She was confused at first but overjoyed that the precious item, the only thing she had ever received from her mother, was returned. Wherever did this come from? It had taken her several minutes to understand what was being implied. At first she thought the note was from Jane, but that made little sense. How did Jane get my locket? Her brows beetled in confusion. No, it wasn’t Jane’s stationery, but it was on Bingley stationery.

“Miss Bennet,” the note began.

Miss Bennet? There is only one person so ignorant and pig-headed enough to still call me Miss Bennet. She began to read again,


Miss Bennet,

It appears our darling Darcy misplaced your trinket several months ago when he stayed with me at Netherfield for our private visit, a visit we thoroughly enjoyed alone at my home. It must have fallen from his coat when he removed it, the locket being discovered upstairs in my bedroom. I had intended to return this during my visit with you at Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s home, but I was mysteriously misrepresented to her and had to leave before I could accomplish my mission.

I hope this hasn’t caused you any alarm. I had thought to discard it, but then realized it may have sentimental attachments for you. It obviously has no other value.

Please give Darcy my love and relate to him, for me, how I dearly I look forward to his next visit.

Regards,

Caroline Bingley


Lizzy sat very still, her mind so paralyzed that it was unable to wrap itself around this tidbit of news. Darcy was at her house? No. Fitzwilliam Darcy? Her Fitzwilliam Darcy? When could he have visited? She and Darcy had been in each other’s pockets for months now. The only time he was away from her was when he assisted her father in returning home, and when he went away to assist Charles at Netherfield…

Elizabeth was still clutching one bit of the shredded letter when Darcy entered her dressing room, arrogantly proclaiming that since there remained no footmen at home to carry her downstairs, he would, like his mud hut–dwelling forbearers, provide primitivelike sustenance for his woman—peach tarts, plover’s eggs with mint jelly, fresh fruit, cheese, and toast tips. All that she needed to tell him was how.

He stopped when he saw her furious stare. “Lizzy, whatever is wrong? You look like you’ve fought a ghost!”

It was a terrible argument. Tensions that had been repressed but building were exploding everywhere with horrible accusations and threats, most of which, thankfully, were shrieked in words that were unintelligible. When he finally stormed out, she sat at her dressing table, staring at a gaping hole where there had once been a door handle and lock. Now, like her marriage, the lock and handle lay in shattered pieces upon the floor. She was numb. She clutched her poor little locket to her heart and felt physically ill. She never thought for a moment that he would become so angry that he would actually kick in her door.

Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God! Could he really be having an affair with Caroline? No, this I cannot believe. I will not believe—he is the best of men. I’ll kill him. Oh dear Jesu, maybe he has the right of it, though, the way I treat him, and I look like a sea cow anyway. Who can blame him for finding comfort with another? I wish the baby would come, that it was all finally over. Caressing her stomach, she began to sob, not really noticing that the persistent back pain and occasional kicking, her daily companions for so many months, had finally ceased.

***

It was a half hour after Darcy’s dramatic exit that those horrible pains returned with a vengeance, the pain her doctor had been dismissing out of hand for the past week, worse now by far. There was also a queer pressure on her bottom, distracting her from her wallowing in abject misery. Moaning, she wiped away tears with a knuckle and quickly sat down, loudly blowing her nose with her delicate Belgian lace handkerchief. It never occurred to her to call for the doctor or even to have mentioned those earlier discomforts to her husband. Of course, now there is no husband to tell. It was the sort of whiney type of reflection that caused her to abruptly renew her wails.

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.

Oh dear. She gulped and pressed her hand across her forehead. I must remain calm, must remember to breathe. I am in the middle of London, at Yuletide, surely someone is about—somewhere. Where is Georgiana? Georgiana will help me. Dear sweet, gentle, little Georgiana. What a truly wonderful sister she has been to me. She’ll make such a good aunt. I do so adore her. She began to call out her beloved sister-in-law’s name but remembered that sweet, gentle, little Georgiana had run from the house that morning, unable to stand the tension any longer. She had fled to some holiday party with Emily and two other young girls. Scrawny little ingrate, leaving me to wallow here like a beached whale, alone and helpless.

Another pain caused Elizabeth to double over and scream.

***

Amanda Fitzwilliam was making her first steps into her new life, and to liberty, the American Revolution’s motto of Don’t Tread On Me her silent mantra—very silent. It was early evening, and her mother-in-law, finally recuperated enough to enjoy the holidays, had taken Emily and Georgiana to another one of the interminable holiday house parties that the upper classes apparently thrived upon. She would be gone for three glorious days. The timing for their escape could not have been more perfect.

When Amanda was certain that the old woman had departed and that the servants had left or were distracted with celebrations for the evening, she bundled up Harry and waited for her husband’s arrival. She waited as long as she could before her nerves just snapped. Grabbing a small bag that she had prepared with a few clothes for them both, she quietly slipped down the stairs.