Christmas at Pemberley (27 page)

“Lieutenant,” Mrs. Jenkinson said as she stepped up behind him. “May we speak privately?”

“Of course, Ma'am.” He glanced about the open foyer. “Why do we not step into the music room? At this time of day, the ladies are likely finished with their lessons.”

Mrs. Jenkinson gave a curt nod and turned toward the room. Southland watched her go before removing his outer garments. He'd just returned to the main house after adding a few inches of water to the ice pond. The cold had seeped into his bones, and he desperately needed a drink, but the lieutenant would speak to Miss De Bourgh's companion first. All through the afternoon, he had recalled the colonel's conversation, as well as the easy machination of his commanding officer. It seemed so perfect that Roman suspected a gambit. He'd considered Rosings Park and the De Bourgh family his own personal Holy Grail, and now that the proverbial carrot dangled before his eyes, he could see all too clearly how
faded were reality's edges: The De Bourghs did not lead an ideal life. Handing the Pemberley butler his gloves, Roman followed the matronly Mrs. Jenkinson toward the empty room.

Entering the well-appointed room, Roman walked leisurely toward the hearth. His instinct told him that Lady Catherine had sent her servant to warn him away from her daughter. Warming himself by the dying fire, he turned to the waiting gentlewoman. “How might I serve you, Mrs. Jenkinson? I hope your appearance doesn't indicate that Miss De Bourgh is feeling poorly.”

Mrs. Jenkinson sat primly in her chair, but Southland noted her nervousness. “Miss De Bourgh is quite well, Lieutenant,” she said tentatively.

“I'm pleased to hear it, Ma'am.” Southland casually propped his forearm on the mantel. “I suppose we should proceed straight to the crux of what you were sent to say to me: Her Ladyship wishes me to stay away from Miss De Bourgh. Am I correct, Ma'am?”

Mrs. Jenkinson blustered. “I've no…no knowledge of Lady Catherine's disapproval, Lieutenant. I…I wished to speak to you of my own accord.”

“Your own accord, Ma'am? I fear I don't understand.” Southland abandoned his attempt at indifference. He came to sit beside the woman.

“I've but a few minutes before I must return to my duties,” the lady said. “Therefore, I pray you'll forgive my abruptness.” Mrs. Jenkinson nervously ran a handkerchief through her fingers.

“I'm accustomed to plain speaking, Ma'am,” he assured her.

The lady swallowed hard and then brought her gaze to meet his. “I've served as Miss De Bourgh's companion for more than a dozen years. She's as dear to me as my own daughter.” She paused briefly. “Therefore, I wish to protect her from those who would practice a deception.”

“And you think me a bounder?”

Again, Mrs. Jenkinson's back stiffened. “I don't wish to make assumptions, Lieutenant, but your recent attention to Miss De Bourgh hasn't gone unnoticed.”

“I'm well aware of Colonel Fitzwilliam's initial objection to my conversations with his cousin, but he's assured me that he's withdrawn his opposition. Has the colonel returned to his earlier estimation?” Southland, too, held himself in ready alert.

Mrs. Jenkinson's frown lines met. “I have no knowledge of Colonel Fitzwilliam's opinions. He's not spoken them before me.”

“If not Lady Catherine or Colonel Fitzwilliam, does Miss De Bourgh wish me to withdraw from our acquaintance?”

“It's not my dear Anne's wish either,” the lady confessed. “And before you ask, I would express no opposition of my own if your friendship is true.”

Southland smiled knowingly. “You wish to determine whether I offer Miss De Bourgh a false face.”

“I do, Lieutenant. Despite Miss De Bourgh's handsome features, my dearest Anne has had few male companions. She is untested, and I wish to know your nature, Lieutenant Southland.”

“May I speak honestly, Ma'am?” The lieutenant sat forward to assure intimacy.

“I demand that you do, Sir.”

Southland nodded his agreement. “I've heard of Rosings Park and the De Bourghs all my life, and I wish to know more of each. Beyond that, I have no plans. Call it curiosity. Call it idiosyncrasy. I cannot truly explain my interest beyond those facts. For years, the Rosings' family has held a certain mystery, but to be truthful, I never anticipated finding Miss De Bourgh so attractive, nor did I expect to enjoy thoroughly my few brief conversations with the lady.”

“The De Bourghs have their faults, Lieutenant. It wouldn't be wise to idealize the life found at Rosings Park,” she warned.

“I'm aware of that folly,” the lieutenant conceded. “What I'd hoped was to spend time with Miss De Bourgh—to leave the ideal behind and to embrace reality. If the acquaintance proves to the lady's liking, then we'll see where to go from there.”

Mrs. Jenkinson's mouth set in a firm line. “That may be difficult, Sir. It's my understanding that you have no title. Lady Catherine isn't likely to approve.”

The lieutenant sat back into the chair's cushions. “If things were to progress to that point, I would remind Miss De Bourgh that she's of age.Yet, it's too soon to speak of these matters. While at Pemberley, I would prefer to cultivate the acquaintance. If that's acceptable to you, Ma'am?” He grinned largely.

“I'll be watching you, Lieutenant Southland,” Mrs. Jenkinson cautioned. “I'll allow no one to injure Anne.”

“I'd expect nothing less, Mrs. Jenkinson.”

“I need for you to lean back a bit more, Mr. Joseph,” Elizabeth instructed. She bumped Mary's knee to open the lady's legs further. “I can see the head. Your child has dark hair,” she said nervously. Over the last hour, Elizabeth had questioned God's reason more than once. How could He place her in such a situation? She knew nothing about delivering a healthy child. But here she was, offering advice to both mother and father.
God possesses a unique sense of humor
, she thought.

Mary let out a toe-curling scream. Her stoicism had faded with the pain's intensity. Now, she cried out freely. The spasms were only seconds apart. Less than ten minutes earlier, Mary's press had sent a bloody liquid into a waiting bowl. Elizabeth had quickly changed out the bowls and returned to her position on the floor. “Mary, listen to me,” she demanded. “With the next pain, instead of screaming, I want you to lock your jaw and hold in your breath. Concentrate on pushing with your stomach muscles.You might even lean forward.”

“Are you certain, Mrs. Darcy?” a very ragged-looking Mr. Joseph asked.

“It is paramount to bringing the child into the world.” Elizabeth double-checked the proximity of the razor and the towels she had placed in waiting. “A few more times, Mary, and your child shall be in your arms.”

Elizabeth watched the exhausted expression leave the woman's face, and paroxysms of pain take its place. Mary bit down on her
bottom lip and pressed hard. “It's coming,” Elizabeth coaxed. “You may let out your breath,” she instructed. What followed was an explosion of air preceding a long wail of release.

“Very good, Mary.” Elizabeth touched the child's matted hair with her fingertips. “Catch your breath, for you must do it again.” Mary nodded weakly and gulped for air.

Soon, the next pain and then the next and the next arrived. Each brought further enervation on Mary's part, as well as bringing more of the child into view. “The shoulders are clear,” Elizabeth reported as she supported the baby's body. “Once more,” she encouraged. “Once more should do it, Mary. We're almost there.”

“It is dark outside,” Mr. Joseph said out of nowhere.

His wife moaned, “What does it matter?”

Mr. Joseph laughed heartily. “It doesn't, my dear. It was a bizarre attempt to draw your mind away and to give you strength to do the most miraculous thing a woman can do.” He kissed the top of his wife's head.

Mary stiffened and pressed her hips upward. With a surge, the child slid into Elizabeth's waiting hands. “Oh, my,” Elizabeth blurted and quickly turned the child over. Placing it on the clean cloths she had prepared, she began to wipe the blood and mucus from its body.

“Is it well?” Mr. Joseph demanded. “The child?”

Elizabeth ignored his question. “Stay,” she ordered when he started to move. “Mary's body still has a job to complete.” All the time her fingers pried at the child's small crevices with the soft cloths. “Come on, Little One,” she cajoled.

She lifted the child away from Mary's body as far as the umbilical cord would allow. “I need help,” she mumbled.

“I will…” Mr. Joseph began again.

“No!” Elizabeth snapped. “Hold Mary. She has more pain to endure.” She turned her head toward the door. “Fitzwilliam,” she called. “I need you.” Immediately, the door opened. Her magnificent husband was where she expected him to be.

“What do you require? Is the child well?”

With her gaze, she indicated to Mr. Joseph to drop the sheet over his wife's body. Then Elizabeth ordered, “You must help me cut the cord.”

In the next second, Darcy was across the room and kneeling at her side. “Tell me what to do.”

She stretched out the cord again. “Tie off the cord twice; once to stop the blood from Mrs. Joseph; once to stop the blood to the child. Then cut the cord between the two. Quickly, Fitzwilliam, so I can tend the baby.” Darcy did as she had instructed. Meanwhile, Elizabeth held the child close and began to urge the baby to take its first breath. “Come on, Sweet One.” She rubbed its back and pressed harder.

Completing the cut, Darcy whispered, “I have the child.” Darcy took the baby from her grasp. “See to Mrs. Joseph.” Then her husband walked away, the infant close to his chest. With an air of confidence, he swung the child around and laid it on the bed. “You can do this,” he said softly as he blew in the stone-still face. As she looked on, Darcy massaged the baby's chest, placed a finger in its mouth to open it, and blew again. He bent closer and blew a third time. Finally, the Lord rewarded his effort. A twittering chirp escaped. “That's right,” he whispered gravelly. “Once more.” He blew gently into the radish-red face. Finally, the infant opened its mouth and let out its own cry.

Darcy picked it up and turned to those on the other side of the room—only to discover a strange tableau staring intently at him. The picture of the three weary adults struck him as amusing. He laughed easily. “I assume you would like to meet Mr. Joseph's son.”

ELIZABETH RUSHED FORWARD to take the child from his arms. “My Goodness, what a miracle,” she said as she loosely wrapped the baby in a large cloth. “Come, Little One, and meet your parents.”

Behind her, Mr. Joseph rearranged his wife in his arms to better support her. “Our son, Mary,” he whispered hoarsely. “We have a son.”

When Elizabeth turned, she was startled to witness the pure love between a man and a woman, and for a moment, she wondered if her love for Darcy was as evident. Mr. Joseph caressed Mary's cheek and stroked the damp hair from her face. His gentleness spoke volumes, and even though she knew Darcy loved her equally as well, Elizabeth drew the painful conclusion that without a child, something would always be missing. Swallowing back the loneliness, she hurried to deposit the child in Mrs. Joseph's outstretched arms. “Master Joseph,” she said softly and kissed the screeching child's forehead.

His mother's finger stroking the boy's cheek brought him the protection he had expected, and immediately, the child silenced. “He's beautiful, Matthew,” she cooed.

Mr. Joseph reached around her and gently touched the baby's tiny fingers. “The most beautiful child God ever created,” he rasped.