“My lord, are you a judge?”
“Indeed, the Court of Chancery.”
“I know judges, sir; you fit the mould. You may issue any order in your courtroom, but in a birthing chamber, it isIwho rule. Now, I’ll need your assistance.”
He was taken aback; never had he met such a determined woman and never been reprimanded with such self-assuredness.
“But ma’am, during the travail, surely I should not be here?”
Elizabeth harrumphed. Who tells men such falsehoods?—as if the father has no knowledge of his wife’s anatomy. But best to be polite.
“We have not been introduced. Please forgive my impropriety if I do not curtsey. Mrs. Darcy, and Lord…”
“Rushton. My wife, Lady Emily Rushton.”
“Lord Rushton, I know you care greatly for your wife; indeed, you braved a fierce storm to bring her help. Now, during her labours, Lady Emily will experience much anxiety, helplessness, exceedingly strong pain, anger, joy, and exhaustion. Your presence will offer her great comfort.”
The maid came with the soap and water. Elizabeth had the maid and Rushton also wash their hands.
“Now, sir, can you sit behind your wife? We’ll prop her with cushions at the edge of the bed so the babe, when it comes, can easilyexit her womb, assisted by that great discovery of Sir Isaac Newton—gravity.”
***
Elizabeth awoke with a start. Where was she? The floor wasn’t moving—onshore. Which town? She hardly knew.
Lady Rushton’s chamber. Quietly, she stood from the chair in which she had fallen asleep. Her back ached from the discomfort, particularly from holding little Ben in her arms. He was no longer small—a stone and a half; he would be big like his father. Carefully, so as not to wake the lady, she pulled back the bedclothes and quickly examined her. No bleeding, her skin colour good, breathing calm and regular. The babe, lying in the crib next to the bed, was awake, looking up with unfocused eyes at the candle she held. All was well.
“Lady Rushton sleeps, and the babe is quiet. Please sit with her. If she awakes, place the babe to her breast.”
The maid, sitting by the door in the hallway, stood and entered the room. With Ben held tightly—still asleep, dear child—she made her way to the servants’ stairs, following them down to the kitchen. Too early for baking. She roused Bumper—time to be on the road.
“Ma’am, canna help? Ye look mighty burden’d.”
The sun had just risen, still hidden by the high hills surrounding the River Wye valley. The early morning chill was seeping through the blanket she’d wrapped around her shoulders.
“Mighty kind, sir. The boy is, indeed, somewhat heavy.” With unfeigned relief, she placed the guitar and her small bag onto the sacks on the cart and climbed onto the bench beside the carter.
“From whence ye come, Missus? Not many walk the road.”
“Not so far,from Runcorn, about three days ago. I’m to Bakewell, then Lambton.”
“Three days on the road. Well, ye’ve spirit, I’ll grant ye that. I reck’n there’s yer man to welcome ye?”
She laughed. William. Oh, for sure.
The cart jogged along, faster than her walking—through Miller’s Dale, Cressbrook, Little Longstone, slow up Ashford Lane hill, then back down to the Wye at Ashford-in-the-Water.
“I’ll leave ye here, Missus. Good luck to ye. ‘Tis just a mile to Bakewell, then take the packhorse track to Lambton, quicker ‘n the road. Yer man’s a lucky fellow; yer a fine bonny lass.”
How many hours? ‘Twas about eight bells when she took the cart, maybe five bells on the road. So, half past six o’clock. A mile to Bakewell—seven o’clock.
The Bakewell Bridge over the Wye. Little Ben restless and hungry. Putting him to the breast. With a gentle tug, he latched on and started sucking. The letdown was a relief, her breasts overfull—she’d had no chance to feed him whilst sitting on the cart.
She relaxed, so close to home—soon, safe in William’s arms. Oh, how she missed him. The past sixteen months felt like an eternity. After ten minutes, she swapped Ben to the other side. She was impatient, so very impatient. Taking her last piece of bread, she watched the gentle waters flow slowly under the bridge. The river wide, the bridge majestic with the morning sun illuminating its five stone arches.
Pemberley. A large, handsome sandstone building, standing well on rising ground. But she had no interest in admiring its prominence—that it stood before a glistening lake, that its green parks and grounds were all that was delightful. She already knew that to be mistress of Pemberleywas something so very special.
As she approached, she saw a chaise and two trundle across the stone bridge and disappear up the road, which wound towards an eminence before disappearing into the woods behind.
