However, for the immediate days after the garden theatrics the actions of both Mr. Falke and Miss Bennet were fodder for gossip. The primary deterrent to gleefully provoked scandal was the furious visage of George Darcy. His affection for Miss Kitty was deep and sincere. Much to the amazement of everyone, the perpetually sunny disposition of the good doctor was utterly erased, to be replaced with an expression as stern and dour as ever witnessed on Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. For many it was the first time, despite the obvious physical resemblance, that they fully recognized the familial similarity.

Kitty remained locked in her room for two days, appearing finally at the urging of Georgiana and bravely joining the gay entertainments that continued unabated. The sympathy of a few of the girls was genuine and encouraging. For the majority of the other guests her unseemly histrionics only proved their pompous assertions that the lower classes possessed no tact or propriety. Whispers, giggling, and pointing persisted despite Dr. Darcy’s frightening glare.

Kitty would learn valuable lessons through her heartache; her maturation swift and agonizing. Georgiana observed her flighty friend’s courage and resolve with awe and sadness. Kitty’s laugh was not as vibrant, but she did laugh. Her dimples not as deep, but she did smile. Conversation was stilted and laced with melancholy, but plenteous and without obvious bitterness. The long days remaining were torturous for her. But the tears were controlled and only shed when alone. Georgiana fully grasped her friend’s anguish and altering spirit, sharing and comforting as best she could manage while silently grieving at her gay friend’s metamorphosis.

The wounds were deep and the scars raw. The sultry heat of the Hertfordshire summer would not melt the frozen heart of Kitty Bennet. For months, she would suffer quietly until one day, at a wedding, as snow frosted the ground and winter air froze each breath, the sun would finally shine and thaw her heart. 

Chapter Sixteen

The Dark Peak

That Darcy was a deep sleeper was a well-established fact. He no longer heard the bell that announced Alexander needing his mother, nor did he note when Lizzy left their bed or returned. Gale force winds and driving sleet battering the windows only served to make him burrow further into the warm mattress. Lizzy was quite convinced that a raging herd of jungle animals could storm the corridors without him flinching. Once Samuel had dropped a tray carrying several glass bottles onto the tiled floor surrounding Darcy’s bathing area, creating a noisy crash that echoed through the shut door into their bedchamber. Lizzy woke from her dead sleep and the only reason she did not jump a foot into the air was due to the immobile weight of her husband’s leg and arm securing her to the bed. He slept on, his breathing not even effected.

A month or so after their marriage, once she realized just how impenetrable his slumber, she had asked him with concern if he ever worried over a catastrophe happening that he would sleep right through.

“Not at all,” he had replied confidently. “Samuel knows how to wake me in the case of an emergency.”

“Oh. Is that why the doors are unlocked?” She looked nervously at the doors between their inner sanctum and the dressing rooms and sitting room beyond. Her disquiet over the doors remaining unlocked when they spent a great portion of their time in this room naked and engaged in highly intimate activity was a frequently raised topic. No matter how often Darcy assured her that no one would ever enter his bedchamber until he personally opened the door or left it standing wide open to be cleaned, she was not completely assuaged.

So he laughed as he always did, brushing aside her trepidation. “I have no reason to lock a door that none would dare enter. Not even Samuel,” he said before she verbalized what he knew she was thinking. “Trust me, I will and do respond when necessary.”

And he grew secretive as he often did when teasing her.

Several weeks after that conversation, she learned what he meant when he suddenly bolted out of bed one night, grabbing the robe hanging on the bedpost, and was across the room opening the door to the sitting room before Lizzy had fully assimilated that the sound that had woken her was a rapping knock. Why he instantly responded to the bang of the ornamental brass bob striking the plate affixed upon the solid oak was a mystery, but it roused him every time without fail.

This reality was again put to the test one night in early June, shortly after two in the morning. The resounding thud was heard by both of them, but Darcy was robed and reaching for the knob before Lizzy managed to drowsily lift her head from the pillow.

“Yes,” he said, his voice firm without any traces of sleep.

“A message from Hasberry, sir,” Rothchilde’s hushed voice carried to Lizzy, who sat up in bed eagerly.

She heard the rip of a wax seal, the paper being unfolded, and then seconds later Darcy’s instructions, “Have the landau prepared. Wake Mrs. Hanford. We will be leaving immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said, shutting the door and returning to their bed with the opened parchment sheet. “Sleep is over for the night, my love. Bingley writes, in trembling hand I must add, that Jane is laboring.” He chuckled, eyes on the words. “He apologizes for disturbing us but the process is moving hastily.” He looked at Elizabeth, who was already out of bed and drawing on her robe. “Is it too soon to tease over the fact that she is some weeks earlier than expected and that the labor is apparently of short duration?”

“Yes,” she snapped, glaring at his amused expression, “just as it is too soon for me to harass my sister for not taking two days to accomplish the task as it nearly did me.” Her eyes clouded. “Too much can yet go wrong.”

“Of course you are correct. Forgive me for jesting inappropriately. Get dressed and I will meet you in the foyer.” He placed his hands upon her shoulder, squeezing in assurance. “Jane will be fine, Elizabeth. Have no fears.”

They arrived to discover Bingley wide-eyed, pale, and pacing the parlor in circles. Unlike Darcy, Bingley had no intention of being anywhere near the birthing room. The thought was unappealing to Jane as well, for many of the obvious reasons but also because Charles was one of those individuals who became physically ill at the sight of blood. Thus, he was doing what most men did in these circumstances: pacing and sweating. Darcy assumed control, distracting the frantic father-to-be with conversation, an adorable six-month old who complaisantly latched onto being woken up in the middle of the night as a time to play, and a generous shot of brandy.

Lizzy rapidly ascended the stairs. Jane had chosen a local midwife to deliver her firstborn, again sticking to traditional methods. She admired Dr. Darcy, knew he was a gifted physician, but her timid nature quailed at the idea of any man, especially one she knew familiarly, witnessing her birth. George understood completely, so was not offended. He did, however, have the midwife’s experience verified and sought her out for a frank obstetrical conversation that may have shocked the poor woman to an early grave if not for the extraordinary reputation of Dr. Darcy that was now common knowledge. She saw their consultation with his approval as a badge of honor to increase her renown and her income!

George’s “interference” was based on his affection for the Bingleys, and was met with tremendous relief, especially from Charles, who was not handling the whole idea of birth very well. Since the esteemed Dr. Darcy could not deliver his child personally, the next best was a midwife who had passed the formidable doctor’s inspection. In truth his fears were the same as every man who loves his wife, but where Darcy possessed rigid control of his emotions for the most part, Bingley was transparent. It was rather comical, but Darcy was sympathetic enough not to point it out.

What Lizzy had said about so many possible complications was absolutely true. But in the end Jane continued the legacy set by Mrs. Bennet with all five of her deliveries. Minutes before eight that morning, after less than twelve hours of labor, Ethan Charles Howard Bingley was born. There were no incidents, no abnormalities, and no untoward aftermath. By the time Charles was ushered into the room an hour later, his wife was sitting serenely in bed—as beautiful as always with only the dusky circles under her eyes and tiny burst blood vessels around her pupils an indication of anything unusual having occurred—with their son bundled in her arms.

Lizzy and Alexander stayed at Hasberry for a week. Darcy returned to Pemberley that day, as it was a busy season for him, but rode over frequently to visit. Alexander was introduced to his new cousin, but the six-month-old wasn’t terribly impressed. There was plenty of time to develop a cousinly relationship.

The close proximity of Hasberry to Pemberley was a continual source of joy for the four people involved. Lizzy often commandeered her curricle, taking Alexander for fresh-air drives to visit his aunt for an afternoon. Numerous evenings were spent together, at one house or the other, as the adults dined and played games. Frequently, they were joined by Gerald and Harriet Vernor or Albert and Marilyn Hughes, their nearest neighbors. But the fine weather of summer allowed for dozens of visits with those like the Sitwells who lived a bit farther away. The men gathered for hunts and rides on a weekly basis, the ladies meeting for tea and conversation while the children played. It was a period of gay entertainment from dozens of avenues.