Later, as Darcy returned to his bedchamber, he heard raised voices coming from his parents’ sitting room. He crept to the door, moving as quietly as he could. It was partially open, and he leaned in to hear what they were saying.
“You coddle the boy too much, Anne!” Mr. Darcy said firmly. “He does not need sympathy; he needs a sound lashing and a lesson in defending himself.”
“Both of which have already been provided by you,” Mama protested. “He is twelve years old and will go to school next year! Fitzwilliam has been looking forward to being away from that boy. You wait—our son will flourish among his equals.”
His father did not answer immediately. At last, he spoke. “I mean to send George with our son,” he said quietly. “’Tis the least I can do to thank his father—”
“His father is already compensated! You pay him far more than other stewards earn. What is this debt you claim to owe him? Why do you favor another child over your own son?” Mother’s voice rose with each question. Darcy feared for her equanimity. He could picture her shaking with rage, her eyes brilliant as she confronted her husband with righteous anger.
“Wickham saved my life!” Father shouted. “Ten years ago. There was the flood that spring—do not you recall? I stepped onto the bridge, and then of a sudden there was nothing under my feet. He had a rope on his saddle and threw it to me. I would be dead, Anne.”
Darcy’s mother sighed. “And so, you feel you must go above and beyond to satisfy the debt. Pray, is your honor more important than your son?” Her tone was low and unyielding. “Young George’s attacks grow more pronounced. Fitzwilliam no longer confides in you because you do nothing. Will he die because you believe yourhonordemands it? And what of this child? We have hoped and prayed for another for so long… Can you not see what the boy is doing? He acts as though he is a second son—and you treat him as such. Would you make him your heir if our children died?”
Mr. Darcy scoffed. “That is ridiculous. I treat him—”
“You treat him no differently fromourson—the heir to Pemberley!” Anne snapped. “’Tis clear you will not see reason. I shall have to ensure my son is safe in my own way.”
“Anne,” Mr. Darcy said tenderly. “You will come through the birth safely. There is no need to fear.” Unspoken was the master of Pemberley’s true fear—Fitzwilliam had overheard it. He feared the child would bear the same unfortunate mark upon his or her face as their elder brother.
“You do not know that. The sense of foreboding has only grown. I shall act in any manner I can to ensure my son is protected should I not survive. To begin with, I wish to propose a compromise: send young Wickham to Harrow. Fitzwilliam can join his cousins at Eton.”
Darcy thought it a wonderful notion—and a sound strategy. He hoped his father would agree.
Mr. Darcy sighed. “Very well. I believe that is a suitable compromise.”
“I want the papers drawn up and everything finalized before my lying-in,” Lady Anne warned. “Should the worst happen, I shall consider this part of my final requests. Know this, husband—I shall haunt you if you go against my wishes!” She was being playful now, yet still serious.
Darcy backed away from the door slowly before turning and hurrying to his bedchamber. The conversation both worried and elated him. Perhaps he would be away from Wickham at last.I shall be able to breathe,he told himself. He would go to Eton in January; it was not so far off. And Mama would have the baby before then, too. Yes, the future looked brighter already.
Darcy sat in the parlor as his father paced the floor. Mama had been in her chambers for three days and the master of Pemberley looked frantic with worry. Each time a maid brought word, there was nothing new to report.
“She will be well,” Mr. Darcy murmured to no one in particular as he stoked the fire. “She and the child will be well.” He resumed his pacing. Turning to his son, he said, “You ought to go to bed. ’Tis late.”
Darcy shook his head. “I would prefer to wait with you, sir.” It was the honorable thing to do.
“As you like.” His father continued to wear a path in the rug, hands clasped behind his back and brow furrowed in concentration. From time to time, a maid came to refresh the teapot, though she need not have bothered—it went untouched.
At last, near midnight, word came. “You have a bonny daughter, sir,” the midwife said, holding out the precious bundle. George Darcy took the babe carefully, his face awash with relief and joy. He sighed heavily, his finger tracing the baby’s cheek. “Perfect,” he murmured.
An icy knife struck Darcy’s heart, but he said nothing.
“Little Georgiana,” his father murmured. “You are as beautiful as your mother.” Turning to the midwife, his smile faltered. “What is it?” he asked brusquely.
“Your wife is sleeping, sir,” she replied solemnly, “though I do not know if she will survive the rest of the night. Best say your goodbyes.”
George Darcy gasped. “No!” he cried. “There must be something you can do!” He bolted from the room, the precious baby still clutched to his chest.
Darcy’s heart sank.She knew,he thought, recalling all the little things his mother had done for him the last few months. Still in shock, he hurried from the room and upstairs to find her.
Pushing the door open slowly, he saw his father seated in a chair beside the bed. Georgiana lay in his lap. Mother’s eyes were open. Darcy entered the room and came to his dear mama’s side.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said hoarsely. “My dear boy. Remember all I have taught you—character and goodness of heart above all.”
“I will, Mama,” he replied, struggling to suppress his emotions.
“Take care of your sister,” she instructed. “Tell her about me and make sure she grows into a worthy woman. Teach her everything I have taught you.”
“I promise.” He fell silent as his mother turned to his father.
