The screams echoed down the corridor, Elizabeth – her face red with effort, her hair matted and mussed from the twelve hours of labour – shouted out in pain. Darcy had tried to follow Ellen into the room and was pushed back, she begged Staughton to take the master away, this was not the place for him right now. He slumped on the chair outside the room, refusing to move, even when the screams and cries became too much for him and he thought he might go mad with the frustration of being so useless. The corridor turned dark; a maid came with a candle and some coffee, the moon rose in the night sky, then came dawn and yet he remained.

The baby did not cry.

Darcy saw the small body covered over in the white sheet and the look of fear and anguish on his wife's face, Dr Jeffries shouted for him to be removed from the room, but he refused to go. Ellen was trying to push him away, but then he heard a cry. A small cry. Was he going mad? He turned around to see Dr Jeffries wrapping another baby in a blanket. Ellen looked at him, shocked, but with a relief sweeping over her, revealing itself on her face as she was handed the child.

"It's a girl," she said, handing the precious newborn to her father. Darcy looked at his daughter, she had Elizabeth's eyes and his dark hair, and he was immediately and overwhelmingly besotted with her. He took her over to his wife, who looked completely drained and he presented the baby, showing her the fruits of the labour that she had endured for nearly thirty-six hours. Elizabeth, shaking with cold, exhausted and in pain, turned away and buried her head in the pillow.

Elizabeth looked around at the grandeur of her room, the printed paper on the walls, the wool rugs, the gilt dresser, the canopy – stitched with gold and silver thread - that stretched all the way to the ceiling. But all she could see everywhere she looked was the small body, wrapped up in a sheet as if to be thrown away. She had heard Dr Jeffries asking a maid to dispose of the bloodied sheet and she had howled, a low frantic moan, pulling at the covers, begging to see him, hoping and wishing that her love alone would be enough to bring him back to life. Reluctantly they allowed it, despite Darcy's objections, and brought him to her wrapped in a pale blue blanket. He had the longest eyelashes she had ever seen, the same long tapered fingers shared by his oldest brother, and the Darcy chin. He was perfect. Stroking his face, so soft and so cold, she held him close to try and warm him up. She sat there for a long time, softly whispering lullabies and kissing the top of his head until they came and took him away.

Darcy arranged for Samuel Joshua Darcy to be placed in the family mausoleum at St Peter's Church in Lambton; it was something not usually done in cases such as these, but he felt that it was the proper resting place for his son and he arranged for an appropriate service and a marker to signify this. He had been saddened by the event – wondering what Samuel's future would have been, what his life would have been like – and in his own way he grieved deeply for the loss of his child. But, unlike his wife, Darcy knew that they had been very fortunate to not have lost both children, or even Elizabeth herself. He remembered, all too well, the death of Princess Charlotte the winter before, where both the Prince Regent's daughter and grandchild were both dead after a long labour. In this instance the Darcys were fortunate, they were lucky indeed.

Mrs Reynolds had employed the services of a wet nurse for feeding the baby as Mrs Darcy, still unwell, was unable to feed the baby herself. It was a peculiar time, the lady thought as she swaddled the youngest Darcy in cotton blankets and held her as she once did Miss Georgiana. Mrs Reynolds though was worried about her mistress – she had not eaten properly since the birth, had not dressed or moved from her rooms and showed no interest in the baby at all. It was concerning, although it was sad to lose one babe, they were fortunate to have one who was beautiful and healthy. Yes, she thought, these were peculiar times indeed.

The baby girl, who had still not been named, was now a month old and Elizabeth had still not displayed any interest in her or the boys, who she avoided whenever she could. She kept to her rooms, which were stifling hot and unaired, and was rarely seen outside in the grounds. Darcy had held her, cradled her, wrapped his arms around her and caressed her face, but nothing could fill the hollow emptiness inside of her as she wept for the loss of her child. He didn't know how to help her or what he could do, it was as if his own feelings and emotions were disregarded, his wife consumed by an all-encompassing grief that was consuming her and he did not know how he was going to get her back.

Georgiana was in town, preparing her trousseau for her wedding to the young attorney, Henry Alveston, in the summer, however, the post she received from her brother immediately made her arrange a return to Pemberley. The carriage had barely stopped before she was running up the steps to the front door and into the arms of her beloved brother. He looked like a haunted man; he needed a wash and a shave. They were standing in the grand entrance hall, with its restored tapestries and grand columns, the place where they celebrated happy times.

"Aunt Georgiana!"

Master Fitzwilliam was running down the steps which lead from the drawing room, whilst his brother was now pressing keys on the pianoforte behind them. Darcy picked up the younger boy and held him close before placing him down and asking the nursemaid to take them both to the nursery. He led his sister over to the sofa, before holding her close to him. He held her a moment before tears began to fall from his eyes and he found himself sobbing.

"Brother, what is it?" she enquired urgently. "What is the matter?"

"She is gone."

"What?" she searched his face, his eyes for clues. "Darcy?"

"Elizabeth."

Dressed in a simple gown, jacket and her sturdiest boots, Elizabeth Darcy woke before the crow and ventured outside. She was surprised to see that the world around her was still the same when she was so different; all her emotions somehow deadened by the loss she had experienced and the grief that still overcame her when she was least expecting it. She had pretended to be asleep when her husband, he himself still grieving, had come into her room last night and sat gently on her bed, pouring out his heart and soul to her, not aware that she was listening to every word he said. He felt the pain too, he said. He did not ever think that they would lose a child, but that they had been given a great gift and had another baby to look after and cherish, and this baby and their sons needed their mother, and he needed his wife. O God, how he needed her, he couldn't do this alone. She had wanted to speak up and tell him that he could not experience the loss in the same way she had, had not carried the babe in his belly for nine months and felt him move and grow, and now there was nothing; no life and no future for the dead child, the lost son, the missing Darcy.

Elizabeth planned to walk to The Cage, which she managed in reasonable time, taking a moment to look back at her home which was still as beautiful today as the first time she ever saw it. She walked further, onwards and onwards, through the deer park and into the moorland beyond. The early summer months had hardened the ground and she found it strong and easy to stride across. With new purpose, she pushed on until she could no longer see the outline of the three-hundred-year-old hunting lodge dominating the skyline. She kept the momentum of one foot in front of the other, onwards and onwards, over stiles and past cottages on the furthest expanses of the estates, whose tenants she visited in the winter, bringing them gifts from the house. It was mid-afternoon before she decided to stop; her feet aching and her mouth dry. She was unsure of how many miles she had walked, and she was aware of the impropriety of it all. But Elizabeth knew where she was going, and she trudged ahead, onwards and onwards.

Gallagher called for his mistress as he opened the door to see Mrs Darcy of Pemberley, sunburned and dehydrated, standing before him. Jane, who had been out in the garden came running through the house, her bonnet coming lose and falling to the ground as she reached her sister and gathered her up, before calling for water and ice. Elizabeth collapsed into Jane's arms and was held there on the floor of the house for a long time, crying and sobbing until there were no more tears left. Jane gently stroked her sister's forehead until she fell asleep, Elizabeth slept until the following evening and Bingley had rode over to Pemberley himself to let Darcy know that his wife was safe and well at Dunham.

"Jane," Elizabeth said weakly. "I am so happy to see your face."

Mrs Bingley placed some ice to her sister's lips, which were dry and chapped from the summer sun.

"Lizzie, how I have missed you," she smiled softly. "We have all been so worried."

"Oh Jane, it has been so hard, and I have been so lonely."

"Lonely, why? Surely you can speak with Fitzwilliam…"

"There are some things men do not understand, Jane, and I fear this is one of them."

"What do you mean, Lizzie?"

"Everyone keeps saying that I should feel happy that we are so fortunate that I survived, and she lived…." She held back a sob. "All I can think about is how he did not live and how unfortunate that is."

Jane pulled her sister close to her and embraced her gently.

"It was very unfortunate, and I know that Darcy feels the loss keenly, but he is grateful that you and your daughter did not suffer the same fate, for it is very common to lose everyone. You cannot judge your husband, Lizzie, for taking comfort in the fact that you survived… and that your daughter survived."

Elizabeth knew that Jane always spoke the absolute truth, there was nothing bad about her and no reason to live or contrive a situation. It was only through speaking to her dearest sister that she began to feel the tremendous burden of surviving begin to leave her.

It was a week before Elizabeth returned to Pemberley. She wrote to Darcy every day, asking him to forgive her for running away and assuring him of her deepest love. She asked about the baby and wondered why there was no name yet -it will be amusing, she wrote, if Miss Darcy reaches her coming of age and we are still referring to her as 'baby'. Darcy wrote back that there was one name that kept coming to him every time he went to see the baby in the nursery or held her in his arms. Better an imaginary name than no name at all, she replied.

When she arrived back at her home, Elizabeth stood in the courtyard, looking up at the blue sky overhead, she understood now that Samuel would always be a part of her that she carried around inside her heart. And that the loss of him should not prevent her from living.

"Mrs Darcy," came the loud cry from the far side of the house.

She looked up and saw Fitzwilliam and James running down the courtyard steps, one on each side, embracing her with such force that she was sure she was going to fall over. She knelt, kissing and embracing them before rising to her feet to see Darcy, holding their daughter in his arms. Walking over slowly as if being introduced to a stranger, she peeked at the little girl and found herself looking into eyes exactly like her own.

"Elizabeth," Darcy said softly. "Please let me introduce Mabel Anne Darcy."

"Mabel," she smiled. "It's an honour to meet you." She took the little hand in her own and Mabel immediately grasped back, prompting an 'Oh' from her mother.

"It's from the Latin," Darcy said. "Amabilis… It means lovable."

Elizabeth took her daughter into her embrace, and Darcys – now a family of five - walked out together to the front lawn to enjoy the sunshine.