“The lying-in chamber? Is she—good God!” Bingley’s words and Georgiana’s tears rendered that news the most terrifying Darcy had ever received. He turned and ran. Yet, the nearer he got to the corner of the house where every mistress of Pemberley had birthed its heirs, the more fearful he became, for there was no crying out to be heard, either from Elizabeth or an infant. There was only silence.
He had no time to consider what he might find within the chamber. All he knew was his visceral need to be with Elizabeth, and no sooner had he reached the door than it was open, and he was inside.
“Fitzwilliam!”
There she was—pale, evidently exhausted but, in stark contrast to all his deepest fears, alive and incandescent with joy, a child, his child, in her arms.
“Elizabeth! Thank God!” He was at her side before he knew howhe got there, cradling her beautiful face and scrutinising every inch of it for blessed proof of life. “Are you well?”
“Aye, now that you are both here, I am.” She smiled the most transcendent smile he had ever seen grace her countenance. “Meet your son, Fitzwilliam.”
My son.He tore his eyes from her and looked down. It was apparent he had only just missed the birth, for what little could be seen of the child in the folds of bloodied linens was still covered with gore. But his eyes were open, and he was looking directly at him. He was the most wondrous sight Darcy had ever beheld.
“Perfect, is he not?” Elizabeth whispered.
Darcy looked up at her. Never in his life had he known a love such as he felt for Elizabeth and now their child. He nodded. “Without defect.”
“He is a credit to you, Lizzy,” somebody else said.
Darcy looked up in surprise. He had not noticed Jane Bingley was there. Indeed, he had not noticed anybody was there—not Mrs Sinclair, not Mrs Reynolds, not the several maids—and certainly not the man, whom he sincerely hoped was a physician of some sort, doing something alarming to his wife under a sheet at the foot of the bed.
“He is,” Mrs Sinclair agreed. “Promisingly troublesome from the off.”
“Oh, tsk! We thought he was not breathing at first,” Mrs Reynolds hastily explained, “but it was only that he did not cry as most babies do.”
Darcy turned back to look at the child in alarm. “Is he well?”
Elizabeth grinned and nodded. “He simply had nothing to say that would amaze the whole room.”
Still, she had the ability to fell him with one utterance. He leant forward to rest his forehead reverently against hers. “God, I love you, woman.”
She pressed a gentle kiss to his scar. “And I you.”
Immeasurable though his relief and elation were, Darcy could not long overlook the events that brought him racing home nor the traitor awaiting him downstairs. He sobered as he considered the magnitude of what he had almost lost.
“Did Bingley hurt you, love?” He regretted that his question made her smile falter. He could not have cared less that it made Jane gasp.Elizabeth whispered that he had not. His relief was profound, but short-lived, for in the next instant she winced and sucked in her breath. “Are you in pain?”
The man cleared his throat. “Mr Darcy, I presume? It is perfectly normal. Parturition is a many-staged process. You might prefer to step outside for a short time until Mrs Darcy is ready.”
“And who are you, sir?” he demanded, standing to his full height.
“He is the only available apothecary in all of Derbyshire,” Mrs Sinclair piped up. “And it took a good long while to find him. For heaven’s sake, do not scare him off now.”
Elizabeth huffed a tired little laugh and reached for Darcy’s hand. “Do not go too far.”
“No fear of that, woman. I shall never go far from you again. Every time I do, you die.”
Bingley had never given much thought to how he would meet his maker. Now the moment was upon him, the only uncertainty remaining was at whose hands it would be, for there presently seemed every chance Colonel Fitzwilliam might beat Darcy to it.
He sat as still as he could, mostly so as not to further aggravate his glowering sentry but also to minimise his discomfort. His throat and head were bruised from being flung against the wall, and he thought his arm might be broken from being hauled to his feet and manhandled into this antechamber. His ribs were almost definitely cracked from the blows Fitzwilliam had already dealt him, and his heart was broken for Elizabeth.
The door banged open. His innards liquefied. Darcy completely filled the aperture. The turn of his countenance was awful.
“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, coming to his feet and putting a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “I am truly sorry?—”
“No need,” Darcy interrupted, never taking his eyes off Bingley. “Elizabeth is well. A little tired after delivering my son but in fine health.”
Elizabeth was not dead! Bingley breathed a vast sigh of relief then wished profoundly that he had not. Both men puffed up even further with affront and surged forward to loom over him.
