Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

At that moment, the only room in her thoughts were for Darcy and Caroline Bingley. Could they have deceived her for so long? If so, how long had the two of them been communicating with each other? Laughing at her? Caroline was beautiful, the little weasel, as well as an extremely skilled flirt and always desperately grasping for a husband, any husband. But why my husband? Let her get her own life and husband and leave mine to me! Elizabeth trembled with anger and humiliation. How could he walk out on me now, like this? How could he leave me for that hussy? When she then looked at herself in the mirror, she gasped—blotchy face, red-rimmed eyes, hair jutting out at bizarrely odd angles, a belly that looked like she had swallowed a hedge. Reinvigorated by her inventory of personal faults, she began again to yowl, her tears increasing in volume and running down her cheeks in miserable rivers.

***

Eventually, though, even a cast-off blob of a wife needed food, and so she clumsily stood, bracing herself against her dressing table then waddled the few steps to her now-cold afternoon tea tray. The pressure on her bottom intensified, followed by an odd sensation of water running down her legs. She was aghast at seeing the liquid stain begin to spread on her beloved Turkish carpet. “Oh no!” she cried in distress. “Why must everything happen to me?” She was furious. She stomped her tiny bare foot in her rage and did what all devoted wives do—she blamed her husband. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Darcy! This is just typical, isn’t it? This rug is one of a kind and very expensive, William, brand new, not even four months old!”

That was the exact moment the enormity of what was happening finally struck her… and just seconds before the first real labor pain hit. She gripped her belly and felt her knees begin to vibrate.

“Uh-oh.”

She snatched wildly at the back of a chair. “No, this cannot be.” After a moment, she calmed her breathing then attempted the trip from the chair back to the table, thinking to make her way slowly toward the door.

Another, stronger pain in her back knocked her to her knees.

“Cara,” she gasped out to her maid. “Cara!” She tried to call louder, but she had no volume, no strength, and the house remained so quiet. All Elizabeth could hear was the clock on the mantel.

Where in heaven’s name is Cara? Why is it so quiet? Now on her hands and knees and utterly helpless, she pulled open her broken door and peered to the left, down the long, empty corridor and then to the right. Sweet Jesus, this cannot be labor, she tried to reassure herself. It must be something that I ate, perhaps merely indigestion. I have four weeks left—they owe me four weeks! I am not ready for this, besides which the doctor said first babies are always late… always. That dim-witted, bloody imbecile promised me! Yes, and then Jane will be here, my father will be here, Kitty and Mary will be here. No, this just cannot happen now. I forbid it.

She grabbed onto the leg of a hall chair and, dragging it toward herself, managed somehow to sit. She looked like Buddha with her legs spread to accommodate her low-hanging belly and her hands resting on her knees. Sweat had begun pooling up under her arms and between her breasts. Moisture thickened at the roots of her fringe of bangs. “Mrs. Winter!” It was no use. Her voice sounded like a frog croak.

Not a sound returned to her.

“Could they all be down at supper?” she asked upon hearing her mantel clock strike seven-thirty. “Oh, no! Elizabeth, did you forget it is Boxing Day? The staff is off enjoying their holiday.” She spoke aloud in this manner with the belief that the sound of a voice would calm her.

It did not.