Chapter Six

February 1813

Rosemary stared at the housekeeper, one hand automatically flying to her stomach. 'That is impossible!' she cried.

Mrs Reynolds looked vastly amused. 'Apparently not, your ladyship.'

'Surely it is too soon?' She sat down heavily, struggling to comprehend it all.

'You have been married over four months, your ladyship,' Mrs Reynolds said, glancing away. 'It is quite normal.'

'But we did not — ' Rosemary turned scarlet and looked down awkwardly. Were their circumstances different, she might have called the other woman a friend. But she was the Lady Rosemary, mistress of the house, and Mrs Reynolds was the spinster housekeeper. It would be vastly improper to mention what went on behind closed doors, certainly. Rosemary blushed again and again. At nine-and-twenty she was hardly a innocent young girl, she understood what men were like. For all his austerity she had believed Darcy would be the same. So, when she deemed herself ready to approach her husband, she had not the slightest idea that it would take hours of rational persuasion and a great deal of wine to convince him. Such occasions remained very rare and very awkward, as Rosemary and Darcy could scarcely have been less attracted to one another.

She thought back. If she was about six weeks along, as Mrs Reynolds speculated, it must be — oh, yes. So it had been long enough, just barely. 'Oh, I see,' she said, still flushed. 'I should tell Mr Darcy.'

'Ah,' said Mrs Reynolds, colouring slightly, 'I believe — it is very highly probable, ma'am — he likely knows already.'

Rosemary started. 'How would he know? Did Amelia — '

'His mother conceived seven times between Mr Darcy and Miss Darcy that was,' Mrs Reynolds said delicately. 'He saw the signs often enough.'

Rosemary remembered his repeated questions, which at the time had only rather irritated her, and blushed yet again. 'Oh, I see.' She frowned. 'Why did he not tell me?' she wondered aloud, and Mrs Reynolds cleared her throat.

'I believe he thought, your ladyship, that the, er, announcement, was your prerogative.'

Rosemary gave her a sharp look. She had no doubt but that Darcy had confided in his housekeeper — he did not maintain distinctions quite as he ought. 'I see,' she said.

The months of Rosemary's pregnancy passed without incident. She felt she looked ridiculous — she had always been a slender, ethereal woman, and remained so but for her protruding belly — and for the first half of the time was more temperamental than she had ever been in her life. Darcy prudently spent most of his time on the estate or locked in the library after she lashed out at him several times too many. (Fond as he was of her, he was not about to let her dictate the manner in which he carved his meat. Nor — though he did not consider himself a vain man — did he let her near him with scissors when she declared his hair too long.) Then she became unnervingly serene. Darcy ventured out of the library, and the servants regained their customary good cheer, which somehow no longer seemed quite so grating. (Why must everyone here be so cheerful all — the — time? she demanded of no-one in particular on one of her more unpleasant mornings.)

Georgiana, who had conceived a month earlier than Rosemary (to her brother's mixed joy and fear), was a great comfort, writing long and witty letters about the horrors of her own confinement and how much she looked forward to being a mother. Her son was born in September and christened Darcy Stephen Alexander Willoughby. Rosemary privately thought it a rather unwieldy name for such a small creature, but then, he was only ever known as 'Stephen.' Within a few weeks he was a lovely, charming little boy (and, according to his uncle and the family portraits, the very image of his mother at the same age). It was October, three weeks past when Rosemary had been assured the time would come, when her water broke and she stared blankly at the floor.

The labour, considering the mother's slight build and the baby's size, was not terribly difficult. It was only five hours before Anne Catherine Rosemary Darcy entered the world, and the exhausted Rosemary received her daughter in her arms. She was very like other babies, loud and red, with a full array of toes and fingers. Soft, downy black hair covered her head, and Rosemary laughed in weary delight as Anne began suckling on her breast.

Anne had fallen asleep when the midwife remembered Darcy, still pacing outside. Rosemary could just hear her say, 'Mr Darcy, you have a daughter' before he dashed into the room and stood quite still, staring wordlessly at her. The midwife gently put Anne in his arms, and he automatically adjusted his stance slightly to hold her head up. The midwife smiled and said, 'I see you have done this before, sir.' Darcy ignored her and gazed down in utter fascination at his daughter.

'She looks like you,' Rosemary said sleepily. Another man might have done the expected and protested; not so he. Darcy reverently brushed one finger over the fine black hair and laughed softly.

'Yes, she does.'