of pounding little feet made the lovers jump apart.

“Master Fitzwilliam,” a tired nursery maid called in vain.

The door burst open. “Papa!” the young child cried and ran into his father’s open arms. He shrieked in delight as he was tossed into the air.

“You little rascal.” Darcy put him down and ruffled his curly hair. “I should not reward you when you have run off from poor Miss Gable.”

“No, you should not,” Elizabeth agreed. “But who can resist when one is greeted with such utter delight?”

“Shall we leave the children at Pemberley when we travel to London?”

“Absolutely not! My mother would never forgive me. Nor would Jane, Grandmother, Georgiana, Mary, Kitty—”

Darcy held up his hands in mock surrender before hoisting his son back into his arms.

“Shall we ask Miss Gable to pack your bag? For we are to London.”

Master Fitzwilliam nodded eagerly.

#

June 1851.

Elizabeth

“I cannot in my condition,” Darcy protested.

“Pray, enlighten me! What condition is that?” Elizabeth enquired.

“If you have not noticed, I am rather advanced in years.”

Elizabeth regarded her husband. The years had treated him well. His hair was thinner, but the silvery colour became him. His smiling wrinkles were a testimony to all the joy they had shared, whilst the permanent crevice between his brows was proof of his unwavering concern for his family’s wellbeing. If she was to be honest, he was even more handsome today than he had been forty years ago.

“No, I had not. To me, you are still the strapping gentleman who swam naked in Netherfield’s pond.”

“Come and sit in my lap,” he demanded with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“I cannot. I am too old for that,” she protested. “Besides, I might break your legs.”

“Certainly not! You are as lithe and alluring as the apparition I met at the masquerade.”

Elizabeth sat gingerly on her husband’s knees, but he was of another mind and pulled her close.

“Then I must conclude that we are both in health and should not miss the Great Exhibition. According to Jane and every newspaper, it is a resounding success. But if you are decidedly against it, I suppose I could go by myself.”

Darcy

Darcy sighed in defeat. Years of felicity had taught him when it was best to adhere to her strictures. Besides, he had a hankering to see the lauded exhibition himself. Elizabeth knew his protests were mostly for the pleasure of debate. Over the course of nearly forty years of marriage they had both practised forgiveness, been realistic in their expectations of each other, listened carefully, been honest, and fought fairly. But last but not least, been blissfully happy and grown utterly dependent upon each other. There was absolutely no chance she would venture to town alone. Wherever she was, he would follow. If only to hold her close and be allowed to touch her delectable curves.

“My heroic Mr Darcy’s bad manners are quite delightful…” she whispered and buried herself deeper into his embrace. “I think you must bury me with the silver button because you will never have it back!”

The End