AN: I am hoping for some reviews-hope, hope, hope...

Chapter Two

Elizabeth Darcy stared at the ceiling in her chambers and tried not to move. She had finally found a position that did not make her stomach clench and roll, and if she remained perfectly still, there was a chance she might not be ill this morning. Next to her, lying on his stomach with his face turned towards her was her husband, whose relaxed features and soft snores made her smile. He had grown more anxious about her every day, more so now because she was long past the time Mr. Waters had suggested would mark the end of this constant nausea. The local midwife simply harrumphed at such pronouncements. Mr. Waters was a man, after all, nothing more than an apothecary, and should not have presumed to make such a statement. She would not hear that he had only offered Mrs. Darcy some general assurances but had indeed been wise enough not to make promises.

"The worse 'ya feel," the heavyset woman had said with an unsympathetic cluck and a toss of her head, "the healthier the child." Elizabeth could have wept at that breezy dismissal of her misery, but she had decided to be angry instead. She wanted to eat, truly she did, but even when she could manage to force something down, it did not stay down for long. She was nearly desperate to eat something other than broth, but nobody seemed to be able to help. The ginger biscuits Mrs. Cronk sent up had no effect, the peppermint tea was useless. Fitzwilliam, in his deepening anxiety, had dismissed the midwife altogether in favor of seeking out an accoucheur, who also had little of help to offer other than going through the menus for foods that might trigger her illness. As she was not eating much, it seemed a useless exercise. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something other than how very sick she felt, how sore her stomach and back muscles were, how the ceiling swirled relentlessly after every attack. One morning feeling well. One walk in the garden without dizziness or concern about casting up her accounts. Was it so much to ask? This had best be the healthiest child in the kingdom, she thought with irritation, holding her limbs rigidly in place.

As she lay unmoving on the bed, Elizabeth could hear the vague sounds of the house coming to life. The soft footfalls in the hallway, the gentle murmuring of voices, the slow opening of the chamber door as a servant entered to tend the fire. After a wet summer, the harvest months had been mercifully dry and mild, but the days had begun to grow cooler at last. The day before, resting in the garden trying to find a comfortable way to be outside, she had noted the men coming in from the orchards and walking the paths across the meadow. They carried large sacks of what she knew must be the last of the apples, and she had thought how wonderful apple cider might taste. Later, she realized she would not be able to abide it, but she was still thinking about the harvest at Longbourn and what a wonderful time of year this was. She only wished she could enjoy it more if for no other reason that she would like her sweet, doting, aggravating husband to worry a little less about her.

Cautiously, she breathed in and then out. She still felt fine. Slowly, she established a calm rhythm and opened her eyes. There was gentle pressure on her hand, and she turned her head very carefully to see Fitzwilliam watching her.

"Are you well, Elizabeth?" he asked, his fingers lacing with hers as he leaned just a little closer.

"As long as I do not move, William," she replied stiffly. The anticipation faded, and while very few people would have said that he looked any different, Elizabeth could see his face fall. Every morning he woke hoping she would feel herself, and each morning he was disappointed. He attempted to hide it, but she could read him too well. It was an added burden, his anxiety, but it was impossible to disguise her suffering.

"It is temporary, love," she said, forcing the words to sound encouraging. "It will pass."

"You need not reassure me, my dear. Just inform me if there is anything I can do to help." Fitzwilliam shifted, leaning over her to brush a soft kiss on her cheek. As he pulled away, Elizabeth felt the bile begin to rise again. She rolled away from her husband with a moan, grabbed the pail sitting on the floor next to the bed, and was ill.

Darcy placed a hand lightly on his wife's back as she bent over the side of the bed retching. When she was finished, he helped her settle back onto her pillows. In a practice that had become routine, he made her comfortable before rising to walk around the bed and remove the bucket. He placed it out in the hall. Then he picked up the one that had been placed near the door, clean and empty, to set in its place. He moved away to wash his hands, though the water in the basin was cold. Finally, he poured his wife a glass of water from a pitcher on a side table and sat next to her. He brought the drink to her lips carefully, tipping it a little to help her sip.

He had been away when his sister was ill in the summer, arriving home just in time for his wife to begin showing indications that she was with child. Four months along now, nearly five, and she was still ill, more so now even than the earlier months. Mr. Waters had little of help to offer, and the midwife had made Elizabeth even more wretched than she had been before the visit. The babe seemed to be progressing well, Elizabeth's abdomen clearly rounded and growing, but she had not gained any weight. Instead, all the weight that had settled on her abdomen seemed to come from somewhere else on her body. Her face was thinner than he had ever seen it, and she was unsteady when she walked. The intense relief he had felt upon arriving home to learn that she and Georgiana were both well had slowly given way to a paralyzing panic. Elizabeth might not be strong enough to survive the birth if she could not eat. He could barely stand to be away from her, but she insisted he tend to the estate, and because his loving concern and incessant hovering were all he had to offer, he reluctantly did as she asked. When she rose from her bed late each morning, she allowed a footman to assist her on the stairs and sat in the drawing or music rooms for a few hours just for a change of scene. She rarely appeared at the dinner table and had not walked in ages. Her easy agreement to being attended by a footman wherever she went alarmed him nearly as much as any of her other symptoms.

"You will feel improved soon, my love. I am sure of it," he said reassuringly, stroking her hair.

"William," she said in a breathy voice, exhausted.

"Yes, love?" Fitzwilliam asked, kissing her hand.

"If we ever want another child," she said faintly, though her eyes sparkled just a bit, "I must insist we find one to adopt."