“You see how it is, Elizabeth,” Saye had informed her at her first dinner with the family, when she had been married only a month. “They dance to my tune.”
Elizabeth had replied by peering round the table. “They all seem to be sitting to me.”
Saye had tutted. “Metaphor, madam. Charming things—they might have even heard of them in Hertfordshire. But my point remains. What Saye says goes, both at Matlock and beyond...and I have decided to like you.”
It had made her laugh even if she had been somewhat irritated with him that night. She had overheard him speaking to his brother in the drawing room not half an hour earlier. He had said that Darcy was ‘a filthy animal’ and would ‘have her increasing within the fortnight’. Fitzwilliam had said he thought she was likely with child already. Saye argued that no, Darcy would have done as he needed to prevent things, so as to have longer to enjoy her to himself. They were on the point of laying wagers when they caught sight of her and immediately walked off in different directions.
One year on, her marriage was far better than she ever might have imagined on that autumn night in Meryton, back in ’11. Darcy was an attentive and loving husband—even now she could hear him outside the birthing room door, demanding that someone see to her comfort, someone make his baby come—and, as it turned out, one of the best men she knew. Nay—thebest man she knew, bar none.
She continued in this way, her mind drifting around the happy scenes of the past twelvemonth, while her body was torn into shreds by the baby, until at last, just when it seemed she could bear no more,hewas there.
“Lizzy!” Jane cried. “Oh, Lizzy, he is just lovely!”
Elizabeth felt benumbed both inside and out. Her legs and arms hardly even felt like her own as they were pushed andprodded back into some semblance of dignity on the bed. Her baby boy was swaddled in his blanket and placed within her arms. Jane was sent off to give the good news to the waiting men, who were there to calm Darcy and—Elizabeth suspected—collect bets on the gender of the child. Minutes later, pounding footsteps were heard and the door thrust open. The midwife, who had attended her throughout, startled and nearly dropped the basin she was holding.
Darcy looked boyish himself, his clothing rumpled and his hair disordered, likely from running his fingers through it. “Is this my son?” he asked, reverently approaching her bedside.
“Would you like to hold him?” Elizabeth’s voice emerged weak and a bit croaky.
Darcy said not a word as he bent over and gently removed their child from her arms, then seated himself gingerly beside her. “He is perfect,” he said, looking down at the wrinkled, red face. “Absolutely the most perfect child that ever was.”
“Did you win?” she asked with as much of an impertinent smile as she could muster.
“Win?” He feigned confusion. “What do you mean, win?”
She gave him a disgusted look. “Disguise does not suit you, Mr Darcy, and we have an impressible child with us.”
His eyes were soft when he looked at her. “Yes, I won. I won that autumn when I came into Hertfordshire and met a woman who taught me to be a better version of myself than I ever could have been without her. And I won when that woman permitted me a second chance to court her properly and when she accepted my offer of marriage. And I have won every single day since then, when I wake in the morning and see that no, this blessed life is not a dream but a reality.” He leant over, still being cautious, and kissed her lips. “I love you.”
His words made Elizabeth’s heart warm, and she, rather needlessly, adjusted the baby’s blanket. “I love you too—so verymuch,” she murmured. Then with another smile, she said, “But pretty words aside—did you win the wager?”
“Thankfully, yes,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Because I really would not have wanted to name our daughter after Saye.”
The End
