Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2 (12 page)

"Elizabeth is fine," I said. "The baby's a boy."

And then I realised abruptly how tired I was, and sat down next to Edward on the sofa, curling against him and resting my head against his shoulder. He put an arm around me and drew me closer. "Do you want anything to eat? We could send for--"

I shook my head, though. "No, that's all right. I'm too exhausted to eat--and I'm not even the one who did all the hard work."

Edward's laugh was a breath of warmth on my temple. I turned around so that I could look up at him and said, "Did you really once deliver a baby?"

"I really did." The ghost of a smile lifted the corners of Edward's mouth. "And in weather not unlike today's, in fact."

"Will you tell me?"

Edward doesn't usually talk about his experiences on campaign. He seemed to hesitate. But then he settled back against the arm of the couch, one arm still around me. "It was in Spain--on a retreat over a mountain range. We'd been marching day and night almost without rest for days. And the weather had turned cold, with driving snow. It was ... bad. Men were dropping in their tracks from exhaustion. But then I suppose I told you of that part before. And then--in the middle of the second night--I saw one of my men fall out of the column of marchers with his wife. She was in the family way--and close to her time--so I went back to see if I could be of any help. Privately not giving much for their chances of surviving the night. If I'd still had my horse, I'd have given it to them in an instant. But the poor beast had already died and been slaughtered for its meat." Edward's eyes had gone distant. "I had no idea what I was doing, of course. But the woman's husband was half-dead himself with hunger and cold. So I stayed with the both of them, and ... an hour later, just as the final supply wagons were rolling past us on the road, the child was born."

"And what happened to them?" I was so tired I asked the question before I realised. But then regretted it the instant I heard the words leave my mouth. Because it seemed as though the answer couldn't possibly be a happy one.

But Edward smiled again. "Do you know, they all three survived? Husband, wife, and child? We were in a skirmish with some of the enemy the next day and I lost track of them. But the next time I saw them they were all three alive and doing better than I could have hoped. The husband lost a leg a few months later, so they were sent back to England. But I saw them just a few months ago. The baby--it was a boy--is four years old now, and has two younger sisters, as well."

We were quiet a time. The heat of the fire was making me feel even sleepier, and I leaned against Edward again and stifled a yawn--and then said, "Oh, I nearly forgot. Elizabeth said to tell you
thank you
."

"She's very welcome," Edward said.

I must have fallen asleep after that, because the next thing I knew, I was vaguely aware of Edward lifting me up in his arms and carrying me up the stairs. I don't remember him bringing me to my room or setting me down. But I woke up in my own bed, under the blankets Edward must have drawn over me.

It's still early morning now, and the house feels hushed, as though all the snow outside is insulating it from the rest of the world. Outside, the branches of all the trees on the lawn are bowed nearly to the ground by the weight of the snow on them.

And now that I've written all this down, I'd better finish dressing and see how Elizabeth and the baby are today.

Later ...

I'm back in my own room again. Though I did go to see Elizabeth.

The door was open just a crack, so I pushed it open and peeped in. The curtains were drawn, and it was early enough that the room was still dim, but after a moment I could just see Elizabeth and the baby, sound asleep in the bed, the baby just a little red-faced swaddled bundle--a little like a caterpillar--against Elizabeth's side.

The fire had gone out and the room was chilly--but I didn't want to wake either of them by ringing for anyone to come and bring more coals. So I just slipped into Elizabeth's dressing room, intending to get an extra blanket to spread over them. I did find the blanket and was standing just in the dressing room doorway, about to go back into the bedroom when I heard running footsteps racing up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, or so it sounded like.

And the next moment my brother was in the room. I let out a breath of relief--because although I hadn't
really
thought he might have been caught somewhere on the road in the storm, a part of me had still feared he might, and I was so thankful to see him returned safely home.

Fitzwilliam passed within ten feet of the doorway where I stood, but he didn't see me, nor even glance in my direction. If he'd knocked me over and had to step over my prostrate body to get to Elizabeth's bedside, I'm not sure he would have noticed I was there.

He had a look on his face I'd never, ever seen in him before, and I saw his hand shake as he steadied himself on the bedpost, looking down at Elizabeth and the sleeping baby.

Elizabeth's eyes fluttered open, and she blinked--and then she sat up and said, "Darcy!"

My brother, his voice turned husky and uneven, said, "Elizabeth--oh, God, you're ... are you--"

"I'm fine. Splendid, in fact." I could hear the smile in Elizabeth's tone. "And if you come over here, you can meet your son."

I drew back a little into the shadows of the dressing room. But not too much, because I didn't want to risk making too much noise. I didn't mean to eavesdrop--but I didn't want to come bursting out and spoil their first few moments of being together, either. So I stayed where I was.

Fitzwilliam had sat down on the edge of the bed, his arms around Elizabeth and his face buried in her hair. His shoulders were shaking. And that made me freeze, completely forgetting all question of eavesdropping. Because I've never seen my brother cry. Not even when our mother and then our father died.

When he raised his head, his eyes were wet, though, and his hand still trembled as he smoothed the dark curls away from Elizabeth's brow. "Oh, God, I've been half out of my mind these last weeks. I was certain I was going to lose you."

"Lose me?"

Fitzwilliam exhaled and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "That's how my mother died. When I was seventeen. She was nearly forty. And the birth was too much for her. She died. And the child died, too. And I was afraid--" he broke off to exhale hard again, then closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Elizabeth's. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. Nothing I wouldn't protect you from. But whatever I did, however much I wanted to, I couldn't protect you from this. You could have died, and I'd have been powerless to do anything at all."

Elizabeth pulled back and was staring at him. "
That's
why you've been so distant and strange these last weeks?
That's
what's been troubling you?"

Fitzwilliam ran a hand down his face. "I'm sorry. I should have known you'd notice. I did try not to let you see anything was wrong. I didn't want to burden you--or make you afraid."

Elizabeth was laughing. Laughing and biting her lip, trying to make herself stop--which made her snort a little. "I'm not supposed to laugh too much. Mrs. Reynolds said it might do damage. But--" she gave up the struggle and started to laugh all over again.

"I'm not entirely certain I see the joke." My brother was smiling, though.

Elizabeth shook her head and finally managed to stop. "I'm sorry. But I thought ... I thought you were upset--angry--about Kitty's behaviour." Her smile faded and she said, soberly, "I thought perhaps ... that perhaps you'd begun to regret connecting yourself to my family. I even wondered whether you were wishing you'd married Caroline instead of me."

"Caroline? Caroline
Bingley
?" It was my brother's turn to stare. "Are you joking, Lizzy? And as for connecting myself to your family--" Fitzwilliam stopped and exhaled hard again. "Elizabeth, love, I know ... I know I've been called too reserved at times. It's ... it's my weakness, I suppose. I've never found it easy to share my feelings. But if you can honestly think--if you doubt how much I love you--"

"I don't doubt it." Elizabeth ran her fingertips lightly through the springing black curls on my brother's brow. "I never did. Not really. But I did think ... you've a certain rank and station in the world, Darcy. You've grown up your whole life destined to be the master of Pemberley. The most respected and looked-up-to member of the most prominent family in this part of the world. And with Kitty--your wife's sister--apparently bent on creating all manner of gossip and scandal, I thought--"

"Listen to me." Fitzwilliam had taken hold of Elizabeth's shoulders. "I wouldn't care if every single member of your family decided to run naked through the streets of London and throw rotten oranges at the Prince Regent. At least, I wouldn't care, except in so far as it caused you worry or pain."

Elizabeth laughed, a little unsteadily this time, and Fitzwilliam went on. "If I've learned one thing these past three years since I first met you, it's that pride of place means nothing--nothing--compared to who you want at your side. And that's you. No matter what. For always." And then he stopped, looking down at the little bundle lying cocooned at Elizabeth's side. "And now--" He stopped and cleared his throat as he reached out and wonderingly touched the baby's swaddled form. "And now this little lad, too."

"Do you want to hold him?" Elizabeth asked.

My brother's face looked ... almost afraid, awed and wondering, as Elizabeth put the sleeping baby into his arms. "He's--" Fitzwilliam stopped and cleared his throat and then wiped his eyes again. "Have you chosen a name yet?"

Elizabeth shook her head. She was smiling. "I wanted to wait for you. But I was thinking maybe James? After your father. And Edward for the second name."

Thursday 5 January 1815

Tonight is the annual Twelfth Night ball at Pemberley--which is as much a tradition as the Christmas one, though we weren't sure whether we would have it this year. With baby James safely born, however, Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth decided to go ahead with the festivities. So all day we've been busy finding costumes and making preparations.

The Twelfth Night ball is always a masque ball, and in addition to wearing domino-masks, all the guests always play at Twelfth Night characters, besides. So Caroline, Elizabeth, and I sat in the drawing room, writing the names of characters on cards for the guests to draw from boxes at the doors. Each character is part of a pair, and it's the guests' task to find their partner for the evening--as well as to play the part of whatever character they've been assigned.

Last year, Elizabeth was Madame Topnote--which meant she spent the evening singing very high scales. And my brother happened to be her match--Signor Croakthroat, who was supposed to be constantly clearing his throat in an effort to sing.

This year we were determined to think up new characters. Or rather, Elizabeth and I were. Caroline consented to help with bad-tempered grace and spent most of the time disagreeing with every suggestion. Finally baby James, who had been asleep in his cradle beside Elizabeth, let out a loud wail and Elizabeth smiled and picked him up. "I'm afraid he'd much rather have his dinner than invent new characters. I'd better take him upstairs and feed him."

Which meant that Caroline and I were alone when Frank came into the room. I felt Caroline stiffen beside me, but she didn't look up from the card she was inscribing with the name Mrs. Candour. Frank sat down opposite us at the table we were working on and looked through the cards we'd already written on.

"Here's one for you, Miss Bingley," he said. He looked up at Caroline and passed one of the character names across. Caroline's cheeks flushed and she let the card drop to the table as though it had burned her fingers. That was when I saw the name inscribed on it--one of Elizabeth's inventions--
Miss Princess
.

"And here is one for you." Caroline thrust another card across the table at Frank, so viciously that I only caught a glimpse of the character name. But I think it was,
Signor Coxcomb
.

Frank left us soon after that. I thought a quick spasm of pain crossed Caroline's face as the door closed behind him. I hesitated, then asked, "You said you had met Frank before--was it in London that the two of you formed an acquaintance?"

Caroline's face hardened again and she tossed her head. "We met a few times at Almack's; that's all. He's amusing, I suppose, in his way. But the type of young man whose attentions grow quite tiresome, after a while."

Friday 6 January 1815

I don't think I've ever in my life wanted to murder anyone as much as I wanted to murder Caroline Bingley tonight. I haven't much time for writing. I promised Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam that I would go to Caroline's room and speak with her. But if I'm to manage
not
to slap her face or call her rude names, I first have to talk myself into being at least slightly sorry for her again.

The ball began well enough--very well, really. The ballroom was decorated again with white lilies and ropes of greenery and gold foil stars. All the guests arrived in their cloaks and masks, and had great fun in drawing the names of their characters for the evening from the box at the door to the ballroom. I drew Miss Playful and Edward was Farmer Stump. Elizabeth came downstairs for a little while--though of course she's still supposed to rest a great deal, and had to leave soon in any case to feed James. And Mrs. Reynolds had organised the traditional Twelfth Night cakes, decorated with painted sugar.

Ruth Granger found the pea that had been baked into the cake--which made her queen of the ball. And elderly Mr. Herron found the bean, which made him king. They looked a little like the spirits of the Old Year and the New dancing together, maybe--what with Ruth's shining coppery hair and bright face and Mr. Herron's old-fashioned powdered wig and white side-whiskers. And Ruth had managed to make even her ball gown--a dusky, deep-purple satin--look sensible and plain. But it didn't matter, somehow. Ruth was laughing and Mr. Herron was beaming at being the centre of the festivities.