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Chapter Text

As he embarked upon his fourth decade of life, one that promised to usher in a great many changes, Fitzwilliam Darcy contended that he well understood what it was to be truly terrified; he believed that he had experienced such an emotion several times throughout the course of his life to date. Lately, Darcy had been ruminating on events of his childhood and adolescence to a greater extent than was his wont. Though, given that his wife’s lying-in had commenced, such an alteration in his behaviour was understandable. As he prepared for the joyous occasion of a new arrival at Pemberley, it was only natural that his thoughts drifted towards the past with increasing frequency.

Mr Darcy readily owned that he had been scared plenty of times, of course; apprehension was an apparent aspect of his disposition. In his recent life, such occasions had included his discovery of Georgiana’s near-elopement with Wickham at Ramsgate; those torturous moments before his first proposal to Elizabeth at Hunsford Parsonage and, of course, his wedding day. They had all proved pretty petrifying prospects. But they would never amount to the true terror he had felt on several occasions throughout his life; occasions which made his stomach churn with dread when he recalled them.

Although the first decade of his life had passed happily enough, with blessedly few tribulations, such good fortune did not continue into Darcy’s second decade. When he was barely ten years of age, an unfortunate incident had occurred, the memory of which still sent a shiver down his spine whenever he recollected it.

One fine, summer evening, a barn on the fringes of the Pemberley estate had been engulfed in flames; the blaze had sent smoke up into the sky, visible for some distance, and there had been substantial concern that some of the magnificent woods, for which the estate was famous, would also fall victim to the fire. Fortunately, thanks to the valiant efforts of the tenants and servants, such a dire outcome had been averted.

With the blaze contained, attention shifted elsewhere and, at first, there had been a great deal of anxiety as to young Master Fitzwilliam’s whereabouts, for he was nowhere to be found. Presumably, it should have brought a great deal of consolation to the master, when his son—who was quite oblivious to the recent panic and consequently, was entirely perplexed as to the degree of his mother’s relief—had shuffled into the entrance hall some time later. 

But the elder Mr Darcy had been unable to feel any sense of ease. For he had it on good authority, from a servant who had been returning to the estate, that a boy had been witnessed running away from the barn mere minutes before the blaze had first been observed. From the description provided by the servant—she had hardly a feature to recollect other than the boy’s hair colour, though she had provided, thanks to his height compared to the trees, a rough estimate as to his age—Mr Darcy had been left in little doubt that the boy was, in fact, his very own son and heir.

When his son did not deny the charges laid at his door, the fury that the late Mr Darcy had directed at young Fitzwilliam had caused the boy to momentarily believe that his father would cast him out, in favour of his contemporary. On that occasion, a blessed combination of a passing physical resemblance to the young master, who possessed an awareness of the privileged position he had been placed into by virtue of his birth, and his subsequent reluctance to betray those within his sphere had bailed Wickham out—not for the last time in the wretch’s life. The subsequent scars from the walloping Darcy had received for the crime he did not commit had faded in time, but the lasting impact on his psyche remained.

Despite not disputing the charges, Darcy had, in fact, possessed an irrefutable alibi; while the blaze raged, he had been in the scullery conversing with Mrs Reynolds and some other servants. But such a social call was well beneath the heir to the estate, and Darcy well understood that the woman who had shown him so much kindness—while his mother remained in a fragile condition—would certainly have faced grave consequences. Till this day, Darcy had never forgotten the rage in his father’s eyes, as the housekeeper who still served the family had never forgotten his bravery. Both heir and servant had understood that Wickham would have been cast out without a second thought; for it was unlikely that even Lady Anne, fragile as she was, would have been able to reason with her incensed husband and prevent such an outcome. So, it had fallen upon Darcy to act, as a consequence of his birth, in a way that protected others even at his own expense. It was a decision for which he had paid a heavy price.

Many years later, after the events which had transpired at Ramsgate, Darcy mused that he, perhaps, should not have shown so much compassion to the boy who had been afforded every opportunity to make a better life, but seemed instead determined to see himself ruined. The blaze in the barn had been one of the first signs that George Wickham had commenced his descent down a sad path of self-destruction—though it had been far from the last.

Then, scarcely one year after the fire, an early morning conversation with his father had rendered Darcy an inwardly inconsolable wreck. But, as his father had solemnly informed him, it was imperative to maintain the illusion of normality. So, Darcy had repressed his emotions and buried them somewhere deep within him; then, he had dressed and eaten before attending his lessons as usual. Though his mind raced and his heart ached, outwardly he had appeared perfectly calm. Inwardly, Darcy had endured the very depths of hell, but both his tutor and Wickham were oblivious. If they had noticed anything untoward, it was perhaps only that Darcy wrote even more slowly than was his wont. But the exercise of conjugating French verbs had little meaning for him, not when he had just been informed—by his distraught father—that his mother would not be long for this world.

Unfortunately, the ordeal of bringing his beloved little sister into it had proven too great for Lady Anne’s already fragile body to bear. As Mr Darcy had imparted the news, Master Fitzwilliam had tearfully begged his papa to be admitted to her chamber, but he was not permitted to say his own farewell, nor meet his much-wished-for sibling quite yet. Such a notion would not have been proper. Not for a Darcy. No, instead Pemberley must continue to function as normal and nothing —not even this last, terrible sickness of its mistress—could threaten its prosperity. Not when so many depended upon it for their livelihoods. Father and son could not give into their emotions at such a fraught juncture.

Consequently, until Lady Anne Darcy’s death had been announced and Pemberley had been plunged into mourning, her son had been ordered to behave as though nothing were amiss. News of her prognosis had been kept as the strictest of secrets. Panic must not pollute the shades of Pemberley. Continuing as normal with the knowledge of his mother’s impending demise was a burden the young Darcy had bravely borne for almost a month, in his ultimate tribute to her, until she had finally departed to meet her maker. 

Although his mother’s death had devastated him deeply, Darcy had been prevented from being overwhelmed by his grief. Shortly afterwards, he had been removed from Pemberley, alongside Wickham, in order to continue his schooling at a prestigious college in one of the southern counties. Though Darcy had still missed his mother dearly, not least when he returned to Derbyshire each summer and had felt her absence most keenly, there had been much to occupy him with. Learning and books had become his refuge and he had regularly attained the top marks in his class. Yet, regrettably, his penchant for such intellectual pursuits had not been shared by his companion, who had discovered his own enjoyment of more sinful endeavours. 

Though both the fire at Pemberley and loss of his mother had been excruciating ordeals, the single most terrifying moment of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s life had occurred shortly after he entered the third decade of his life; it had been that moment when his father had finally expired after a long battle with illness, having never truly recovered after the loss of his beloved wife a decade earlier. At the moment the late Mr Darcy had drawn his final breath, despite the assembled apothecaries and numerous relatives who had gathered to support Darcy and Georgiana in their hour of need, he had never felt more alone in the world. 

For who could have comprehended the burden which now lay upon his shoulders? That he had seen all the responsibilities as the master of Pemberley thrust upon him, when he was barely of age himself? Darcy had not expected such a situation to arise for a great many years. He scarcely felt able to care for himself; yet he now had to ensure Pemberley’s continued prosperity, lest he be consigned to history as the Darcy who destroyed the fortunes of his family . At the very moment his father had expired, Darcy had suddenly become the master of Pemberley, a guardian for Georgiana and an orphan—all at once. Suddenly, there had been scores of people within his charge, whose livelihoods depended upon him—including his own sister. At once, he had shifted from being Georgiana’s elder brother, to being akin to her father. It had been a petrifying prospect.

Such a trio of experiences had, in combination, formed his present character.

Though Darcy was never one to shy away from owning his flaws, and could easily recognise—with the benefit of hindsight and a loving wife—the impact such experiences had upon shaping his character into a reserved and occasionally prideful man, he would never dare to use such events to excuse any of his poor behaviour. Of course, such events may have explained his propensity to think meanly of all the rest of the world beyond his own family circle—an attitude which had undoubtedly hampered his chances of making a favourable first impression, including upon his own wife—but Darcy held no regrets, or wishes that his life had transpired any differently—save for wishing his parents were still alive; for his decades of life had shaped him into the man he was today. The man who was the recipient of such a powerful love from the woman who had properly humbled him, and made him aware—to a perhaps painful extent—of all his flaws and his misplaced pride.

Without his Elizabeth, Mr Darcy dreaded to think what dismal company he would be in, and how much poorer the lives of both he and Georgiana would have been without her presence. He loved his wife in a way that he had long believed was impossible for a man such as himself. So sceptical was he that it was possible to truly adore another entirely—though he did, he loved his wife even with her flaws—and be loved equally in return, even with his flaws; but she did. Darcy loved Elizabeth with every fibre of his being, just as she loved him.

Indeed, it was this ardent love for each other which had caused her present condition. A condition that had, in turn, led to his eyes being opened to the fact he, even with his past experiences, could not comprehend what it was to be truly terrified.

For, as his wife’s lying-in had commenced, Darcy discovered that he was sorely mistaken in his assertion that he understood what it was to be petrified beyond belief. True terror was the emotion he experienced now, in full knowledge of the potential perils contained within the ordeal that lay before her; such fear that was only intensified thanks to the all-consuming love he felt for her. Of course, he had been anxious often enough over the last seven months they had known she was with child, but it was nothing compared to the nervousness he felt as they entered this, the final stage before they would meet their firstborn. 

Mr Darcy wished more than anything that he could be with her now, but Elizabeth had made it quite clear that she did not wish for him to be present for the birth. He knew that his wife was a headstrong woman; that once she formed and settled upon an idea, it was quite the impossible task to persuade her away from a particular course of action. Even so, Darcy was disappointed in himself; he felt as though he had failed her. For he knew that Elizabeth had every reason to wish him far away from the birthing chamber. His exile was a fate he had brought upon himself.

Most wives would likely complain that her husband had not proved himself attentive enough throughout the various stages and towards the manifold challenges presented by her condition. Elizabeth Darcy could not level such charges at her husband, however. Her beloved had been nothing but attentive; though she had found both his motivation for such concern, and the way he expressed his fears, to be rather troubling indeed to her resolve and trying upon her nerves.

Darcy knew that he should have better concealed his struggles when it came to Elizabeth’s condition. That even if he was concerned—he believed he had every reason to be, having witnessed the toll bringing life into the world could take upon a woman—he still should not have been as overbearing as he had been. Darcy could scarcely blame his wife for her decision, but it did not mean that it had devastated him any less.

They had been alone together in the sitting room in their apartments after dinner, discussing plans for the upcoming birth, when—to Darcy’s consternation—Elizabeth had informed him that she did not wish for him to be present in the birthing chamber.

‘I do not wish to cause you pain with this request, Fitzwilliam, but I fear that your presence at the birth may cause my courage to waver.’

Darcy had been stunned, but he would never force his wife into a situation that she did not wish to find herself in. If he was not wanted by Elizabeth at the birth of their child, he would not impose himself on her. Even if he had reason to believe that her relations had perhaps influenced her in such a decision—and he did, given the garrulousness of her mother—it was plain from the pleading, desperate look within her dark eyes that she was entirely sincere in the request. So, he had agreed without a second thought, and Elizabeth had quickly expressed her gratitude for his compassion.

‘I thank you for your understanding. I know, from attending to Jane, the terrible state I shall be in. I wish to spare you from that, from fretting over my well-being.’

Though outwardly conciliatory, Darcy had inwardly chastised himself for his failure to better conceal his emotions. Yet, he knew such a wish was futile. Nothing could move him as Elizabeth could. She had the capacity to provoke emotions within him that, truthfully, were quite terrifying to a man with his natural reservedness.

As a result of that conversation—which had taken place some weeks ago—Darcy now found himself barred from the birthing chamber, and he cut a lonely, dismal figure as he trudged through the halls of Pemberley towards the breakfast parlour, where Mr Bingley awaited him. Darcy would have preferred to be alone, but there was something to be said for having a friend as amiable as Bingley close by at such a fraught juncture as the birth of one’s first child.

Mr Bingley made pleasant conversation, encouraging Darcy out of his moroseness in a way that his friend did not find grating nor insincere. But despite Bingley’s best efforts, Darcy’s responses were monosyllabic. Bingley was no more successful in his encouraging Darcy to eat more; for the colourful array of fruit before him—most impressive considering it was wintertime—did not seem appetising in the least to Darcy. Not when his stomach churned with the knowledge that, perhaps, this would be the day of Pemberley’s new arrival.

The meal—though no conversation—was shortly interrupted by the thudding of the heavy door as it swung open. Darcy’s blood ran cold at the sight of the woman before him, especially given her flustered, unkempt appearance. It was clear that she had been in some great hurry, and he momentarily feared the worst.

Were it not for the presence of Bingley, who upon perceiving her had cheerfully greeted his wife, Darcy would have sunk to the depths of despair. As he comprehended that Mrs Bingley’s countenance and manner of speaking was not that of a sister burned by grief, he felt himself relax. Jane had wanted to ensure that Mr Darcy was personally informed that his wife’s pains had begun earlier that morning. She could barely contain her excitement as she informed him that it should not be long until he met his child; before she quickly made her apologies and returned to her sister’s side.

With the impartation of such news having just taken place, there was no way Darcy could contemplate consuming another morsel on his plate. He placed his elbows upon the table and took his head in his hands in an attempt to compose himself. Swiftly noticing his friend’s distress, Mr Bingley quickly offered to engage him with a walk around the grounds. But Darcy was panic-stricken and agitated; he declined, and explained that he wished to retreat to his study so that he may answer some matters of business, given that he would likely not have opportunity to do so once the child arrived. In truth, his desire to sequester himself was motivated by his wish that he may fret over Elizabeth’s health, away from prying eyes, and in complete privacy.

Despite Bingley’s protestations that such matters could be postponed and suspicion—given how intimately he knew Darcy—that his friend was, in fact, hiding away to disguise the depths of his emotions from anyone around him, Darcy’s tall frame and foreboding presence broked no room for disagreement.

After only a few more half-hearted attempts from Bingley to encourage him to join him on the stroll—which had continued, much to his annoyance, as they walked through the halls towards his study—Darcy finally found himself alone in his sanctuary. He knew that he should be allowing only the happiest of thoughts to occupy his mind; of how miraculous it would feel to finally hold his child in his arms; of how the babe’s presence in the world would represent a tangible measure of the love he and his wife held for each other; of how strong Elizabeth was and how she would prevail. Instead, Darcy was stricken with worry.

Though Elizabeth had fared well over the course of her condition thus far, with only an occasional period of sickness afflicting her upon her first awakening, he could not prevent himself from fretting— even when he reminded himself of the robustness of his wife. Despite now finding herself with child, Elizabeth had insisted upon walking the grounds each morning after they had concluded breakfast—sometimes even traversing the entire ten miles round the park—for her favourite place to be, apart from at his side, was amongst nature. Elizabeth’s condition had not caused regrettable alterations in the blissfulness of their marital bed, either. Darcy had expected she would not wish to lie with him, but, if anything, her condition had only increased her desires. It had proved a surprise, to be sure, but it had been a most welcome one indeed. Though Elizabeth’s figure before she was with child had always been light, and it had been an initial shock to see her curves manifest and multiply as the months had progressed, her body was beautiful to him in whichever form it took; he had never refused an opportunity to convince her of that fact.

And he was determined that she would never doubt the depths of his attraction to her. Darcy contemplated whether her body would change after the birth, and he resolved—at that moment—to ensure that she never felt insecure about any consequences that lingered after giving him a child. He resolved to make it his duty that she never, for even a moment, doubted his delight in her figure.

However, though his mind had involuntarily drifted to such a matter, Darcy was not of a disposition to dwell on such happy memories; or fantasise about future amorous encounters at a time such as this. Furthermore, he knew that he could not count his chickens before they had hatched. He had no idea of the present condition of his wife. Was she in a great deal of pain, bearing it the best she could? Or were her eyes sparkling with amusement at all the fuss around her?

Though in his mind, Darcy could only imagine scenes too graphic to mention; like something out of those gothic novels he had occasionally caught Elizabeth secretly reading during a quiet evening spent in the library. He was not privy to the particulars of the birthing chamber, and his overactive imagination probably panicked him to a greater extent than was necessary. 

Fortunately, the affection his friend felt for him meant that he was not left alone with such distressing images for too great a duration. A knock at the door drew from him a grumble followed by a call of,  ‘enter!’ and Darcy was soon face to face with Mr Bingley, who was positively hopping from foot-to-foot in agitation in such a manner that any onlooker would surely believe that he —rather than Mr Darcy—was the man shortly to become a father.

‘Darcy, I cannot in good conscience allow you to hide yourself away in here while I know you must be going through hell. You forget that I have been through this ordeal myself already. Sitting around and waiting will do you no good, you must take something for your nerves. I insist upon it.’

At once, Bingley produced a snifter of brandy, and the pleading look in his eyes meant that Darcy was certain that he would not be left in peace until he had downed the contents. The liquid burnt pleasantly as it went down, and Darcy felt a pleasant warmth overtake him, which lasted for some moments, before his senses returned and he recollected the events which had necessitated such drastic measures— brandy before dinner! He had made a solemn vow to himself at university to abstain from alcohol in the morning. In part, after witnessing the exploits of the deplorable Wickham. Darcy was furious at himself for breaking it; but he had no time to dwell on that fact.

‘Now, you must not argue with me,’ said Bingley, gravely, ‘we are to take a stroll around the grounds. I hear from Jane that you and Elizabeth are fond of walking around the estate after breaking your fast, I see no reason that should not be so today.’

Darcy sighed and drummed his fingers against the empty glass. He knew that refusing to join Bingley would be hopeless. With much reluctance, he agreed and at once, Darcy’s valet—a treacherous co-conspirator!—emerged and produced his hat, coat and gloves. 

As he and Bingley emerged, blinking into the cold, bright early winter afternoon, Darcy scuffed his feet like a sullen child as Bingley encouraged him to enjoy the fresh air. He resented being ordered around in such a manner. How could anyone possibly comprehend what he was going through? Even Bingley, who had already been through the ordeal of his wife giving birth, possessed no idea of what it was like for a husband to lose his wife as a consequence of childbirth. Darcy knew the toll such a horror took upon a man. He had observed it at the most painful of quarters when he was just a boy. 

Though his body cooperated in strolling around the grounds, all Darcy longed for was to be at her side. But Elizabeth had expressed a desire that he be anywhere other than in the birthing chamber. And while Darcy knew that undoubtedly some of the blame lay with him for her making such a request, he did not doubt that Elizabeth’s mother would have warned her daughters of how her husband had found each successive birth increasingly difficult to bear. He recalled that, during their conversation in the sitting room when she had delivered the crushing blow that she did not wish for his presence, Elizabeth had told Darcy that, ‘there were some things a man should not see.’ He did not dare argue at the time.

Indeed, it was not the done thing in his family for the father to be present at the birth of his child. With the best accoucheurs at hand, it was thought that an extra body in the room was superfluous, and Darcy was inclined to honour tradition whenever he could. Each heir to Pemberley had been born at the great house, and his child would be no exception. Although it was en vogue for the mother to journey to town to give birth, the Darcys had shunned that particular social expectation. Much as he cared for how he was viewed insofar as to maintain Pemberley’s outstanding reputation, his wife’s well-being was of far more consequence to him than to satisfy a fad. 

While Bingley talked of the landscaping and asked Darcy for the rationale behind the decisions he had made, Darcy’s tortured thoughts made him unable to appreciate the picturesque prospect before him. He warred with himself, not wishing to go against either tradition or Elizabeth’s wishes.

Oh, tradition be damned! he must go to his wife’s side. 

Darcy abruptly turned to his friend and said firmly, ‘Bingley, do not attempt to stop me, I am going to see her.’

‘Darcy, wait!’ pleaded Bingley as Darcy began to walk away, ‘do not act so rash, man! If you see her in this state, she may well resent you forever!’

‘It is a risk I am prepared to take!’ barked Darcy as he strode towards the house, quite convinced that Elizabeth would never feel such an emotion towards him. 

Bingley clapped his hand to his forehead, his frustration that he had failed in his promise to his wife to occupy Darcy for the day was evident. He grimly realised that Jane would be most cross with him, and Elizabeth may never forgive him. He shook his head. The unfairness of it all, for he—of all men—to be placed in such a position!

Meanwhile, Darcy’s trembling limbs carried him with impressive speed towards his wife. He knew these halls by heart, and with the determination that nothing would stop him from being at her side, he was soon in the wing of the house which contained her birthing chamber. As he approached, Darcy was stunned to discover that no horrifying sounds emanated from the room. Nor was there a hive of activity outside that particular room in the East Wing, like he had anticipated. With a deep breath and a gentle rapping of his knuckles against the door, he braced himself, and entered.

The room was eerily quiet. There was no screaming, nor a crying babe to be heard over the faint crackling of the fire. The light it provided was dim, but Darcy could make out a motionless figure in the bed. His stomach churned and his mouth widened in horror as his terrified brain plucked her name from his racing thoughts and he tremblingly yelled, ‘Elizabeth!’

But she could give no reply; she was unmoving. 

Elizabeth was without a child in her arms.

Chapter Text

Elizabeth Darcy had oft fancied herself to be a courageous woman; at the very least, she regularly gave that impression outwardly. Indeed, long before she harboured any affection for him, she had once boldly teased her future husband and informed him that she refused to be alarmed by his presence as she had struggled her way through a piece on the pianoforte. Though Elizabeth had been teasing in her tone, the interaction had shown her stubborn side, as she had daringly told him that her courage always rose with every attempt to intimidate her. At the time, and for a duration afterwards, though said in jest, she really fancied such a notion to be true.

Such a speech, as well as demonstrating Elizabeth’s dearest affection for a laugh, meant that Mr Darcy had been well aware of her innate obstinacy long before he married her. Yet, despite all of it, he had still loved her; he had happily taken her as his wife, without reservation, even though he was under no illusion as to her flaws. It was a fact that humbled Elizabeth each time she recollected it. As such, since she had married Mr Darcy, she had been determined to embody all those traits he had fallen in love with. As she had undertaken her responsibilities as the mistress of Pemberley and grown accustomed to her new life in Derbyshire, Elizabeth had never wavered; she had always been courageous. And it had not really been such an arduous task. Pemberley was the most magnificent place; the servants had been delighted with their new mistress and had been most welcoming; while Darcy had been every inch the doting, attentive husband that she had spent her life wishing for. No, Elizabeth’s courage had always proved ample.

That was, until now.

For, as her lying-in commenced, the mistress of Pemberley felt not an ounce worthy of her reputation for the infamous mettle that she possessed. She was not far short of terrified about the upcoming ordeal. Although she had every reason to believe that she would prevail through the upcoming ordeal due to the notorious robustness of Bennet women—her mother had delivered five healthy daughters, after all, and Jane had been delivered of a healthy boy the past July—Elizabeth could not help but be concerned. Especially not given that there was not a lady to be found anywhere in the land who had not heard some tragic tale of the lying-in of another.

Nonetheless, Elizabeth had plenty of reasons to be confident. She would have the best accoucheurs at her disposal—Darcy had insisted on employing two—and every provision had been taken to ensure her health and comfort. Mr Darcy had ensured that she would want for nothing, that there would be no cause for her to worry. Everything that could be acquired for her, had been; all the latest medical advice had been diligently complied with. Which meant that Elizabeth could do little else—when her pains finally commenced in earnest—except to curse her husband for being such a handsome creature with the kindest of hearts. If he were not so, perhaps they would not have enjoyed such frequent couplings, which had consequently placed her in this state. Her belief in the wisdom of her decision to order Mr Darcy’s exclusion from the birthing chamber momentarily wavered, and she considered making a request that her husband be summoned, but shortly another contraction overwhelmed her and all thoughts—other than those which concerned her agony—were duly banished.

When Elizabeth emerged from the moments of white-hot pain, fears regarding the reality of the ordeal that awaited her took precedence in her mind. How would her mind, and her body be altered? There would be new life for her to care for, and though Mr and Mrs Darcy would receive much help and had rearranged their household accordingly, their lives would change permanently with the newest addition to their family. Still, she knew from observing the great delight that becoming parents had brought Charles and Jane. Elizabeth had scarcely seen anyone as happy as they had been following the arrival of their little boy the past July. As such she knew that such an ordeal would undoubtedly be worth it. And, though Elizabeth dearly appreciated her eldest sister’s presence—she had made the journey from her estate in the neighbouring county to be present at Pemberley for the birth—even Jane could do little to quell her nerves and certainly nothing to allay the agony. 

It was during another moment of reprieve from the pains that were presently periodically consuming her, that Elizabeth put her mind to recalling pleasanter memories. She fondly recalled the day upon which she had first told her husband that she was with child. Recalling the beauty of the grounds she loved—the sweet, fragrant smell of the flowers and the symphony of leaves rustling, while the birds tweeted—brought her immense comfort at such a time.

It had been a beautiful spring morning, and the Darcys had been taking their usual turn about the grounds after breakfast—although there was a distinct lack of chatter. As they had strolled past the beds of rhododendrons and chrysanthemums, Mr Darcy’s countenance had been overcome by concern as he studied his wife, who had been noticeably distant compared to how engaged in their conversations she ordinarily was. Darcy had fretted as to the cause of her quietude, until he had eventually asked, ‘Elizabeth, what troubles you?’

Truthfully, there had been a matter weighing upon Elizabeth’s mind, and Darcy had phrased his question in a way that gave her no room to deny her discomfort. Though she had understood that she did not strictly have to tell him the reason for her withdrawal, she had harboured no wish to conceal her condition from her husband. It was not so much that she had feared any displeasure on Darcy’s part at the news she had been about to impart, he had regularly expressed his wish to become a father; rather, Elizabeth had fretted on whether she possessed the courage to successfully speak the words that would enlighten him as to the tremendous change their lives would shortly undergo. A recent visit from the apothecary had confirmed, as much as one could be certain before the quickening, what Elizabeth had suspected for some time—that she was with child.

Despite her apprehension, Elizabeth’s courage had risen admirably, and she had shortly settled upon a wordless method of imparting the news to her concerned husband. Without meeting his gaze—as she had found herself surprisingly nervous—Elizabeth had tremblingly reached out for Mr Darcy’s large hands and placed his palms upon her stomach. Though there had been, as yet, no noticeable bump, Elizabeth had been certain that her belly was ever so slightly more rounded than usual. When she had finally dared to look into her husband’s eyes, she had been greeted only with confusion. He had not yet comprehended the news she had been attempting to impart; or perhaps not dared to hope for such a blessing. Elizabeth had bitten back a smile at his obliviousness. 

Seeing him so slow on the uptake had calmed Elizabeth’s nerves tremendously, and she had decided to tease him in his ignorance for a little while longer. She chose to remain vague and include some of the banter which characterised their interactions, as she had informed him, ‘I think, my love, that we shall have to patronise Papworth’s during our next visit to town. Perhaps they can assist us in decorating a set of rooms in preparation for our new arrival? We shall need it by Christmas.’

‘You mean…’ Darcy had started, then paused. He had furrowed his brow and collected his thoughts, before continuing, ‘you are… you are with child?’

‘I am,’ Elizabeth had confirmed, unable to prevent the grin which soon spread across her features.

Darcy had taken her into his arms, and softly pressed his lips to her hair, forehead and cheeks before he finally captured her lips for the tenderest of kisses; he was as gleeful as she had ever seen him. His immediate delight at the prospect of becoming a father was evident, as Elizabeth had privately predicted he would be, and she had wondered why she had ever required her courage to rise in the first place!

Of course, Papworth’s had assisted in decorating the nursery. But there had been far more practical considerations to be taken care of, before the room would ever see use by any future Darcy child. Elizabeth’s condition, and Darcy’s fastidiousness, had meant that an entire suite of lying-in chambers in the East Wing had been procured, so that Elizabeth could keep both her relations and the medical personnel close by, as her lying-in approached. Although there had been no expense spared, she had not been frivolous with the money Mr Darcy had authorised her to spend and there was no hint of ostentatiousness in her choice of furnishings.

Although Darcy’s clear ten thousand per annum had never been as appealing to her as his kind heart had, Elizabeth was nonetheless grateful that she had married a man of such means which afforded her the luxury of obtaining her own lying-in chambers, made up exactly to her specification. During such a difficult moment, she was surrounded by lovely paintings of verdant landscapes and vases of fresh, fragrant flowers which had been taken from the Orangery—at Darcy’s suggestion—her birthing chamber had proved to be far from the dismal prison she had feared it would be. His consideration at insisting upon flowers touched her, but Darcy knew how much his wife adored the outdoors; he knew that her present condition prevented her from taking a turn about the grounds she adored. So, if she could not go out of doors, he had resolved to bring some of its beauty to her. 

In search of a rare moment of tranquility amidst the turmoil, Elizabeth smiled as she glanced at the flowers around the room and, not for the first time since her marriage, wordlessly reiterated her gratitude for having such a thoughtful, attentive husband. 

Such pleasant musings were soon interrupted once more, however, by a painful reminder that there was another Darcy soon to make an entrance to the world. As the ordeal continued, Elizabeth fortified herself by recalling that she would soon meet their child, the baby boy or girl whom she and Darcy already adored, even though they had yet to form an acquaintance with the tot.

The matter of a suitable name to bestow upon the newest addition to the Darcy lineage had been a question that had haunted the prospective parents for a considerable duration. The solution had come to them in a piecemeal manner, but Elizabeth was certain that they were both equally satisfied with the names they had agreed upon. The knowledge that she would soon hold in her arms either her little boy or girl, and feel a rush of love unlike anything that had previously overcome her, was exhilarating—any pain was temporarily forgotten.

Elizabeth truly did not care whether she gave birth to a boy or a girl, for she was certain that—despite her mother’s insistence that men only wished for sons, no matter any of their utterances to the contrary—Mr Darcy cared not a jot either. He had vowed that he would love the child regardless of its sex, and Elizabeth knew that earnest look in his eyes , far too well to doubt his sincerity when he had given such an assurance.

Memories of Mrs Bennet’s opinions on the upcoming birth instilled within Elizabeth a fresh sense of relief that her mother had been unable to join them for her lying-in, as her notoriously fragile nerves had worked in Elizabeth’s favour, for once. Mrs Bennet was still quite overcome by all the ecstasy that seeing three daughters married and one grandchild born—with a second on the way—had brought her. 

Though Elizabeth hoped to be able to give Mr Darcy an heir, whom he had graciously insisted should take her maiden name—for reasons, she suspected, as much to do with following a longstanding family tradition as to underscoring, chiefly to his aunt, both his pride in winning Elizabeth’s hand and in his absolute acceptance of her relations—she could not help but hope for a daughter. It had been decided, if they were blessed with a baby girl, that she would take the name of the grandmother who had so unfortunately predeceased her. Elizabeth was keen that Darcy should get to pay tribute to his mother in such a manner, and the thought of a little girl with his colouring and delightful smile stirred such sweet feelings within her. She retained no lingering doubts regarding Mr Darcy’s worthiness to prove a doting father to his daughter. In fact, she had proof enough of his suitable temperament for the task of parenting a girl, thanks to his relationship with Georgiana. In acting as her guardian, he had grown sensitive to all which made ladies so different from gentlemen. 

But Elizabeth was likewise acutely aware that producing an heir was of great importance, and she just as ardently yearned for a son. Though, she had very good reason to believe that, even were she not to give birth to a boy on this occasion, her husband would have no objection to redoubling his efforts. Darcy’s insistence that the family tradition of the first-born son taking his mother’s maiden name had truly humbled Elizabeth. That Darcy had considered that the old, established name known in Hertfordshire for centuries would otherwise be liable to extinction—given that the latest Mr Bennet had produced five daughters—and wished to prevent such a fate stirred the warmest of sentiments within her, and she fell in love with her husband anew. It was a marked change indeed from the man who had formerly disparaged her relations so. It was the final, undeniable proof—not that she had ever required it, nor doubted that his improvement in manners had been genuine—that Darcy was sincere in his acceptance of her relations. The prospect of the name Bennet being forever associated with the Darcys of Pemberley thrilled her. Oh, perhaps she wished for a son, after all!

As the pain momentarily subsided, Elizabeth ardently longed for her husband’s presence. To face such a monumental task alone, without the soothing presence of Mr Darcy by her side, was thus far proving to affect her far more than she had expected that it would. Darcy had not fought her on her decision to exclude him from the birthing chamber when she had informed him of her decision in their sitting room one night after dinner several months ago. Unlike most men, he placed her comfort first. Mr Darcy was not a brute, who would uncaringly force his wife to obey him, nor would he place her into any position that she did not wish to find herself in. It was one of the many reasons Elizabeth so adored him.

Still, at the present moment, Elizabeth wished that Mr Darcy had been a little more forceful. She wished that he had fought her on her decision. She wished that she had not listened to her mother’s assertions that husbands lost respect for their wives after seeing them in such a condition. She wished a great many things; but such wishes were futile now. Not when her labour had progressed to a new stage, and she was informed that it would be not long until her babe was in her arms, by the accoucheurs who now instructed her on the course of action, as her body produced fresh agonising pains. 

In the midst of it all, Elizabeth cried out for her husband using his Christian name, which certainly startled Jane—she was unaccustomed to hearing her sister refer to him thus in the presence of strangers—for he was always, ‘Mr Darcy.’ Though Jane knew, from her own recent experience, that propriety would be the farthest thing from Elizabeth’s mind at present.

‘Why did I ever take my mother’s words to heart!?’ cried out Elizabeth as her head lolled backwards from the exertion.

‘Do you wish for me to fetch him?’ asked Jane meekly, stunned at her sister’s tone.

‘NO!’ screamed Elizabeth, as the pain consumed her once more.

She knew not what she said; for whom she cried out for; whether she adequately followed the instructions of the accoucheurs. Time was a mythical concept. The pain seemed endless and relenting, though fleeting at once. Through it all, Jane was there, with encouraging words and sympathetic looks which calmed her tremendously.

There was one long, last sharp pain; then, she heard the cries which signified that there was a new arrival at Pemberley.

Chapter Text

Although the figure was barely visible through the curtains which had been drawn around her bed, Mr Darcy would recognise his wife’s form under even the most obscure of circumstances. For a few agonising moments, he found himself rooted to the spot—unable to move. He was paralysed by the fear he felt at the notion that he was once again alone in the world. Just as had occurred for his father, that terrible truth that wealth, status and land could not save the woman that he loved seemed to be teaching a haunting lesson to the next generation of Darcys.

Before he plunged into the deepest despair, Darcy strode across the room towards the bed, in the vain hope that his worst fears had not been realised.

‘Elizabeth?!' pleaded a panic-stricken Darcy, in a voice which sounded rather strange, even to himself. His usually deep, even tone of voice was far shakier and of a higher pitch than he ever recollected ever hearing before.

Mr Darcy promptly received a reply, though from a source he had not anticipated. 

‘She’s asleep, Mr Darcy!' a midwife suddenly appeared, with the apparent aim of scolding him like a naughty child, ‘after such a long labour, I think you’ll agree that Mrs Darcy needs her rest.' 

‘You mean, the baby… is delivered?'

‘Oh yes, sir!’ she seemed stunned that he had not been informed of the development, ‘he’s in the nursery at present.'

He. 

Fitzwilliam Darcy had a son, an heir … but most importantly, Elizabeth was only asleep! She was merely recuperating after the ordeal of delivering their baby boy into the world; no harm had befallen her.

Darcy had lost nothing; he had gained everything.

He was aware, in the fringes of his vision, that there was a sudden burst of activity in the room. Darcy’s pulse pounded in his ears as he vaguely comprehended that one of the birthing party was calling his name and beckoning him towards her. He could hardly place one foot in front of the other, his vision had been made blurry thanks to the heady combination of emotions surging through his every extremity.

The familiar presence of Mrs Reynolds brought him back to his senses. She took his arm, and guided him to the nursery; to meet his son. 

Pemberley was as familiar to Darcy as the back of his hand, but in the emotional aftermath of the past quarter-of-an-hour, he could scarcely determine one room from the next. It was only when the recognisable face of Jane Bingley, who was beaming from ear to ear, entered into view, that he returned to his senses. If Elizabeth’s most beloved sister was as utterly overjoyed as the grin upon her face suggested, it only confirmed the midwife’s assurances that all was well. Still, until he actually held his son in his arms, he remained unconvinced that he was not in the midst of the most magnificent of dreams.

Jane explained that Elizabeth had been delivered of their son rather more quickly than had been anticipated by anyone and, when it had been eventually decided that the master should be summoned, Darcy had been nowhere to be found. At that moment, he cursed Bingley for taking him on the blasted walk! But truthfully, Darcy was far too overjoyed to remain truly sullen. His mind was still spinning from the news that he had a son. 

Bennet, his precious heir.

At Jane’s touch on his forearm, Darcy was brought back to the moment. As he glanced at her, he discovered that she had an expectant expression on her face, as though she had just asked a question and was awaiting an answer. 

‘I beg your pardon?’ questioned Darcy.

‘I asked, brother, whether you wish to form an acquaintance with your son?’

A rush of emotions quite unlike anything he had ever experienced overtook him at that moment. At once, he was petrified and excited in equal measure at the thought of finally meeting the baby. He was terrified of inadvertently causing harm to his son, but equally desperate to hold him in his arms. Only Jane’s voice as she softly called, ‘Fitzwilliam,’ returned him to his senses. He looked into her patient eyes—undoubtedly, she had some semblance of his present emotions—and slowly nodded.

Jane urged him to sit in the armchair, and disappeared to the other side of the nursery. When she returned, she was holding an impossibly tiny bundle, which apparently contained the newest addition to the Darcy lineage. With trembling hands and as his pulse thundered in his ears, Mr Darcy instinctively reached out to accept the precious contents contained within the quilts.

Jane could scarcely hide her astonishment; she had meant only for him to see the child. That Mr Darcy wished to cradle him in his arms was a moving gesture, indeed. 

The first sight of his tiny child sleeping brought forth such an overwhelming surge of adoration within Darcy that he was certain it would overwhelm even the sturdiest of dams, were it a tangible wave. As it happened, it could not be quantified by any one other than himself; though those privileged enough to observe the formidable master of Pemberley meeting his child for the first time could not fail to notice the way his eyes softened when he glanced at his son, and the emotion that glistened there as he continued to watch his beloved baby boy. 

The infant’s impossibly long, dark lashes touched Darcy’s very soul at the moment he first laid eyes upon them. And, though Bennet was presently asleep, so their colour was impossible to discern, their shape was so like his mother’s. Visible too, was unmistakable evidence of that proud Darcy brow and strong nose; visible in many of the portraits of generations past which hung in the gallery. They were undoubtedly features the tiny baby had inherited from his father. To see the features of he and his wife mingled like this humbled Darcy in a way that he could not express in any way, other than in the tears which silently slipped down his cheeks. 

To go from the terror that the utter conviction that he was alone in the world had produced in him when he had first entered his wife’s chamber, to the ecstasy of realising that she had, in fact, delivered a beautiful, perfect baby boy was such an abrupt alteration in emotion that Darcy found himself quite overwhelmed by the moment. Although acutely aware that he was not alone, that Jane and the other members of the birthing party—including the midwife—were only a few paces away, the new father could not bring himself to care that they were witnesses to such an open display of emotion.

This was one of the most extraordinary days of his life, perhaps not even surpassed by that fateful day upon which Elizabeth had informed him that her sentiments towards him had undergone so material a change that she welcomed his assurances; or the day in that church in Hertfordshire when she had finally become his Mrs Darcy. He would recall with fondness this day, in tandem with the two aforementioned—as well as any forthcoming days when further Darcys were welcomed into the world—for the rest of his time upon this earth.

Finally composed enough to contemplate words, Mr Darcy leaned down and pressed his lips to his son’s soft forehead, inhaling deeply his scent as he did so. ‘Welcome to Pemberley, my darling Bennet,’ whispered Darcy to his son, before he glanced up to Jane and admitted, ‘I never believed it possible to feel a love so overwhelming as this.’ 

‘It is a feeling you shall soon grow accustomed to. Though I remember when I first laid eyes upon our little Charles, a rush of emotion, near-terrifying in its intensity, overtook me,’ said Jane fondly, recalling that day in July when she had been delivered of a bonny baby boy of her own.

Darcy would have been content to bask in the glory of the present moment for, oh! perhaps even the rest of his life. But a man as devoted to his wife as he was could not shirk his responsibility to her. Upon recalling that Elizabeth could awaken at any moment, and undoubtedly succumb to panic—as he had done—once she realised that her son was not at her side; Darcy resolved that he would take their boy to her chamber and await her to awaken from her well-earned slumber.

Absolutely resolved on his course of action, Mr Darcy abruptly—yet carefully, given the babe nestled in his arms—rose from the armchair and offered an explanation to the plainly astonished Jane. 

‘I shall go with Bennet to Mrs Darcy’s room. Please, do not attempt to prevent me. I could never live with myself, were we not there when she awoke.’

Fortunately, neither his wife’s sister, nor those who had attended to her during the birthing process, dared to protest against the master’s wishes. Though Darcy would have easily overcome any challenge to his desires; given the near-overwhelming urge he felt to unite the members of his family and to be with both Bennet and Elizabeth at once.

As he strode purposefully through the rooms which connected Bennet’s nursery to the birthing chamber, Darcy was filled with both trepidation and eagerness to be back with the woman who had brought him such tremendous joy. Darcy tentatively entered the room which, mere hours before, had been a rather chaotic scene, yet was now the picture of tranquility. From her shallow, even breaths, Darcy could tell that his wife remained sound asleep.

Elizabeth was clearly exhausted by her ordeal. Mr Darcy did not know for how long she would sleep, though he knew that she unquestionably deserved her rest. It was obvious that her body and mind required a period of recuperation. Though being barred from the birthing chamber meant that Mr Darcy knew nothing of the particulars of childbirth, he was not an ignorant man; he could guess that bringing a child into the world would be a rather arduous task, indeed. In the interim, while he awaited his wife’s awakening, he was perfectly content to sit at her side and watch his boy peacefully slumber.

However, the proximity in which he found himself to his son and the deep desire he felt to demonstrate the depth of the love he harboured for him meant that Darcy could not resist leaning down and pressing another tender kiss to the tot’s forehead. The touch of his father’s lips caused Bennet to finally stir; his eyelids fluttered open, and he took in the sight of his papa for the very first time. If the baby could have discerned any intricate details of his father’s features, he would have seen a proud pair of adoring eyes staring down at him. Unfortunately, all that young Bennet Darcy could perceive was a blurry shape in the low light of a room that was, at present, unfamiliar to him; yet, over the course of his life, he would come to know as intimately as each and every other in the handsome stone building, perched atop a hill on the magnificent estate that he would one day inherit. 

Now that his son had awoken, Darcy was desirous of deepening his connection with him, especially when Bennet freed his tiny hand from the blanket he had carefully been swaddled in. As the baby flailed his arms around, Darcy was fascinated by the petiteness of his hand. Bennet’s hand was so small that it barely looked able to contain the myriad of features it did; but Darcy was mesmerised upon the discovery that each characteristic of his own manus was evident within his son’s. There were tiny knuckles and nails, details that almost moved him to tears upon his noticing them. 

Darcy felt an instinctive need to hold his son’s hand and tentatively reached out to stroke Bennet’s hand with his fingers; though the baby’s hand proved to be so tiny that Darcy soon discovered that merely one of his fingers was sufficient to traverse the entire extent of Bennet’s manus. It was not long before the tiny tot enthusiastically took his father’s digit in his hand and wrapped his entire fist around Darcy’s finger in a vice-like grip. Darcy felt his breath hitch at the sight. The baby was as tiny as he was trusting. The notion that this love he felt for his son was already reciprocated caused Darcy’s vision to grow blurry with more tears. Such emotion was a consequence of the moment that he was powerless to prevent, not when he had seen their already evident bond and seen and felt the tiny, soft perfection of Bennet’s hand. The sight of his son’s impossibly small hand wrapped around but one of his fingers had deeply moved Darcy, and he was so engrossed in the tender moment that he did not immediately realise that, some moments later, Bennet had been joined in his state of wakefulness by Elizabeth; he was oblivious to the fact that father, mother and son were united in their mutual awareness of the others for the very first time.

Elizabeth, upon awakening, was stunned at the familiar presence that she could perceive through the gap in the curtains. She had not expected to see him, let alone for him to be holding their child in such an intimate manner so soon after he had been born. It was a touching moment; one that Elizabeth savoured. Though the quietude was soon broken, as she called out in a small voice, ‘Fitzwilliam?’

He glanced up at once, eyes wide and misty. ‘Elizabeth,’ said Darcy reverently, voice barely above a whisper. He carefully stood up from the armchair and approached her side. He enquired after her health and she replied that she was well, all things considered, if a little tired. Darcy gladly granted her request to hold Bennet in his arms. Once the tot was secure, he perched upon the edge of the bed and leant down to press his lips to Elizabeth’s forehead.

‘Thank you, my darling, for making me the happiest of men, by bringing our beautiful boy into the world. I do not yet have the words to adequately describe my emotions, other than to state that I did not think it was possible for a man such as myself to feel so deeply a love such as this.’

Elizabeth was touched by his words. Though, in their year of marriage, she had happily been on the receiving end of an increasing number of emotional declarations—as her husband had gradually become acquainted with the depth of feelings within himself—she had scarcely seen him so overcome as he was at this present moment. It touched her deeply, and the feeling of adoration which blossomed in her breast towards him and the baby that was staring up at her with wide, dark eyes almost overwhelmed her, too.

She composed herself sufficiently to tell Darcy of the strength of her emotions, ‘Oh, Fitzwilliam. I can only thank you for bringing me such joy. He is the most perfect creature I have ever beheld! And fatherhood becomes you, my love. I know already that you shall make an excellent father to our son. Our pride and joy. Our Bennet.’ 

Darcy gathered his wife in his arms and placed kisses to her damp, mussed hair. Even in her unkempt state, she remained the handsomest lady he had ever laid eyes upon; perhaps the exertion of bringing his child into the world had rendered her even more so. He had always harboured a preference, as bizarre as it may have seemed to other men, to see her at her greatest state of dishevelment. For that was when Elizabeth was truly mesmerising to behold in her effortless beauty. 

Though both Mr and Mrs Darcy wished that their private moment spent appreciating their little family could have stretched on for eternity, they knew that such a luxury could not be afforded to the master and mistress of such a great estate. Soon, there would be plenty of relations eager to dote upon Bennet, and to congratulate his proud parents on their birth. Elizabeth expected that Darcy would first fetch Georgiana, then Jane and Bingley, before Kitty was introduced to her nephew. Mrs Reynolds would also be undoubtedly promptly welcomed to the nursery, and Elizabeth suspected that she would be as proud as another woman who formerly resided at Pemberley would have been, had she lived long enough to witness this day. Though Bennet would have but one grandmother by blood—a woman who would undoubtedly see her nerves rally once news that Elizabeth had borne an heir reached her in Hertfordshire—Elizabeth knew that he would never be lacking for love from the various household staff at Pemberley, who had observed Master Fitzwilliam Darcy blossom from a boy into a young man, into a husband and now, finally, a father himself.

The thought of the future would have daunted Elizabeth, but at present she was much too happy to do anything other than bask in the warmth of feeling that was produced by having, swaddled against her, one of those she loved most in the world; while the arms of the other were wrapped securely around her. 

Despite Elizabeth and Mr Darcy’s respective wishes to sequester themselves in this blissful moment forever, all too soon, their mutual reverie was interrupted by a knock upon the door.

The first visitors, upon being welcomed into the chamber, quickly discovered that the master and mistress of Pemberley cut respectively radiant figures, in only the way that those happiest of couples, overjoyed with the excitement and blessing of becoming parents for the first time can do so.

Bennet Darcy had finally made his arrival into the world, and had brought with him to Pemberley a celebratory atmosphere that had been sorely lacking at the grand old estate for far too long. 

Chapter Text

Almost eight months had passed since Bennet Darcy had been born and, in the months since that fateful winter day, scarcely an hour had passed at Pemberley when he had not produced some fit of feverishness with a particularly adorable motion he had made, or look he had given to one of the many people who were devoted to caring for him. His parents were utterly besotted by him, and had no improper pride in their little son; it was universally agreed that he was a thoroughly delightful creature!

Mr and Mrs Darcy were certainly involved parents, and were always desirous in stealing an hour or two with their precious Bennet whenever they could manage to; though they had welcomed a number of staff into the household whose sole purpose was to care for him, and consequently their presence was never required, neither of them could conceive of allowing a day to pass without, at some point over the course of it, holding their precious Bennet in their arms. Although they were busy enough with their own duties, Bennet’s mother and father had immediately taken upon his birth, and continued to show—as he grew—a keen interest in these precious early stages of the boy’s life.

Unfortunately, on this particular day, circumstances had conspired to detain both of them for much of the day and, as yet, neither Elizabeth nor Mr Darcy had been able to visit the nursery and spend any time with Bennet. 

Now that the sweltering heat of the day had abated, Elizabeth was desirous of engaging her husband for a turn about the grounds, so that they may enjoy this particularly pleasant warm summer evening. Though she longed to spend some time with Bennet, she had been occupied through the chief of the day with Mrs Reynolds, who was assisting her with the preparations for the upcoming summer ball, and subsequently felt rather like a caged animal owing to her having been in doors for so long. Though she was conscious that she had not yet paid her usual visit to the nursery, Elizabeth had every intention of spending time with Bennet after she returned from her walk. 

This evening, the mistress’s thoughts were, for once, not chiefly concerned with her son. Instead, Elizabeth had been pacing the lofty halls of the great house for some time, in hopes that she would eventually encounter her husband. Mr Darcy had been lately accustomed to spending his evenings in the library, with his nose buried in a volume, while Elizabeth met with Mrs Reynolds to discuss the upcoming ball to be held at Pemberley. However, on this particular evening, when she had strode expectantly into the library, instead of her lovely husband, Elizabeth was instead greeted by a dark, deserted room.

The pleasant melodic playing emanating from the music room led Elizabeth to believe, as she approached it, that Mr Darcy had instead decided upon spending an evening with his sister and had entreated her to play for him at the pianoforte. Yet, that, too, proved to be a misguided notion. For a confused Georgiana, when appealed to for intelligence as to his whereabouts, insisted that she had not seen her brother, either.

So, Elizabeth’s search continued.

The sun had barely disappeared behind the horizon, and though Darcy was customarily an early riser, Elizabeth had little reason to believe that her husband would have retired for the evening at such an early hour. Nor was he likely to be out of doors, having undertaken a particularly lengthy ride around the extent of the park that morning, in order to visit his tenants. She furrowed her brow, wondering where her husband could possibly be hiding. 

The answer came to her with alacrity. Of course! Mr Darcy would surely have been keen to spend some time with Bennet after dinner this evening, having been denied the privilege of doing so earlier, thanks to his obligation to visit his tenants. With renewed confidence that she now possessed the knowledge of her husband’s whereabouts, Elizabeth proceeded to the East Wing; to Bennet’s nursery.

Though she had expected to find him there, when Elizabeth finally made it to the nursery, she was unprepared for the endearing scene before her. For, upon entering the nursery, Elizabeth was greeted with the heartwarming sight of Darcy holding Bennet on his lap, as he quietly read in an armchair before the fire. She leaned against the door and quietly observed the tenderness with which her husband softly rocked their son. Though he was undoubtedly an intelligent child—really, it was impossible not to be with two such clever parents—Elizabeth knew that Bennet could not be so precocious as to comprehend the words in earnest; still, for all intents and purposes, from his present position upon his papa’s lap, it appeared that little Bennet surveyed each word with his large, dark eyes—just as his father did.

At the sight, Elizabeth quietly chuckled to herself. Darcy was so engrossed in his novel that he had not yet comprehended her intrusion into his serene, private moment with Bennet. Though he had previously been insistent on absolute silence if anyone had joined him when he read in the library of an evening, it seemed that such a requirement did not extend to his son, who cooed periodically as his papa rocked him. Yet Darcy apparently did not mind the noise produced by his heir.

Unable to resist approaching them—with the resolution that she may tease her husband—Elizbeth finally moved from her position by the door and walked towards the armchair. Darcy responded to the footsteps at once, as he turned to his wife and gave her an affectionate smile in greeting; Elizabeth’s was far more satirical in nature.

‘I seem to recall, Mr Darcy, that before our son's arrival into the world, you would grow rather grouchy indeed if your reading time was disturbed. It appears that your heart has been softened somewhat in becoming a father, and you are perhaps prepared to make an exception by admitting another to your solitude?’ questioned Elizabeth, teasingly. 

‘I find that I am quite unable to deny Bennet of anything his heart desires. I quite intended to leave him alone after my usual visit, but upon attempting to retreat to the library, it appeared he had a rather different idea of where I should spend my evening. He conveyed as much with a terrible bout of wailing, which made my heart ache, and I could not leave him! With merely one look at me, with his large dark eyes, I sent Robertson scampering down to the library to fetch my volume.’

Elizabeth smirked, and said wryly, ‘I wonder truly at who would not leave whom .’ 

Darcy merely shrugged, but his eyes rather gave the game away; Elizabeth giggled and shook her head adoringly at him. This sweet, sensitive side of Mr Darcy had been evident since they wed, but it had only been truly brought to the surface since Bennet’s birth, and though she was increasingly accustomed to seeing this tender aspect of her husband, Elizabeth still delighted in his sweetness whenever it emerged. Though she had envisioned passing the evening in an entirely different manner by enjoying a walk about the grounds, Elizabeth had not the heart to leave either her husband nor her son. 

So, Elizabeth settled in the armchair opposite and ordered her own novel to be fetched from the library, so that she may join the Darcy men in their evening spent reading. Fortunately, the grounds of Pemberley were not likely to disappear any time soon; Elizabeth knew that there would always be another warm summer’s evening upon which to enjoy a walk at dusk. 

It was the sound of soft snoring, some time later, which alerted her attention that Mr Darcy had joined his son in slumber. His book was now forgotten upon his lap, and Darcy’s head reclined against the back of the armchair as he softly snored; while Bennet’s head, with its endearing smattering of dark hair, rested against his father’s chest, as his perfect peach lips—shaped like Cupid’s bow—vibrated slightly with each exhalation. She would fetch the nurse in due course, so that Bennet could be properly put to bed for the night. But for a few moments, that she perhaps selfishly wished could extend into eternity, Elizabeth Darcy was perfectly content to quietly sit and admire the sight before her.

The delight which Elizabeth had long felt at making such a marriage that had allowed her to spend her days surrounded by the beauty of the Peaks, at as magnificent an estate as Pemberley, presently paled in comparison to the gratification she felt at witnessing such simple a delight as her husband and son dozing together.

For they were the most magnificent sight that Elizabeth had ever beheld.

FINIS