And I have news! Jane is expecting a babe at the end of summer, or perhaps September. Our mother is beside herself, of course. She is not happy Jane has moved away from Netherfield. It was such a grand house, and would it not have been perfect for the babe to have its grandmama so nearby, etc. She will never forgive me for enticing Jane to the ‘wilds of the north’, as she calls it. Jane has already asked me to stand godmother, regardless of the babe’s sex, and I have agreed. Do not be surprised if Charles asks you to be godfather.
Perhaps I should not ask in a letter, but then we have always said best in our correspondence what is difficult to speak aloud. Are you disappointed we do not yet have a child? I know we had said it would be good to wait a time if possible, and then there was the disappoint of this last winter, but it has been eighteen months since we wed. If you were feeling sad or unhappy or anything of the sort, you would speak to me, would you not? Or write if speaking were too difficult?
I know it is awkward, but I think these things are handled best in the light. When we did not speak of it, I was filled with worry and anxious feelings every time I thought about it. I worried you were disappointed in me, and, well, you know what I felt. Once I knew that we felt the same way, I was filled with relief.
Just so you know, I would be happy were it only ever to be the two of us. You have always been enough for me, and that has not changed. I will be happy with a house full of children. I will be happy with one child to play with my sisters’ gaggle of little ones. I will be happy regardless, Fitzwilliam, because I have you, and you are the best husband I could wish for, and I can imagine no better life than the one I have with you.
Now I shall speak of something lighter and leave you with a smile. You are so very handsome when you smile, my love.
Let us speak of your birthday. What would you like for your gift this year? I have something small for you already, of course, and I have a few activities planned that I feel certain you will enjoy, but I have been remiss in asking you what you would like. Please tell me if there is something you’ve been wanting.
Have you seen Charlotte’s daughter, by any chance? I am desperate to know which of her parents she favors, but I can hardly ask my friend such a thing. Be a dear, won’t you, and look closely at the babe and let me know? I know how much you dislike such things, so I will reward you handsomely for the information when you return.
All my love,
Elizabeth
8 May, 1814
Rosings, Kent
My Lovely Wife,
How can I tell you how very much I love you? You have a way of making the most difficult thing seem simple. It is an extraordinary gift. And you are right—these sorts of things are best handled in the light. So I will tell you that no, I am not sad that we do not yet have children. It has only been a year and a half since we wed and I am not yet ready to share you. Perhaps that is selfish of me, but it is true. I wish to have you all to myself for a while longer yet if we can manage it.
I am not worried or concerned. Most Darcy families tend to be small in number. Most have only one or two children, the most prolific of my cousins has four. Because the family skews towards males, it has never been an issue. I do not think there is anything wrong—it is early days yet—and though we suffered a disappointment this winter, it did prove that you have no problem conceiving. After all, we were trying to prevent it and it still happened. Does that not bode well for the future?
Rest easy, my love. I too would be happy to be just the two of us for all our days. In fact, there is a part of me that quite likes the idea, though I know it is odd to say it. That is what I love about us, my dear. I have no fear in sharing my feelings with you, such is the bond between us. That is why I feel no burning need for fatherhood. I am wildly pleased with my wife, and there is no emptiness in my life which needs filling.
If you were to present me with a child, I would be ecstatic, but that is more because I would share it with you than anything else. Perhaps I will feel differently when the day arrives, but at this moment, the most appealing thing about fatherhood is that I will experience it with you. You see, my dear? I have complete faith in us. All will be well.
I have done as you asked and seen the Collins baby. The babe has her father’s nose, the poor dear. She is only six months old, so it is difficult to tell, but I think she will have hair like Mrs. Collins and perhaps her mother’s smile as well. At least that is something.
I will look forward to my reward for such observations when I return to Pemberley.
Now, about my birthday. Is it ridiculous of me to say I want you? Nothing much else appeals to me at the moment. Wrap a bow around yourself, wearing as little or as much as you like, and I shall count myself fortunate.
I should be right behind this letter for I intend to leave the day after tomorrow. Anne is doing better, though she is far from strong, and Lady C can get about with a cane if she does not spend too long on her feet. My uncle has secured a house for them in Margate and they will leave thither in a week.
This visit has been a trial, but I am glad I have done my duty to my mother’s sister. You are right, my darling, as you almost always are. I would not have been satisfied had I not come. The guilt would have eaten at me.
I cannot wait to see you.
Yours,
FD
13 May, 1814
Pemberley, Derbyshire
Dearest Fitzwilliam,
I am so glad your cousin gave you the idea to write to me and even gladder that we have kept up with it. I think we should mark every special occasion with a letter. (And the not so special ones, too.) My bundle of letters is growing quite impressively. I shall have to get a keepsake box to hold them all.
You are on your way back to me as I write this, so this letter shall not be posted. But I will leave it on the desk in your chamber so you might see it when you arrive and have something to read while you are settling in.
Oh, how I have missed you! Three weeks is entirely too long to be parted from you. Next time, I will insist I accompany you. I have been dreadfully dull without you. Poor Georgiana has been watching me like a hawk, afraid I will faint away from missing you.
