The weight on his shoulders at the first revelation of Elizabeth's accident had felt heavy enough to crush his soul.
These days, having survived his existence in Rosings for nearly two months' time, Darcy found the weight familiar, if not any lighter.
Richard had not lasted long past the new arrangement. With his wife mostly bedridden, Mr. Collins now appeared daily at his patroness's side, never ceasing to fill Rosings Park's halls with his praise and adulation. And Darcy's daily trips to the parsonage, though largely driven to tend to Elizabeth, became slightly motivated as well by the need to escape the odious man. Aunt Catherine and Anne did not seem to mind the strange company, but Richard had fled a fortnight ago.
There was a delicate truce these days between Darcy and his aunt.
She persisted in referring every day to Darcy's single state, and her wordings leaned heavily towards an arranged marriage with someone she would deem a 'suitable match.' But, to the lady's credit, she never did mention Anne in particular as a choice for Darcy's bride. And far be it from Darcy to rock the boat now.
Whenever Mr. Collins or, upon occasion, Darcy made mention of Mrs. Collin's physical state, the mistress of Rosings would listen with impressive attention before pronouncing an obligatory comment or two. Her words were often silly or misguided, but surprisingly never harsh.
It was as if Elizabeth's fragile state led her to finally be acknowledged as a person in the eyes of the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
"Your stationery, sir." The footman presented the materials that Darcy had requested a half hour ago.
"Thank you." Darcy dismissed the boy.
Things tended to be idyllic in the countryside.
Darcy missed his London home - his study, his friends, his room. He wondered constantly about Pemberley, wishing that he could manage it in person rather than from afar.
But Elizabeth was here in Kent, strapped to an unforgiving life.
And Darcy was determined to remain by her side as long as he could.
Every day now, he watched her body grow as it nurtured the child within her womb. Every day, Darcy longed to reach out to touch her womanly form.
Every day, he had to resist.
And every night, he fell to his knees beside his bed, begging the Lord that the child be a daughter.
For how could Darcy live with himself if his son - his firstborn son - were robbed of his inheritance because of his father's foolishness in Hertfordshire and his aunt's poor judgment in Ramsgate?
The road to forgiveness had been a long one.
It took Darcy many days to truly confess his sins before the Lord - to unravel the bitterness and rage within himself until he leaned wholly upon His mercy. And then there was his score to settle with himself - the acceptance of his own choices and the determination to bear with their consequences.
He had to forgive himself, to forgive his own foolishness and pride, his impulsiveness and anger. Could he not have ridden to Hertfordshire at the news of Elizabeth's engagement? Could he not have tried to reconcile the Elizabeth he thought he knew and the one the rumors attributed her to be?
But his mind had been clouded - shrouded by fear and contempt and uncertainty. Ramsgate had shaken him so thoroughly that all rationale had fled his person.
And the sorrow from that moment on had led to Darcy destroying relationship after relationship in his life - with his aunt, with his cousin, with his sister.
Then Elizabeth, with all that she was, had reemerged into his life in the most dramatic of ways - and reminded him to be what he ought to be.
Circumstances robbed him of the chance to be the husband and the father that he so desperately wished to be.
But he was still a gentleman, a nephew, a cousin, a friend.
He was still a brother.
And Darcy, prevented from writing to the woman he loved most by the vengeance of life, lifted his pen to write to the other young woman who mattered most to him.
It was a letter long overdue.
Dear Georgiana,
Forgive me for my neglect of late. I have no excuse to offer. I hope with all my heart that you are recovering from your recent heartaches, and I pray that you read this letter with more optimism for our family than disdain for my past inconsiderations.
Since our parting in London, a variety of circumstances have compelled me to consider my own shortcomings in various life matters - including that of my chosen associations of the romantic kind. I have discovered, for one, how foolishly I have been allowing our aunt to persist in her delusion that Anne and I would one day marry, and I have taken the pains to inform her of my perspective. She did not take it well, as one may expect, but she and I have since come to a precarious truce that I am more than happy to maintain.
Kent has been warming early this year, the skies clear and the sunshine keen more often than not. My annual stay has prolonged itself due to certain events that I would much prefer to relate to you in person, and I am experiencing the early height of summer here for the first time. Would you prefer to visit? I understand that the distractions of London may prove more entertaining for a young lady. One can hardly presume, after all, that anyone staying upon our aunt's property is doing so by personal volition, uninhibited by other reasons. But if you wish for some countryside air, I should be able to secure our aunt's permission to invite you, as I am unable to take us to Pemberley for the time being.
How are you, Georgie? I'm afraid I have taken far too long to ask this question. I have never been of the eloquent sort, and I fear you have suffered greatly for your lack of a female influence in the family. I strive my best to provide you with the houses and privileges you deserve, dear one, but I fear I have fallen short in granting you a true home.
Be well, my dearest sister. I selfishly hope you do not tarry in your correspondence as I am wont to do. Do tell Mrs. Johnson of whatever you wish to purchase. She is under strict orders to provide you with the greatest comfort you require.
Yours,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
"Mrs. Collins, is the water temperature appropriate today?"
Elizabeth finished wiping her face dry before turning towards the maid. Her life in the past ten weeks had changed its face so many times that she inevitably braced herself for sudden change at any hour.
But, to Mr. Darcy's credit, his strange arrangement with Lady Catherine had resulted in a stagnant calm of sorts for everyone involved. Every day, her fool of a husband would bumble his way through his morning routine and take off for his patroness's home, tarrying there until supper. Every day, Mr. Darcy, the designated regent, would arrive an hour before noon to repeat a spiel of random instructions - and to see to Elizabeth's every comfort.
Whatever respect Mr. Collins never managed to earn from his own servants, Mr. Darcy commanded in spades.
And soon, every room was cleaner, every dish was fresher, and every item in the house was more suited to her delicate state.
He was a proud man - a quiet man - one who seldom ventured to speak or to admit any wrongdoing on his part.
But had not his constant and devoted care, day after day, for weeks on end been penance enough? Could anyone claim with any righteousness that he did not strive to compensate for the sorrows his actions had caused?
He said he had written a note, a careless note trusted carelessly to a faceless footman.
Perhaps, one day, they would discover whatever happened to the note. Perhaps they never would.
Truly, it did not matter any more.
"It is perfect as it is. Thank you," Elizabeth replied to the maid, who sighed and smiled at last before approaching to take away the basin.
The promise of recrimination at the hand of the firm Mr. Darcy did wonders to her staff.
Elizabeth thanked him.
She could not thank him in person. Her words, since their meeting by the lake, had been limited to variations on her gratefulness and assurances of her comfort. He never pressed for more - no matter how many ravenous words his eyes would whisper.
Those words were for another woman, in another lifetime.
They had to content themselves with the circumstances they had now.
She descended the stairs with care, her girth now wider than Mama's, though Dr. Redford had assured her that she would grow bigger still in the final month. News arrived yesterday regarding Jane's expecting state. Mama had sounded ecstatic, even with her limited words, declaring that both her daughters would bear sons within the year.
It occurred to Elizabeth that even if Mama knew the true origin of the child she currently carried, her joy would not be tarnished one bit.
Life did delight in irony.
"Mrs. Collins," the servant greeted her in the hallway. Elizabeth nodded at the young woman before turning to enter the parlor. It was almost noon now. Mr. Darcy would be here - and they would exchange cool greetings and heated gazes as they always did. And he would ask after her, and she would say she was well, and he would manage to conjure a new rule or request that added to her already exquisite comfort.
In many ways, her life now was far better than she would have dared to hope for a mere three months ago.
"He is not here?" Elizabeth frowned, when she found herself greeted by an empty room. He had mentioned his sister yesterday, and she longed to continue their discourse upon that topic. She also wished to talk to him as well about the gardens and the rabbit the cook's daughter had found.
Quite frankly, she just wished to see him and to talk to him - about anything at all.
"Where is Mr. Darcy?" She turned back to face the hallway, her voice higher than it tended to be of late.
"Mrs. Collins." The maid approached. "We have had no callers this morning."
"Oh." Elizabeth held her belly. "I see."
Where could he be?
What was he doing?
She had no right to question his whereabouts - and it irked her slightly that she had no such right.
"Do tell me if anyone calls," Elizabeth muttered.
The maid nodded before scurrying away.
Alone once more, Elizabeth moved towards the couch, an unrest in her heart.
It was unlike Mr. Darcy to alter his routine. It was even more unlike him to alter it without sending word.
He knew she was expecting him. He had to know, after the countless times they had shared tiny, gentle thoughts in this very room. They never conversed freely. They never dared to.
But they spoke in short spurts - and those short spurts had come to be her favorite entertainment every day.
The leaves rustled right outside the open window. There was an eerie calm to the air - like the silence before a raging storm, a stillness before a large, crashing wave.
Elizabeth felt her sides tighten.
There was something wrong - something gravely wrong about to happen.
"Mrs. Collins! Mrs. Collins!" Panting breaths mingled with rushing steps. It was an unfamiliar voice - not from one of her servants. "Mrs. Collins!"
Elizabeth looked up to the red-faced young man just when he barged into the parlor.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Collins - there was a - his heart - " The servant boy panted. He was from Rosings. Something had happened to her husband. The parsonage's staff began to huddle around the young boy. "Mr. Collins' heart failed this morning. Dr. Redford was called. The parson - the parson has passed."
Elizabeth frowned. The words did not have meaning.
"He clutched his heart before he fell," the boy braved on. Perhaps he knew Elizabeth did not understand. "Mr. Collins is - is dead, ma'am. I'm very sorry."
The servants gasped.
Elizabeth stared.
Mr. Collins - was dead.
Her husband - the man who ate far too much meat and wine for a parson, who never knew what was good for him, who left his home daily to gorge himself on the feast upon Lady Catherine's breakfast table that he may whine about their food at night - had abused his body so thoroughly that it chose to stop serving him.
Mr. Collins was dead.
Elizabeth was a widow - a widow heavy with child in a heartless world.
She did not cry, but her heart did clench and her limbs did tremble.
"Where is he - the body?" She barked.
"At Rosings, ma'am. Mr. Darcy sent a carriage - that you may take it if you preferred."
Elizabeth nodded and shoved herself off the couch.
"Take me there," she commanded - and she let the servants usher her into the carriage before she even thought of the growing ache in her belly and the feel of fluid beneath her dress.
"Mrs. Collins, you have to push!" a female voice hollered.
"Again, once more. Do not stop," another voice urged.
"Sir, you cannot enter!"
Muffled noises whirl in the recesses of her hearing. Deep, aching shots of pain muted her senses.
"Miss de Bourgh, perhaps the sight is not for you," a distant voice commanded. "Mr. Darcy, we will care for Mrs. Collins! She will be well!"
"Again, Mrs. Collins. Harder!" the voice closest to Elizabeth repeated.
Elizabeth had no words for the roaring waves of physical agony. She longed to curl into herself and drown herself in the ocean. She longed to thrash her arms until they obliterated every creature in their path.
"Push!"
She grappled for strength she did not have, every inch of her body drenched in sweat.
"Mr. Darcy! Again, you cannot come! She is not your wife. She is Mrs. Collins!"
The screeches and sounds and cries in the background swirled like a snowstorm around her. All she felt was pain - and pain - and pain some more. Perhaps, she was the sole creator of the deafening sounds reverberating throughout the guest room Lady Catherine had assigned her on sight. Frankly, Elizabeth no longer knew.
"It is early, but the child may live." The midwife's voice whispered through the fog. Dr. Redford was not here. Mr. Darcy was not here. Mr. Collins - Mr. Collins was dead, and the undertaker was the man who had watched with wide eyes as the servants ushered Elizabeth down the hall.
The child could still live - and Elizabeth clung to the hope with desperation as her body wrecked itself with immeasurable pain.
"I delivered Anne much faster," a woman announced outside the door.
"Aunt Catherine, it is not the time!" a man's voice shouted.
Elizabeth shut her eyes forcefully. She had to survive. The child had to survive.
Her arrival at Rosings had been nothing short of dramatic. She was lucky that Lady Catherine took an interest in her. It was that interest that had prevented her from being thrown into the streets.
"With vigor, Mrs. Collins. Again!" the midwife commanded.
The instructions came faster than her body could respond - but she fought, and she tried - with every inch of her being. There was nothing for her now save this child. There was no other purpose than to deliver it safely.
For him, for her - she had to give her all.
"Push!"
She groaned with desperation as she drew upon the fractured remnants of her tenacity. Her body burned. There was simply no way - no chance - no possibility that she could -
The sensation of a heavy sack twisting down her body her drew out her every breath.
"It is here!" a voice declared.
"It is moving!" another one added.
"Well done, Mrs. Collins."
Elizabeth gasped, feeling air enter her body for the first time in a lifetime.
"Mrs. Collins," the midwife addressed her as Elizabeth felt her body grow limp. "Here is your child."
Elizabeth watched, with a strange concoction of detachment and awe, as a crying babe was placed beside her. The blanket covered everything but the child's cherubic face.
"Mr. Darcy!" Shrieks from several female voices accompanied Mr. Darcy's forced entry into the room.
"Where is it?" He demanded, his eyes sifting through the mess that was the guest room. "Is it - is it a son?"
"No, sir," the midwife, perhaps having worked for many masters over the years, knew better than the question the strange whims of wealthy masters. "Mrs. Collins has born a daughter."
And Elizabeth slipped into her sleep with a smile, her fingertip against her daughter's cheek.
A/N: Those who have been following me for a while know my struggles with infertility. In a year of pandemics and global chaos, the Lord has chosen to bless us with twins; and it has been a wild ride since! That said, I had a scheduled C-section and therefore have no idea how it is to give birth normally. If anything about that birthing scene was particularly ridiculous, I apologize that you had to bear with me. Thank you for your patience!