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When he opened his eyes, the darkness that met him was still soft and black and velvet. The fire had gone out, and the green tinges of early morning light would not creep through the curtains for some hours, yet - it was still early, but Fitzwilliam Darcy had not really slept, could not muster more than a fitful doze. His mind raced too much; his heart was too full.
A proper night’s sleep was given up as a lost cause. He pulled back the sheets, shivering slightly as the cool night air swept around his bare legs and got out of bed to light a candle and find his dressing gown. Then, he paced over to the window, looking out over the Derbyshire countryside. The stars were plentiful in the rich, dark sky above him. Endless. They always were, of course, but somehow the sky seemed different to him tonight. The stars seemed to wink at him, brighter and more beautiful than ever, as if they were lighting up the sky in celebration. Perhaps he just never usually took the time to appreciate them, as he did now. Perhaps it was just that after the events of the day, the world was a different place to him now.
The room was cool, and Fitzwilliam contemplated returning to bed - but no. He had not slept alone since his marriage. Everything that was precious to him was in the chamber he normally shared with his wife, just metres away. He’d have no peace in here. Taking up the candle, he abandoned the window and crept out of the room, through the sitting room he shared with his beloved wife, and into their usual chamber.
He hovered in the doorway a moment. This room was slightly brighter, the moonlight hitting this side of the house more strongly. Elizabeth was asleep, her silken curls escaping the plait her ladies maid had wrestled them into. The paleness of the afternoon had gone, he noticed. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths. As he watched her slumbering peacefully, Fitzwilliam felt something uncoil inside him. His shoulders sunk a little, releasing a tension he had not realised he still carried, and he uttered a quiet little thanks to God for her safe deliverance.
From next to the bed, a snuffle came from a little wooden crib. The same crib he and Georgiana had slept in, and which now held the apple of his eye. He stole across the room, avoiding the creaky floorboard with practiced ease, trying not to wake his wife. His eyes filled with tears as the little face of his darling baby daughter came into view. Setting the candle down, he scooped her up as gently as he knew how.
“Come to your papa, my sweet girl,” he hummed to her as he did, and her face, which had screwed up in preparation for no doubt a lengthy wail, settled back down as she recognised his deep voice.
Fitzwilliam had been sceptical, when Elizabeth had insisted their child could hear them from inside her womb. At first, he had spoken to the swell of her stomach purely to indulge his pregnant wife, but over the months he realised it had become important to him, as a way to create a bond with the babe she carried. Now the child had arrived, and at merely hours old, seemed to recognise the sound of his voice. His wife had had the right of it, as she so often did.
Holding the precious parcel as tightly as he dared, he edged backwards into the little armchair that sat by the window and stared hungrily into her face. His little girl was surprisingly alert, and stared right back at him. He wondered what those eyes would see in years to come. She had all her life stretched out before her, the future only promise and possibility.
She already had some wispy brown curls, and he prayed that her eyes, currently a deep, iridescent blue, would darken into the hazel he loved so much in her mother. Shakily, he stroked one finger down her little face, and a little hand, having escaped the mess he’d made of her swaddling, came up to grab it firmly. His heart swelled with a tremulous joy. The house was already still, and as quiet as a church mouse, but even so in the moment he felt as though the whole universe had ground to a halt, he and the baby the only beings in it.
“I love you,” he murmured to her. “I love you more than there are stars in the sky, and I will love you until long after the last one has gone out.”
“Fitzwilliam,” came a soft voice from the bed.
He looked up, locking eyes with his wife, who, wincing, pulled herself up a little to sit more upright against the pillows, and then patted the space next to her.
Carefully, he stood up from the chair, and he walked with the baby over to sit next to his wife.
“Are you well?” he asked her, a touch anxiously.
“I am fine,” answered Elizabeth, looking tired. “The midwife assured me all went as it should.”
Fitzwilliam carefully shifted the baby to one arm, and then used the other to grasp his wife’s hand, which he brought to his lips.
“She is perfect,” he told her. “I can’t believe we made something so perfect.”
Elizabeth smiled at him. It was a dazzling kind of smile, the kind that was so bright it almost hurt to look at, the kind that only came from a place of pure and utter happiness and contentment. Fitzwilliam rather thought the same smile was on his own face.
They both turned back to their daughter, who had drifted back to sleep in the warmth and safety of her papa’s arms and was utterly unaware of her parent’s besotted gaze.
Neither knew how long they gazed at her for. They were wrapped in their own little bubble, a kingdom of three, wrapped in blankets and swaddles and the stillness of the night.
“She needs a name,” Fitzwilliam muttered eventually. “I know - I know we talked about Anne Frances, after our mothers, but I - “
“I know,” interrupted Elizabeth. “It doesn’t seem to fit her somehow, does it?”
Fitzwilliam shook his head, grateful his wife understood, his eyes already back on the baby.
“I was watching you, before,” murmured Elizabeth. “When you told her you loved her more than there were stars in the sky.”
Fitzwilliam looked bashful, but Elizabeth leant over to kiss the expression off his face. “No, it was quite the way I feel, too. But it got me to thinking. How do you feel about naming her Esther?”
“Esther,” said her husband, rolling the name about in his mouth as if to see how it felt.
“It means ‘star’,” Elizabeth whispered.
“It’s perfect,” said Fitzwilliam, squeezing her hand. “Esther Jane,” he said, “for her godmother.
“Jane will be delighted,” Elizabeth said. “Do you like that, my heart?” she directed to the newly named Esther Jane, who merely slept on peacefully.
“I should put her back in her crib,” said Fitzwilliam, “but I don’t want to let her go.”
Elizabeth smiled again, blissfully, but a touch more wearily this time. He leant over to kiss her on the forehead.
“Sleep, my love. Esther and I shall see you in the morning.”
Elizabeth did not argue, which was a sign of how truly weary she still felt. Fitzwilliam got up, and reluctantly returned his daughter to her crib, and then turned to return to the unwelcoming emptiness of his own chamber.
“Sleep with us, my love,” came Elizabeth’s voice again, clearly drifting on the edge of consciousness.
Fitzwilliam needed no more persuasion than that. No doubt he would be scolded in the morning, when the midwife returned to check up on his wife and daughter, for daring to have set foot in the birthing chamber.
But for now, he was with his family, and all was right in the world.