Page 41 of The Power of Refusal

A slight tapping sound invaded his consciousness. The sheer bliss of Elizabeth’s lips on his was far more interesting than any noise. The sound grew louder, then closer, then the creak of a door.

Darcy pulled most reluctantly away from Elizabeth. Her lids fluttered, then opened, and the two stared at one another like utter idiots for a beat.

“Miss Elizabeth?” It was Rachel, thank God, not Mr Couper. She stood inside the door, quivering with emotion. He hoped she had not been overcome with shock at finding them in such a passionate embrace.

Elizabeth blinked rapidly, then appearing to regain her self-possession, replied, “Yes, Rachel, what is it?” Her eyes widened with concern. He retook her hands and stroked her fingers soothingly.

“The mistress, she, no, Mrs Danvers, needs you. Please, would you come up with me?” Rachel’s voice trembled. She twisted her hands in her apron.

Elizabeth rose, and touching his hand with a reassuring squeeze, went to the girl. “Is something amiss?” she asked, her arm around Rachel’s shoulder.

Rachel shook her head but looked at Elizabeth beseechingly. “I know nothing about birthing, miss. Mrs Danvers sent me down to fetch you.”

Elizabeth looked back at Darcy, then walked out of the room with Rachel. He caught her words. “I may know less than you do, Rachel, but we will be brave together.”

Darcy took stock. He was happier than he had been in memory. He had applied Richard’s instruction well. This time, no words about the struggles he once had reconciling his station in the world with Elizabeth’s. No nonsense about “situations” and “solutions.” He knew well this was not a business transaction. He used words intended to force his heart to open and cause hers to see who he truly was. Richard might disapprove of executing his proposal in a dingy kitchen at four in the morning, but he would no doubt approve of the result. As he stood, Darcy inhaled deeply. The iron bands that had encircled his chest for the past decade were now unbound. He took another deep breath and closed his eyes. He relished the sensation of having just thoroughly kissed Elizabeth Bennet within a hair’s breadth of propriety. It was a very good day.

Having no further business in the kitchen, he left that room. He had delivered Mr Cranston to the parsonage and was not about to abandon him. He found his way to the drawing room, then located a book to read on the sparse shelves. Finding an almost comfortable chair, he sat to wait out the events upstairs. Whilst his eyes cast over the lines, he soon acknowledged he had taken in nothing of what the book contained.

Other thoughts crowded his mind. He hardly noticed his sleeplessness. Instead, he was energised. Speaking with Mr Couper would be a necessary but unappealing task. Ideally, Mr Couper would issue a common licence, and they could wed immediately. But not every parson could do so. Might it be necessary to approach a bishop or archbishop? And was there not a matter of residence? Elizabeth had been with the Coupers for but a few weeks. What parish could they claim? His own residence was truly in Derbyshire, far too distant for his purposes. Would London suffice? He would need go thither to see his solicitor. A settlement must be drafted, one that would ensure Elizabeth was cared for no matter what happened in their future together. Who would sign it? Would he be forced to seek Couper’s signature? Why could they not have resolved this at Lockwood! Perhaps they could. Elizabeth had lived with the Bingleys for months, aside from their sojourn in London. Did Bingley not have a preferment in the gift of Lockwood? How soon could they return there?

As if in answer to his thoughts, Mr Couper appeared in the drawing room. It was now nearer to six. Mr Couper was dressed for the day, but his appearance, with a drawn face, dark-rimmed eyes, and stooped posture, spoke of a sleepless night.

Darcy rose and greeted the man. Mr Couper’s response was curt. After allowing the silence to stretch out, Mr Couper at last spoke.

“Is there any news from the birthing chamber?”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. Mr Couper’s appearance spoke to concern for his wife’s travail, but he seemed incapable of speaking on the topic.

“Miss Bennet has been upstairs for some forty minutes. I have no more information than Mrs Danvers required her.”

Mr Couper shook his head as if annoyed. He sunk heavily into a chair, took out a book of scripture, and applied himself to his reading.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth was reeling—from the most significant, wonderful, thrilling moment of her life to the terrifying, exhausting, and incomprehensible happenings in the birthing room.

Both Mrs Danvers and Mr Cranston were involved in some procedure that was, thank heavens, obscured by a sheet covering Mary’s nether regions. Elizabeth and Rachel were charged with each supporting Mary on one side. From what she could determine, Mary had been given laudanum to quiet her, but to encourage the baby’s progress, they were required to support her as she was urged to bear down, then lower her to her back. Mary groaned but was nearly insensible. Elizabeth prayed silently, barely remaining upright herself.

Mrs Danvers herself appeared rattled at Mr Cranston’s actions. She murmured questions, and Mr Cranston answered minimally. “English Lock,” said he, and Mrs Danvers’s eyes widened. “I shall not stand by and do nothing if I might offer some relief. I am not Sir Richard Croft.” Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she recalled the tragic end of Princess Charlotte and her physician.

Elizabeth heard a clacking sound. Mrs Danvers and Mr Cranston appeared to be engaged in some strenuous movement. Elizabeth held Mary’s hand as she opened her eyes, looked about unfocused, then cried out.

The next sound, incredibly, was the cry of a baby. Mrs Danvers was holding a small creature she was rubbing soundly with a towel. The blueish cast of the baby’s skin rapidly changed to pink.

“He is well! He breathes!” Mrs Danvers cried.

Mary smiled, still nearly insensible. Mr Cranston continued to work.

“Miss Bennet, take the child and continue stimulating him. I require Mrs Danvers’s assistance.”

Thus, Elizabeth met her nephew, Robert Thomas Couper Junior.

Elizabeth delighted in the wide-open gaze of the new one. He was quite large, well- formed, but bore marks on his face as if something had pressed hard on his skin. His cries quieted, but he turned his face toward the towel as if to take it in his mouth.

“Has a wet nurse been retained?” Mr Cranston asked. Elizabeth knew Mr Couper had refused this as well.

"The reverend said his wife would feed the child,” Mrs Danvers said.

Mr Cranston scoffed. “I hope that may be the case,” he said in a bitter tone.

Mrs Danvers took charge of the baby and put it to nurse at the insensible mother’s breast.

After a time, the child latched, and Mary’s eyes fluttered open.

“You have a son, Mary,” Elizabeth whispered into her ear.

“Thank the Lord.” Mary’s words were a whisper.She returned to unconsciousness.

∞∞∞

When the baby had settled, Mrs Danvers wrapped him well again and sent Elizabeth to present him to his father. She descended the stairs with the greatest care, then entered the drawing room.

Mr Darcy stood and, taking in her charge, beamed at her. Elizabeth thrilled at his clear admiration as she walked to her brother-in-law.

Mr Couper rose more slowly, his expression of deep apprehension. “It is a boy, Mr Couper.”

Mr Couper clasped his hands in prayer. His eyes filled with tears as he looked upon the child.

“How is my Mary?” he asked. Elizabeth barely recognised the man bearing an expression of deep anxiety.

“She sleeps at present. Mr Cranston will be down anon.” Elizabeth honestly knew not how Mary was. Both Mrs Danvers and Mr Cranston bore solemn, distressed expressions as they assisted her sister.

Mr Couper closed his eyes. Elizabeth was startled to see him tremble with a sob. He collected himself and turned then to regard his son again.

Elizabeth returned above stairs with the baby who continued to rest peacefully. On entering the room, she was shocked at the quantity of bloody linen Rachel was gathering.

Mrs Danvers took the baby, and Elizabeth approached Mr Cranston. “Please, sir, my sister. How does she do?”

Mr Cranston looked kindly at her. “I believe we were very fortunate to intercede when we did. Your sister has had no further seizures, and she delivered a healthy child. Time will tell how she will recover, but I believe the laudanum will wear off in the next hour. She will require a great deal of care and a very good diet to regain her strength.”

Elizabeth knew well many women came through the birthing process, and then succumbed to illness or loss of strength in the following days. They could not assume Mary would recover. She looked at her sister, who was now, at last, resting comfortably. Her colour was back, and she began to look like Mary again.

Mrs Danvers shooed Elizabeth from the room. With great relief, Elizabeth went to wash and change. Her exhaustion made her bed enticing, but she knew the even more enticing Mr Darcy was below stairs. She descended and found the gentleman alone in the drawing room. He pressed his finger to his lips, and she caught the sound of Mr Cranston’s voice from the study.

“Your wife ought not to bear another child, sir. I believe she suffered from diabetes mellitus during her confinement. Because of this, your son is quite large, which led to difficulty in his birth. Another child might be even larger, and such a delivery could bring a tragic outcome for mother and child.”

Mr Couper’s response was quiet, but they could make out a tone of deep regret.

“I cannot lose Mary. I thank you, sir, for attending to her. I was a fool to think all was well, knowing how differently she appeared from when she bore Frances. You and Mr Darcy, I owe you a debt of gratitude I could never repay.”

Elizabeth and Darcy met eyes, brows raised in similar expressions of astonishment. What had happened to the rigid biblical pronouncements he had used to deny Mary care?

Elizabeth stood before Mr Darcy and spoke softly. “Thank you, Mr Darcy. For saving my sister’s life,” she said whilst lost in his tender expression.

“I am Fitzwilliam, and I thank you. For agreeing to be my wife. For saving my life.”

Elizabeth rested her head against his shoulder, enjoying again how tall and solid he was.

His arms encircled her and enveloped her in that enormous sense of safety and relief she now associated with his presence.