He laid her gently back against her pillows and took her hand in his. “But what of you, my dearest? Is there anything I can do to help?”
She gave a weak smile. “I have all the assistance I can possibly need, but having you beside me is the best gift in the world.” Her eyes drifted closed, as if she were too fatigued to keep them open.
Frederica said, “This began just before midnight, so she is very tired. But I imagine she would like to hear your voice.”
“How did you escape?” Elizabeth asked drowsily.
“Two men came to rescue me,” he said. How he wished he could tell her about Jack! His story could not be complete without that. “They hid me in a hay cart and brought me to the Nest. And my lynx has been wreaking havoc on the soldiers, both while they held me prisoner and afterwards. Apparently he holds a grudge.”
Her lips curved upwards. “Good for Fire Eyes. Did they hurt you?”
There were times when telling the truth was over-rated, but with Frederica present, he could not outright lie. “They roughed me up a little, but I am perfectly well now. There was…” The words stopped in his mouth. Was his healing by Coquelicot under a binding, too? “The dragons there took good care of me.”
Elizabeth gasped suddenly and her hand tightened on his. Perspiration dotted her brow as the lines of stress deepened.
Someone touched his arm. Chandrika. He had completely forgotten everyone else’s existence.
“Step back, Mr. Darcy. She is having a pain,” the Indian maid said. Then, perhaps in response to his uncomprehending expression, she added, “You can still hold her hand, if you wish.”
As if he would ever let go of it!
“Breathe, Mrs. Darcy.” It was the midwife, Mrs. Sanford. His unknown half-sister, whose brother had died at Salamanca. “Do not push. It is not yet time.”
“But I must!” It was almost a wail.
“You must not,” Mrs. Sanford said firmly. “Look at your husband. Think of how far he has come to see you. He does not want you to push.”
What was she talking about? What was she not supposed to push, and why should she not do it? But Frederica and the other women were nodding in agreement, so he said, “Pray do not push, my sweetest. It is very important.” Whatever it was.
Elizabeth was panting. “It hurts so much,” she whispered.
He could not bear to see her in pain. “Is this normal?” he asked Mrs. Sanford desperately.
“Completely normal,” she said drily. “You should not be here, Mr. Darcy, but for your wife’s sake, I will permit it for now – as long as you help her stay calm.” It was definitely a command.
He nodded. She was the expert, after all. Then he turned back to Elizabeth. “Look at me, my love. You can do this. You crossed France in wartime all by yourself, and I am so very proud of you.”
A cry escaped her, and she grabbed for his other hand, squeezing it until it hurt.
“I am here with you,” he whispered.
Then suddenly she relaxed, breathing more easily. The spasm must have passed.
He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “My poor love. Thank you for working so hard for our child.”
But her eyes were fixed on his hands. “Your arm. You are using it.”
As if that mattered, compared to what she was going through. “It is better. As I said, the dragons took good care of me.”
Darcy paced the clearing through the long afternoon shadows, back and forth, back and forth, as if his footsteps could somehow help Elizabeth. At least he was home, where the welcoming power of Pemberley flowed through him. The vitality of it was always a shock when he returned after a long absence, but this time was even more so, as if the magic in the land had deepened into a new strength. The richness of the soil and the life of it was a comfort, but it could not take his mind away from what was happening in the cottage.
He had left without complaining when the midwife told him it was time to go, since she had bent every rule to allow him to stay as long as he did. He still wanted to rip the door off its hinges for daring to stand between him and his Elizabeth.
The thick walls that had once provided a quiet refuge also silenced most of the sounds from inside. But Elizabeth’s periodic cries of pain still came through faintly, making him ache that he could not relieve them.
A footman came towards him with a plate of cold meat and fruit. Darcy tried to wave him away, but the servant ignored him. “At least have something to drink, sir, to keep up your strength.”
With a sigh, he accepted a glass of what looked like wine. It shocked his mouth by turning out to be port. The port he always drank at Pemberley, not the wine served everywhere in France. A taste of home. Why did it seem so strange?
