B006O3T9DG EBOK (21 page)

Of late, his dear wife had begun to drag her tiny slippers when it came to accompanying him to his speeches. When Howgrave announced that he was to speak once again at The Marylebone Reading Society, she begged another engagement.

“Heaven forbid! They discuss political pamphlets!” she complained.

Once his office was secured, her distaste for politics had waned in direct proportion with the press’s interest in her. This displeased him. His hand circled her arm just above the elbow firmly enough to convince her that she was happy to join him. She might have objected further, but he had lured her felicity by promising Rowlandson would be there taking likenesses for his popular caricatures. They were particularly cutting to Howgrave, but one could not ignore publicity no matter how denigrating.

Once again, Juliette did her part (indeed, Rowlandson’s likeness of her was quite complimentary), but Howgrave was not above reminding his dear wife of what they both knew—her bargain was not compleat until she produced an heir.

When he acquired her, there had been whispers that she was older than she had admitted. But Howgrave did not doubt his own eye. Her skin was dewy as the morn. He had no illusions in regards to his wife’s honour, she was a courtesan. Every man of station in London knew of her, she was possibly the most singular woman in England. That was her cachet. She was a woman of accommodating morals, but an excellent one.

If he found out that she had lied to him in relation to something of such great importance as her childbearing capacity, a carriage whip was not the only thing he would administer against her lovely, white flesh. (Just thinking of it, a small bit of spit accumulated in the corner of his mouth.) He did not need to remind her of her duty. She knew it inherently. Her unhappiness was disguised as indifference, which was exhibited repeatedly by a stifled yawn. When her husband orated, however, all demeaning gestures were kept hidden behind her heavily-decorated fan.

Even Howgrave became bored by such meetings. Most groups were dry as toast until they were supplied with gunpowder. The few sparks that were ignited that night were overruled by cooler heads. It was remarkable how excruciatingly monotonous the oratory of rioters could otherwise be.

The mile between Tyburn and Piccadilly was strewn with broken waggons, crushed vegetables, and fractured hopes. Whilst the poor ran rampant in the streets, the fashionable dined with Coleridge and Byron, nodding their heads at the mellifluence of the poetic words. Given a choice, Juliette was happy to be amused by stargazing poets. Moreover, there was a good bit of tittering over Byron’s alleged liaison with his sister—any party was improved by lascivious gossip. Howgrave sniffed at such light amusements.

The political pot was stirred as it boiled by other speechmakers, both caustic and appealing. Their words disturbed the masses upon both sides. Amongst them slunk spies and counter-spies. It was one great cacophony of bedlam. Desperate for an influx of new blood in his camp, Howgrave continued to coax Alistair Thomas to his speeches. The man seemed resistant. Slipping away for days at a time, Howgrave’s friends questioned where he went and thus his loyalty. Lord Orloff defended him.

“A gentleman such as he must weigh all his options before making his commitment.”

Howgrave nodded in agreement and his friends acquiesced.

“When you know the gentleman better, you shall think better of him,” he assured them.

Uninterested in political winds that did not affect her, Juliette grew increasingly wan. She began to anticipate public disturbances just to have an excuse to get her slippers muddy.

All the while Mr. Darcy kept to the north.

Chapter 29

The Third Rose

With a history of beforehand labours, Jane had meant to be by her sister’s side when such time was upon them. Unfortunately, two of her children were ill with scarlet fever. (Elizabeth would no more allow her take leave of her children than she would have chanced bringing contagion with her to Pemberley.) Hence, Georgiana became the chief architect of the birth. Her soft voice and calm air was always a great reassurance during such times. Also on hand was the physician, Mr. Upchurch. However, Georgiana dismissed the pair of midwives he brought with him.

Once her labour commenced in earnest, Elizabeth was torn whether to bid her children to her or not. She feared that if she did, her words might be given too much weight. She most certainly did not want them to take an audience as some sort of farewell. In the end, she called for them. As she kissed their foreheads, both were more solemn than she would have liked. Geoff held his sister’s hand as they were led away. However, once beyond the door; they ran to play without a backwards look.

As soon as they were out of hearing, Elizabeth emitted a deep groan. When she did, Darcy abruptly stood, looking as if he had been hit in the stomach. In a moment, the pain subsided. Seeing his deep apprehension (and knowing the next contraction would not be less painful than the last), she insisted that he must go too.

“All shall be well,” she reassured him.

Although he took her hand gently in his and kissed it, his voice was unusually taut.

“Of course,” he said.

With a forced smile, she reminded him, “This is the one thing that I must do all on my own.” Thereupon, she announced, “I shall be done with this business in a trice. All
shall
be well. This I promise you.”

Without releasing her hand, he nodded.

“I
promise,
” she repeated. Then girding herself for another contraction, she bid, “Go now. You must.”

He nodded once more, very nearly bowed, and walked quietly away. He stopped at the door. Pressing his forehead against the frame, he grimaced.

“I shall see to her, brother,” Georgiana said.

Without responding, Darcy stepped outside the room. He did not trust his voice. Indeed, helplessness overwhelmed him. It was a sensation he held in great abhorrence. Mr. Upchurch stood a few feet away and Darcy was most pleased to vent his vexation upon him.

In what could only be described as a bark, he told him, “You shall apprise me should Mrs. Darcy become unduly distressed.”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy,” the doctor answered.

As Mr. Darcy strode away, the doctor called after him, “I presume you mean other than that which is required?”

The good doctor regretted his question almost as soon as he uttered it. Both were well-acquainted with “that which was required.” Mr. Upchurch had not attended Mrs. Darcy upon her first, tragic confinement. He most certainly had heard of it. Having brought many a baby into the world, he understood what had gone amiss then. As Mr. Darcy waited at the far end of the corridor, the doctor ducked into Mrs. Darcy’s room for his initial assessment. He knew what her husband was most in want of knowing.

It was Georgiana who brought the pertinent information. Her brother stood looking out a window, his hands clasped behind his back. She called to him. As he walked to her, she saw him square his shoulders.

She announced, “The baby is in the correct position.”

If Darcy found comfort in that news, he did not betray it. Once again, he nodded. In truth, his mouth was dry from trepidation. Had that not rendered him speechless, he might have inquired as to the size of the child.

Thenceforth, he remained in his library, the door ajar. That set the tenor for the house. It was as if all of Pemberley was carpeted with eggs. Everyone was quiet as mice and frightened as rabbits. The servants did their duties calmly, but would stop in seeming unison and put a hand to one ear. Not that they expected the baby would come directly. They settled in for a long wait and steeled themselves for the outcome.

It was all for naught. The birth of the newest Darcy was notable for nothing except a compleat want of folderol. Elizabeth was taken to her bed at four and gave birth by half-past seven. Mr. Darcy had not time enough to generate much angst whatsoever.

Both were relieved for the other.

Word had been sent to Darcy as soon as the birth was imminent. He heard the first mewling cries of the babe from outside the birthing room. Bathed with relief for that, he knew, of course, was not the end of it. An hour crept by before the doctor felt it was safe to announce all was well.

When he came out, he speculated, “I’d say the child is above eight pounds. A good size, indeed.”

In want of a bit of drama, Elizabeth bid no one tell Darcy the gender the baby. She also made him wait whilst Hannah tied a ribbon around her hair. He paced until he was at last given leave to enter.

At the door, he hesitated. Elizabeth’s smile was weak, but reassuring. Only then did he allow himself to take a deep breath of relief and turn his thoughts to the child. Wrapped in the gossamer shawl (one notable by reason that Hannah knitted it herself) and tucked into the curve of her arm, the baby opened large, sleepy eyes and let out an unexpected yowl. Thither Darcy went to inspect his newest offspring.

As he reached his wife’s side, Hannah burst out the news.

“I knew it was a boy! I knew it!” she blurted forth.

Mortified, Hannah clamped her hand over her mouth. (She had overstepped her station and her duty to a grievous degree.) Quite hastily, she withdrew. Georgiana followed her out of the room.

The delight that overspread Darcy’s face kept Elizabeth from being too exasperated at Hannah. Still, she was a bit miffed to have done all the work and then been denied the glory. Unwitting of his wife’s designs, Darcy was actually too pleased by the outcome to think of anything else—at least at first.

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed and put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. It was important to her not to look as exhausted as she felt. That was not pride alone. Her dearest desire had been to be the one to introduce him to his latest progeny.

Turning back the corner of the shawl, Elizabeth allowed her husband his first look upon his son’s face.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, “May I present your son?”

Peering cautiously at the bundle she held, he marvelled, “A boy, you say?”

“Proof that you are not deceived is as quick as this.”

She withdrew the shawl. The baby indeed owned male credentials and directly put them into use. An arc of urine spewed in the direction of his father’s waistcoat. Both parents anticipated the fountain. With remarkable aplomb, Mr. Darcy placed a pocket square atop the geyser, saying, “Actually, my love, I was quite willing to take you at your word.”

She smiled contentedly as the baby began to squirm.

“He is strong, like his father.”

His father begged to differ.

“He is strong, like his mother.”

Now that all seemed well, he gave himself leave to jest.

“You are the most economical mother of my recollection,” said he. “Your efficiency wastes no one’s time at all. Why I shall be able to compleat several letters before supper and take an early night....”

“There are matters to attend to before you take your rest,” she pointed out. “Pray, what are we to call him?”

“We must call him William,” he said with finality. Then, he asked, “There is but one? I find myself a bit disappointed.”

Happy he could be droll, she answered, “I may live to vex you yet. For now, we have but one baby and must be happy in a humbler way.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He then kissed her forehead.

She laughed, “For now, I dislike you seeing me so indisposed. My hair is compleatly out of curl and what am I to do?”