Pemberley, Easter, 1818
Fitzwilliam had arrived at Pemberley to collect his cousin as he did every spring. It was to be a short trip to Rosings this year since the baby was due in just over a month. His grief and melancholy about his father meant he was not particularly looking forward to facing his aunt.
She was beautiful; being with child gave her skin a glow. Her figure was compact and curvaceous; he looked at her sitting and pouring tea and was astonished that she fit a child within her frame. He wondered about the curves of her figure in the flesh—what did a woman with child look like without clothes? Her breasts were enlarged, but he had seen large breasts; he had never seen a pregnant belly, however, the pregnant belly of his wife, never seen it grow over the months, measured how it changed.
Suddenly there was that realization that he would not ever have children of his own and sadness crashed over him, and washed down him. He thought even tea would make him ill. He thought about Jamie asking after a son to cheer him after Dunchurch's passing. He would never see his son's creation, watch his form manifest in his wife's belly, place his hands there and feel that life within and wonder at its creation.
He excused himself, claimed weariness from the days of travel and went to his room.
Elizabeth and Georgiana rose to leave the two men to their drink and conversation. Georgiana yawned, her eyes half-lidded, kissed her and said she would retire. Elizabeth considered going to work on her current painting but the lack of daylight stopped her. She made her way from the dining room and trailed her way through the house looking at pictures scattered on the walls. The music room was cold, wanting a fire and light, so she called for assistance to give warmth to the grate and to light the candelabra that stood on the pianoforte.
It had been a long time since she had played, painting had been her focus. With Georgiana gone—though she was here for short se'ennight visit—the joy of playing together had been lost that shared comradery, for it was just her and Darcy in the house. Elizabeth had not practiced or played for a long time. Her fingers were no longer as limber but her enjoyment of the music returned. Her fingers became more flexible as she ran them up and down the keys, missing or skipping notes yet finding enjoyment in her performance all the same.
Whether from the long time on the small piano stool or because the babe normally became more active in the late evenings she felt it stirring in her belly as she played. Perhaps it woke because of the music and was transfixed and doing some sort of dance inside her as she skipped her fingers over the keyboard. Eventually she found herself out of breath and put her fingers atop her belly to rub and sooth the child within which did nothing to stop the tantrums inside.
She rose, still as restless as before, but without any means of alleviating her anxiety. It was later than she considered and any thoughts of an outside stroll were not possible so she set off wandering. Elizabeth had no actual idea of the time. She considered a visit to the library to obtain a book since she felt she could not possibly sleep.
She crept through the house, first visiting the Long Gallery to stare into the portraits of long dead Darcys wondering if her son, this child, who still twisted and turned with animation would look like any of these painted people whose features were laid out by candlelight before her. There were fair-haired ancestors hung next to dark haired ones in the Long Gallery, short fair ladies next to tall stately gentlemen. Darcy's likeness was there, both as an adult and as a child: a small boy on his mother's knee. Bingley's sons all looked like him though she supposed it was because of the hair. The other nephews were all, perhaps, too small yet to determine to whom they owed their looks. If their child was a girl would she look like Elizabeth? Would she be as dark-haired as her Aunt Georgiana? It was exciting and frustrating at the same time. But perhaps, thought Elizabeth, I need to consider whether she will be quiet and contemplative like her father or if she will be impulsive and outspoken and be as much a bane to me as Mrs. Bennet claims I was to her. She smiled and then let out a single laugh.
The end of the Long Gallery was reached and she traced her way towards the library in a bubble of silence. No servants moved about, only her candle glowed around her and her slippers made a soft sound on the hard floor. The door was heavier than she remembered, managing it with a candle and a large belly added to her difficulties. A glow shown from the hearth and Fitzwilliam sat before it with a book on his knee and a drink balanced on the chair arm held delicately in place with two fingers as he read by firelight.
"Hello," she called to him. His hand clasped his glass with a little more firmness but he looked up with a smile.
"Hello, you are up late," he stood suddenly, his glass still in his hand but his book falling to the floor. She crossed the room to him and reached down to retrieve his book and returned it to him.
"I fear I am not in the least interested in sleep, or at least," and she rubbed her belly, "my son is not interested in sleep and is keeping me awake."
He nodded her into the chair opposite him. "Is this a common occurrence?"
"I fear it is so. He seems to wake up just as I contemplate sleeping myself. It is most unfair," and she laughed. He smiled and raised his glass in a mock salute to his mischievous cousin.
"A wild child," he said.
"Did Darcy retire? I must have missed him in passing," she asked adjusting her position in her chair, scooting her body forward which thrust her belly up but helped to relieve her back.
He hesitated, and took in a breath before answering, "…he went for a walk. I do not doubt he will return soon."
"I considered the same thing myself but it is too late and too cold for a walk though I feel restless, almost as if I could walk to Kympton and back," she said and adjusted her position again. He looked away and then back at her again and then moved down to sit on the footstool between them to stoke the fire and get the coals to light.
"I will see if I cannot bring some more warmth to this room though this fire is not to last much longer." He worked on making the flames dance in the fireplace and she watched. Elizabeth held out her hands while the flames flared up into the chimney but they did not last long and could not be maintained. They died back with flickers of flame licking across the tops of the coals.
Her hands went back to her belly. "Ooh, he is a rascal, this child," and she shifted again in her chair. Fitzwilliam looked up at her, one hand steading herself as she moved, the other hand fixed to her belly. He saw movement then, a tiny pump against her skirt beside her hand. The hand moved to the spot to rub it. "Was Darcy a wild boy? May I lay all this activity at his feet?" she said.
"He was as active as any boy. He never got caught in the wild scrapes my brother Richard and I planned and executed. I think caught is perhaps the important term; he was the only son and so not to be suspected or punished." He was laughing though the laughter did not extend to his eyes. His eyes, despite whatever had been in his glass, were sober.
She was brought forward with a particularly active punch in her gut and she clasped firm hands on her belly letting out a great breath of air and a slight moan.
"Lizzy, are you well?" he cried reaching out a hand towards her but stopping short of touching her.
"Yes, it is only the babe," and she took his hand and placed it on her swollen belly. So often babies do not perform when they are asked to, but this one placed a kick directly against his hand and he looked up at her with surprise and delight. She adjusted her position again and then reached for his other hand coaxing it up into place. The baby squirmed and wriggled in her belly and underneath his hands as he held them still on her swollen form.
"It is a babe," he whispered as his touch was electrified for the baby seemed to dance beneath his fingers. "It is a life," and a tear rolled from his eye as he drew in a labored breath, "a life," and more tears followed. He looked up at her with raw emotion, raw pain that sprang from him, and was written on his face as tears fell he could not control, tears unshed over the trials of his time on the Peninsula, of Waterloo, and of the helplessness for living when others had died, in losing John Moor; the grief, though it had been four years all felt anew over the loss of his beloved brother Richard and now of losing his father. Elizabeth covered his own hands with hers, holding them and imbuing him with all the strength she could while the baby danced for him and he cried at the miracle of life in her belly.
She stared at the man across from her, his hands enveloping her belly; she had always admired him, always held him in highest regards but it was as she watched him cry unabashedly over the life she carried that she realized how much she loved him. Loved him more than she had ever loved any person, not Jane or Charlotte or Catherine or Darcy. She had loved him since first meeting him at Rosings that spring, years past now, and now that she was married to another and within weeks, or perhaps days, of bearing his child. She was elated and felt numb at the same time.
Fitzwilliam's agony abated and his breathing calmed and he then looked up at her, the turmoil still roiling inside him and she raised up one of their joined hands and kissed his palm, and then laid it against the side of her face, pressing her hand against his to hold it there.
His fingers stroked her face, his other hand cradled her belly and then a feeling, not to be denied came over him and he pulled himself up to kiss her. He held himself aloft, so as to not crush her belly, hovering over her, only their lips touching but he could not deny that she returned his kiss with an equal ardor. His other hand came up and his hands cradled her soft cheeks in his own as he kissed her openly and passionately. Thumbs wiping away the tears that appeared in her eyes, then he kissed the tops of her cheeks where the tears had laid.
A sound, a door closing, or a shutter flinging open against a window brought them to and he sat down hard on his footstool then moved back to his chair.
They were both well used to words yet could not find words to say to each other now. She looked at him and tears came again, fell at the thought of having to stand and leave the room and leave him. Fitzwilliam looked at her face, her tears, and could not fathom what eclipsed her mind or her heart. Whether she found him offensive and was affronted or whether she loved him; he had kissed her when she was with child, in such a state of pregnancy. He thought he ought to put a bullet to his head for such an offense but he could not regret it.
He stood; he could not speak but he bowed his good night and left.
Elizabeth listened to the door shut though he had closed it so gently. She sat with her fingertips alight on her cheeks where he had touched them, closed her eyes and recalled his lips on her own.
She could not sit for more than five minutes at a time. It was late afternoon and the babe in her belly slept; it was not his fault that she was so awake, so restless, so alive. Elizabeth was determined not to attend services the next day, she so feared she would not be able to sit through in proper contemplation of a half hour sermon without getting up to pace the church aisles or leave the service altogether. That would be unaccountable. No employment spoke to her, no book, not the pianoforte, not her painting and she wondered at her inability to focus on any particular thought or activity or to even have an appetite.
She wondered if she was near her time of confinement but did not wish to ring for a servant and call for Mrs. Gordon the midwife. She had done so four times within the last fortnight despite its being early—the child was not due for a month—and each time Mrs. Gordon had said she was not near, that the babe had not turned and was still with his feet down. What if he never turned? Elizabeth knew that breech births were difficult with more risks for mother and child. Princess Charlotte's child had been breech. She stood to ring the chord and then froze and thought to give herself more time and when she actually pulled on the chord told the footman to bring her portable writing desk to her.
She did not wish to send verbal messages to Darcy which would be repeated in the servants hall, but wrote him a short note to say she would dine in her room rather than partake supper with him, Fitzwilliam and Georgiana who was visiting for a few days while de Bourgh traveled. Sending the note to him she duly ordered her supper and retired to her room. She surprised herself by falling asleep after her light supper which she only half finished. If Darcy looked in on her she did not know it.