Oh, my darling, that I’m not by your side when the babe is delivered. I pray you and the child will be well. Darcy counted the days since their last time together in Sydney—today was the 20th of October; some two hundred and sixty-three days.
“Georgiana,” he called, for he knew his sister was next door in the library. “Can you assist me?”
“Of course, William.” She came into the study.
“I’m not sure, but how many days are there…” he paused, a little embarrassed, “… between conception and birth?”
“Oh, don’t be missish, William, I’m well aware of the time it takes to grow a baby. We were taught such at school—some forty weeks since the last menses, less a fortnight.”
“Two hundred and sixty-six days!” Tears came to his eyes. “Georgie, Elizabeth could already have delivered.”
***
Pemberley, October 23, 1813
Saturday morning, they took an early breakfast. Darcy wished that only his father, Georgiana, and himself to be present.
His father laughed. “I’ve never been more pleased, Fitzwilliam, to see you and Georgiana so happy. For, even though we’ve not met her, your Elizabeth has made this family whole again. I do believe our Anne and Frederick are joining us in the toast. Raise your glass—to Elizabeth, my lovely second daughter, sister to Georgiana and beloved of Fitzwilliam. And to the heir of Pemberley.”
“Elizabeth! Lizzie!”
Their soft exclamation filled the room, spilling out of the open door, rolling over the manicured lawn of the park, and drifting across the waters of the lake that shimmered in the early dawn. In their hearts, the sound never dwindled. They were all in anticipation of meeting the one person who had filled a hole in their lives since Frederick had gone and, before him, Lady Anne.
***
The next morning, Darcy and Georgiana were again sitting to an early breakfast when Winthrop knocked and entered the parlour. He faltered—his manner unsteady.
“Master Fitzwilliam, Miss Georgiana.” He struggled for breath, his eyes blurring as he held back his tears. “I am so sorry… but your father, Mr. Darcy, passed in the night.”
Chapter 42
KeiRiver, October 25, 1813
They stayed two nights by the river, restoring their spirits and gaining some equanimity. There was a baby to care for, and, of course, Elizabeth named himBennet—little Ben. She wished to stay longer, but there was scarcely any food remaining, though Bumper proved an excellent hunter, catching another hare for their dinner. Her back ached, everywhere was sore—but they had to continue, even with her fatigue.
A faint trail led from the beach, which they followed up the incline. Little Ben was wrapped in the blanket, held firmly to her chest, the guitar and knapsack slung across her back. Proceeding very slowly, Ellie took the lead, often missing the trail and forcing them to backtrack, unwilling to force her way through bushes, which frequently blocked their path.
The scrub cleared, and their progress picked up when, inevitably, Ellie screamed. Standing directly in front of her was an enormous bull, its wide horns a yard across from black tip to black tip, a shoulder hump—typical of beasts of the Orient—behind the head. Angry, snorting, stamping its feet. Its mouth was frothing, pinkish drool dripping to the ground.
“Stand still, don’t move!” Elizabeth screamed. “Don’t run.”
The terrified girl turned towards her, panic writ across her face, which was contorted with fear. She had lost all rational control.
“No!” cried Elizabeth again. “Ellie, please, oh please, don’t move.” But there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t even pull the girl to her and offer the scant protection of an adult—perhaps tall enough to deter the enraged animal. She could see blood on its head, a wound on its side.
Theeyes stared malevolently, a cunning, almost-intelligent hatred. Once aroused, nothing—nothing—would stand in its way.
A flash of black, leaping, white hackles raised—Bumper gripping the bull’s nostrils with his teeth, hanging from its nose as he was swung around—ninety pounds, nothing to that hulking head and shoulders. Angrily, the bull flicked him to the ground. Bumper fell, rolling some five yards away. Without hesitation, he once again leapt in the air, again grabbing the bull’s nostrils. Again, thrown carelessly into the brush.
“Lizzie, the bull will hurt him ever so much!” cried Ellie, now clinging tightly to Elizabeth.
“Bumper is the cleverest dog.” But Elizabeth was full scared—if Bumper were injured, there was nothing they could do for him.
The game went on. The bull swung its head violently, tossing the dog to the ground. Again and again, Bumper leapt, nipping its nostrils, gripping them with bared teeth. Always silent; never growling, never barking. Never giving the bull any respite; never any chance to turn and kick. The horns too wide to contact a leaping dog. But one nudge from that great forehead and Bumper would have had broken and bruised ribs. But he continued, always returning—to leap, to nip, to hang off the bull’s nose, now bloodied by his teeth.
Bumper was slowing; the exertion taxing even his hunting-enhanced stamina. But the bull was perplexed—never had it encountered such ferocity, such bloody-mindedness, such determined, insistent attacks. All the while, paradoxically, its temper calmed—initially angry, blind to all around it; then annoyed; now merely irritated and disgruntled.
Abruptly, it turned. Bumper came in behind, following the bull as it walked back along the trail. Perhaps, a half hourhad elapsed. Bumper, at ninety pounds, had worn into submission thirteen hundred pounds of pure spite and malice. The bull never looked back, now dominated by the dog walking close by its heels. Elizabeth and Ellie followed.
