“So, if a man kisses me and touches me with bare hands?”
“Only if much more occurred, madam, a thing your husband can and should instruct you in.”
Elizabeth nodded again, recalling the veiled whispers: of keeping still and quiet, of allowing a husband liberties granted to no other man.
“And so, if my clothes were on, even though rain-soaked, and I was alone with him?”
“There would be no child, madam.”
Relief broke over Elizabeth, sudden and fierce, almost painful in its force. She collapsed against the pillows, hand pressed to her aching belly, tears pricking her eyes. Weeks of worry, the ache of George’s absence, and then Darcy—arriving, as ever, to rescue her from herself.
“The cramping,” Clarice continued, “sounds very much like your courses preparing to arrive. It is common for them to be delayed during times of upheaval—a wedding, a new home, the strain of change upon the body. You have had much to adjust to, madam, in a very short span.”
As if summoned by the words, Elizabeth felt a familiar sensation—the unmistakable sign that Clarice had spoken the truth. Her courses had come, late but arriving nonetheless.
“I believe you are correct,” she said, her voice steadier now. “I shall need… that is, if you could provide…”
“Of course, madam.” Clarice was already moving toward the dressing room. “I shall fetch what you require.”
She returned with linens and the necessary supplies, and Elizabeth attended to herself with hands that trembled not from fever but profound relief. When she emerged from the dressing room, pale but composed, Clarice had already changed the sheets and warmed the bed with fresh heated stones.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth whispered, climbing back into the clean linens. “And Clarice, what we discussed?—”
“Remains between us, madam. As all things do.”
Elizabeth lay back, her hand resting lightly on a stomach now peaceful, where nothing had been growing after all. She closed her eyes, breathed a silent prayer of thanks, and resolved—quietly, fiercely—to be the wife Darcy deserved.
A kiss was just a kiss. But a kiss woven with affection was rather more than she had bargained for. She would have to adjust her expectations accordingly—though in which direction, she could not yet say.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A MORNING READING
Darcy’s gazelingered upon the connecting door separating his chamber from his wife’s, wondering how Elizabeth had fared through the night. Had the fever raged on? Or had sleep restored her? He had lain awake, straining his ears all night to hear a few coughs and the telltale scrape of a wash basin being used.
Never in his years as master of Pemberley had he known the anxiety accompanying a wife. The feeling was not quite unpleasant, although it did mean a certain degree of restlessness. His eyes flicked towards the bracket clock; half-past-six felt early, yet not too early to inquire. He could not use the connecting door as he had not been granted the privilege, and he would not try the knob only to find it locked.
The trouble was Elizabeth Darcy, who had entered a marriage out of necessity and had proclaimed herself satisfied with the loveless arrangement. And then, he had sheltered her in the hay barn, her rain-darkened curls clinging to her cheeks, eyes alive with spirit and the possibilities multiplied when their lips touched, not unwillingly, so that perhaps, just perhaps, she had wanted it as much as he.
This supposition, that she might actually choose him, was in itself the most fragile and terrifying hope that kept him awake:far more than any estate duty, managing Georgiana’s education, or the care of Thomas. And so, he had resolved to court her and give her everything she deserved, and he would.
Smoothing his hair and casting a final, disparaging glance at his reflection in the mirror, he opened the door to the corridor. Footsteps pattered behind him, and he supposed it was Mrs. Reynolds come to give a report, but as he turned, it was only Hannah, a housemaid, round-faced and breathless, clutching a tea tray and wearing the sort of expression usually reserved for the final page of a sentimental novel.
“Mr. Darcy, sir!” She bobbed a curtsy that nearly upset the teapot. “I was just… that is, Mrs. Reynolds sent me to check if… I didn’t expect you to be—” Her eyes darted to the connecting door, then back to his face, and the speculative glimmer intensified to a degree that would have been alarming had it not been so absurd. “Shall I come back, sir?”
“That will not be necessary.” Darcy straightened, summoning the last shreds of his dignity. “You may inform Mrs. Reynolds that I shall be down shortly to inquire after Mrs. Darcy’s condition.”
“Oh, but sir, I can tell you now.” Hannah’s face brightened. “Her fever broke in the night. Clarice told me when I brought up the morning water, and she’s been asking for tea and toast, which Mrs. Reynolds says is a good sign, though she’s still rather pale and her voice is scratchy, but Clarice says the gargling helped, even though Mrs. Darcy made the most dreadful faces about it, and?—”
“Thank you, Hannah.” Darcy cut off the torrent before it could flood the corridor. “That is sufficient intelligence.”
Hannah bobbed another curtsy, still beaming. “Will you be visiting her this morning, sir? I could tell the kitchen to prepare something special, perhaps some of Cook’s honey posset, orthe elderflower cordial that Miss Darcy likes when she’s poorly, or?—”
“I shall determine my schedule, and Mrs. Darcy can give her orders to the kitchen, thank you.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” But she lingered, her fervor undimmed. “It is only that you carried her up the stairs yourself yesterday, sir, in your arms, like a dashing corsair out of a novel, and we all thought…”
“Mrs. Darcy is my wife,” Darcy said, with a quelling look that had silenced far more formidable opponents than lovesick housemaids. “What I do for her is not a matter for household discussion.”
