Prologue
Note: The first scene has a graphic depiction of death after giving birth and can be skipped if this will be uncomfortable for the reader.
Fitzwilliam Darcy paced the bedroom, his heavy boots muffled by the thick carpet.
He forced himself not to wince with each cry of pain from Anne.
His mother had begged him to marry on her deathbed. And now after three miscarriages, his cousin had finally kept a child to term. Darcy paused by the window and stared sightlessly out at the grounds of Pemberley.
He wanted a son. For both himself and for Anne. If there was a son, he would never subject his wife to this torture again. And he wanted Anne to be well… even though a vile part of his mind suggested to Darcy that if she died, then he could marry a woman towards whom he felt a greater attraction.
When that thought crossed his mind, Darcy hated himself.
Anne would not die. Such ought not happen. Anne was a good person, better by far than he had realized when he married her years previously.
"You are doing so well, my dear." He sat on the chair next to her once more and took her hand. He knew his presence greatly comforted her.
Though it was unusual for a gentleman to be present in the birthing room, Anne had begged for his presence, if he could bear it.I won’t be so frightened if you are there.
Anne squeezed his hand with more strength than he would have thought her thin-boned frame could manage. Darcy kept his voice steady and reassuring. "Just a little longer."
Another guttural groan was his only answer. Darcy clenched his other fist, hating his uselessness.
If only he could do something… anything that would help. Anything to relieve the shame and guilt that burned in his guts. She loved him with all her heart, and he loved her as a cousin and a friend.
Everything that could be done had been done. What remained was God’s decision. When Anne's labour had started that morning, he had sent for the accoucheur immediately. The most experienced man in the county had arrived posthaste, assuring them both that everything was well under control, and that there was nothing in Anne’s pain that was beyond the ordinary during a first birth.
The physician had a comforting, soft bedside manner. But though Darcywishedhe could trust the doctor, he knew too much of the world and the medical profession to believe that impression of confidence. Often the physician simply presided over the Almighty choosing the fate of the ill.
Standing next to the accoucheur was his apprentice, a man of about twenty, and in the background Mrs. Reynolds and two maids hovered, ready to offer any assistance and to run for anything that the house could provide. Not that they had anything which might truly help.
Anne’s skin was slick with sweat, her face contorted in a rictus of pain.
"I am here, Anne.” Darcy brushed a damp tendril of hair from her brow. "You are so brave."
“Don’t tell me that.” She turned her head towards him, blue eyes bright with tears. "I am afraid," she whispered.
A lump formed in Darcy's throat. "Nothing to fear. There is nothing to fear. You have nothing to fear. All will be well."
He wished to convince himself. Anne had been delicate her entire life. This was his doing. He should have taken a vow of celibacy and lived as a monk once he had married her.
Darcy’s parents had both been of a serious and religious mindset, and their son had inherited those attitudes from them. He would not —could notand remain himself — break those vows he had made to Anne before God and society at the wedding altar.
To not make the effort to have an heir with his lawful wife would have been ridiculous. Aunt Catherine herself had gone so far as to proffer advice about how best to accomplish that task when they had not yet successfully done so two months after the marriage had been solemnized. Lady Catherine had already determined at that early date that it was evident that her benighted nephew would not be able to manage such a supremely important matter without her expert knowledge.
After the third miscarriage, Darcy had suggested that they cease to try. Anne had bled so much, and the child had been far enough advanced that the physician had been able to identify the miniscule corpse as a boy. Losing each child hurt her.
But Anne had been insistent that they continue to make the attempt, despite his concerns.
The accoucheur's voice broke into Darcy’s reverie. "Now is the time, Mrs. Darcy. Bear down with all your might."
Anne cried out, her grip tightening painfully on Darcy's hand. He gritted his teeth, murmuring encouraging phrases that he hoped were soothing.
A wash of blood came from her body with a scream. And then… then there was a bulge between her legs. For a moment Darcy was confused, that was not how her most intimate region ordinarily looked.
The accoucheur said in his soft professional voice, “Yes, yes. The top of the head. Not a breech child, good. Wait… wait… now bear down again, Mrs. Darcy.”
And then with a gasp and a scream from Anne the head came completely out.
