Page 83 of The Heroic Mr Darcy's Bad Manners
“Give me a moment,” his aunt requested and disappeared for several minutes. When she returned, she brought one of her own.
Eudora had once been engaged to be married, but her betrothed had died before the wedding. He had gifted her a dainty ring that was exactly to Elizabeth’s taste, but Darcy could not accept it.
“While I appreciate the gesture, I cannot deprive you of your token of Edward’s affection,” he declared.
“Balderdash,” Eudora cried loudly enough to draw the attention of the young ladies. “Though it comes with certain conditions. I demand to be recognised by your children as something akin to a grandparent, and I reserve the right to indulge them beyond measure when they visit, which I plan to be quite often.”
“All fifteen of them at once?” He smiled.
Eudora swatted his arm but then laughed aloud and muttered, “Conceited little devil,” so low he almost missed it. “A Darcy never begets more than two children, a boy and a girl, and that I can manage.”
#
Two days later, the Pemberley party left for London, where consent was given with everyone’s honour still intact. The wedding was held within a month. Darcy grinned throughout the entire ceremony, to the detriment of his aching cheeks, which were not used to quite so much exercise. Elizabeth was his, and even more important, she was happy, smiling radiantly on his arm throughout the breakfast that followed, contentedly as they moved to Darcy House, and ecstatically during the course of the night.
Chapter 25 Epilogue
June 1813.
Elizabeth
“You should not excite your nerves in your condition.”
Elizabeth scowled at her obtuse husband. “My sister is birthing her first child. Not ten wild and untamed horses will keep me from her side.”
He sighed and surrendered, as he usually did when something was particularly important to her. She had not yet needed the silver button, and she rose to kiss his brow before she left him.
“You must see to your cousin whilst I am occupied. He already looks a bit green,” she whispered in his ear and glanced at Richard Fitzwilliam before racing up the stairs.
“No running!” Darcy bellowed from Limerick House’s library.
She had entirely forgotten and modulated her pace to an eager walk. It was yet early days, and her condition did not encumber her movements very much.
Jane was pacing her chamber with her hands on her back.
“Is the pain still bearable?” she enquired upon entering.
Jane smiled in assurance before another pain halted her step. When it relented, she resumed her walking. “How is Richard faring?” How typical of her sister to worry about her husband even at such a time as this.
“He is well taken care of. Between my husband, your father, Viscount Crawford, the Marquess of Worcester, and Uncle Henry, I dare say he will be kept entertained, and quite possibly foxed until you have delivered the babe.”
The breach with Matlock had recently been mended. At Elizabeth’s insistence and cajoling, even Lord Glentworth had buried his resentment for the sake of family. They would never be friends, but they tolerated each other’s company when necessary. So far, no such leniency had been offered to her husband’s aunt Lady Catherine, partly due to her refusal to accept Elizabeth, but Elizabeth had not yet given up hope it could be done with time. After all, one did not get to choose one’s family. Poor Mr Bingley sprang to mind. His sister was still unwed and could not forgive her brother for bungling his courtship with Jane. That was a household Elizabeth was infinitely relieved her sister had not become a part of…
“To come at such an inopportune time,” Jane lamented.
“I dare say Mary does not mind, unless the birth drags out overnight…”
Their younger sister had been wed that morning to the young Marquess of Worcester. The marriage had been a rushed affair, though not due to any impropriety by the newly wedded couple. It was the marquess’s father who had wished the union to be executed with haste. The young buck had been linked to the infamous Harriette Dubouchet for quite some time. According to the rumours, it had ended abruptly when he had caught herin flagrante delictowith General Wellesley. When he soon after began to show a marked interest in the much more suitable and pious Lady Mary, the duke forwarded the match with alacrity.
Lady Glentworth, when Mary’s beau became known to her, had immediately declared her most overlooked daughter to be the handsomest of them all—an irony that was not lost on Lord Glentworth, who made so much sport of his wife that he received the set-down of his life. He had since refrained from mocking her, at least when she was present.
The future duke, and now Mary’s husband, was an awkward fellow. He was not handsome, nor did he bother to make himself agreeable to all, but Mary’s steady presence and obvious admiration had mellowed him into adulthood. And his parents adored Mary. She was not used to such attention but seemed to thrive, nevertheless.
“I think he is coming,” Jane said, jolting Elizabeth out of her pleasant memories.
“Surely not!” she replied before she had the wherewithal to think. She had heard enough tales to believe that birthing a child would take hours upon hours. Jane’s pains had begun less than four hours ago.
“Surely so!” Jane snapped, and the midwife ordered her to bed.
