“It keeps the blood in the limbs, and reduces the bleeding from the uterus, giving it more time to contract and close off the vessels on its own.”
He then tied further bonds around each arm.
Darcy’s heart hammered.
“I feel weak,” Anne said. “I can barely hold her. My belly hurts so much.”
Her lips were white, her breathing fast. Perspiration beaded on Anne’s forehead.
The accoucheur pressed his hand around Anne’s belly, where the babe had come from. It looked to Darcy as though it was visibly swelling again.
The physician said in a serious voice, “The blood is filling up in the uterus, we need to encourage it to flow out again to relieve the pressure.”
“Fitzwilliam, Fitzwilliam,” Anne said in a hoarse whisper. “Promise me…”
“Anything.”
The doctor put his hand into her again, and when he withdrew it a great gush of blood, some of it clotted, came out.
“Promise me that you will not let my mother take control of our child’s education. She always meant well, but I believe she hurt me greatly.”
You won’t die.
Those comforting words would not come. Disguise of every sort was an anathema to Darcy.
He could not tell her that she would be well, when he knew she would not be.
“I promise,” he said seriously. “I shall superintend her education in all respects.”
“Ensure she is happy. Promise me, above all, that you shall seek for her to be happy. Let her be accomplished, let her be worthy of our name, but first ensure she is happy.”
Though Darcy had sworn to himself he would never again make an oath to a dying person to comfort them, this was an oath he could willingly make from his heart. “I will. She will be happy.”
Tears came to Darcy’s eyes. The wet nurse took the babe from Anne’s weakening arms.
“It is so dark,” Anne said. Her breathing grew more rapid. Another cloth was changed to soak up the flow of blood. The accoucheur was still in motion, making some attempt to save her life. He pressed a new collection of tow and linen into Anne, but his expression was that of a man doing a thing because it washis duty, and not because he believed there would be any good outcome from it.
Her eyes closed, and for a time Darcy believed that they would never open again. But then they flickered open, she glanced around with an unfocused gaze, and she moved her hand weakly.
He took it again.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam. I have been happy. So happy since you married me.”
“I know.”
“Only… you never spoke of it,” she whispered, “but I know you do not love me as I love you. I have not made you so happy as you made me.”
“Do not say such things.”
She whispered out, “That was sad for me. You deserve to be happy. Fitzwilliam…”
“Please, Anne, do not—”
“Promise me this,” her voice was stronger now, “Promise me that you will marry again. And marry to please yourself, and to make your own heart happy.”
“I do not deserve to be happy.”
“Fitzwilliam, promise me.”
