Chapter Text
Elizabeth Darcy sighed contentedly in her rocking chair. It was late - her eldest four daughters had finally drifted off to sleep despite Martha’s insistence on “just one more drink,” Cora’s concerns about “monsters” (she’d had a nightmare the night before), and Jemima’s griping about how she still had to share a room with Eleanor, to which Eleanor had promptly burst into tears, throwing herself into her mother’s arms and lamenting about how, “Jemima doesn’t like me!”
By the time Elizabeth and her husband, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy had gotten their girls settled into bed, baby Lillian needed to be fed. She was now sleeping soundly in the cradle in her parents’ bedroom. Only a month old, she’d stay there until she was sleeping through the night.
Once this were to happen, Jemima had it all planned out.
“Lily can move in with Cora, Martha can take my place in the bedroom with Eleanor, and I can move down the hall!” Jemima had proclaimed over breakfast one morning.
“And who might you be rooming with?” Mr. Darcy teased his eldest.
“Myself, Papa,” Jemima said matter-of-factly.
Elizabeth had chuckled. There were certainly enough rooms in Pemberley for each of her daughters to have their own bedroom - and an additional spare room to do with as they pleased.
But Elizabeth, who had not grown up as extravagantly as her husband and sister-in-law had, had shared a bedroom with her older sister Jane right up until the two were married and had moved out of their parents’ home.
She saw no harm in the girls sharing bedrooms.
“Jemima, you know what the plan is,” she’d said gently, yet firmly. “You are to share a bedroom with Eleanor, just as Martha and Cora are to share.”
Elizabeth stole a glance at her husband. The reminder was as much for him as it was for Jemima. While he certainly would have liked to have a son to carry on the family name, from the moment each of his girls were born, he adored them, and they’d had him wrapped around their tiny fingers, and as a result he was much more prone to indulge them than their mother.
One afternoon, when Elizabeth thought the girls were out playing, she’d confronted him about this.
Mr. Darcy, who suspected that his oldest three were listening at the door, had said, louder than necessary,
“You’re right, my love. Spoiling them now would be a grave mistake, as one day they will be too big for a good swatting,” he chuckled, as his comment was met with horrified gasps from the door.
“Oh, Papa! Surely you don’t mean that!” Cried Jemima. Neither parent had ever laid a finger on her or her sisters unless it was out of affection. Truthfully, Mr. Darcy intended to keep it this way, but had been trying to teach an important lesson about eavesdropping.
Chuckling, he reassured them he’d only been joking, then chased them out of the drawing room.
“And what about Lily? Is she to have her very own bedroom even though she is the youngest?” Jemima cried.
“Jemima, you mustn’t speak to your mother that way,” Mr. Darcy chided.
“Yes, sir,” Jemima said sheepishly, for she hated to be reprimanded. “Sorry, Papa. Sorry, Mama.”
“That’s alright,” Elizabeth said. “And no, when Lily is big enough, she will move in with Martha and Cora.
“Unless you would prefer Martha move in with you and Eleanor,” Mr. Darcy added quickly.
Jemima’s eyes widened.
“Oh, no! If two in a bedroom is crowded, three would be positively suffocating! I rather feel bad for my little sisters, I think,” Jemima said. “I am just fine sharing with Eleanor, although ‘fine’ is all I shall ever feel about the matter.”
The girl took a bite of her fruit, as her parents stole a glance at each other.
Mr. Darcy winked at his wife, who winked back.
That squabble was settled. It was only a matter of time before the next one came about.