Carrie Bebris - North by Northanger

“They are both well,” Mrs. Godwin assured him. “It was an easy birth — if birth can ever be called easy.”

“Have I a son or daughter?”

“I shall let her tell you.”

“I do not wish to wake her.”

“She wants to see you.”

Mrs. Godwin and the nurse left them in privacy. He approached the bed, beside which a single candle burned. Elizabeth’s arm encircled the baby, wrapped so snugly in a small blanket that he could see only the child’s head — closed eyes, wrinkled cheeks, an impossibly tiny nose, tufts of dark downy hair. Carefully, afraid he would somehow break the delicate form, he lifted his child from the bed and into his arms.

So light. So fragile. So utterly dependent.

At the removal of the infant, Elizabeth’s maternal instincts awakened, and so did she. Her lips formed a smile, and her eyes held a content, if sleepy, expression.

“I see you have met your daughter.”

A daughter. The most wondrous word in the English language.

“You smile — your ordeal was not so terrible that you resent me as its cause?”

“I can think of more pleasant ways to spend an evening, but none that yield so great a reward.”

“I have something for you.” Shifting his daughter to one arm, he produced the ivory. “I am sorry I did not return with it in time.”

She accepted the statuette from him. “I am sorry I sent you on such a desperate errand when you no doubt would have preferred to remain here.”

“As the alternative was waiting with Lydia, I was glad for the occupation. And glad to have rescued the Madonna from the three villains who kidnapped her, before they had an opportunity to sell or damage the ivory.”

“Though it would have been a comfort to have your mother’s treasure with me during the birth, I found strength in other sources. A skilled midwife. My own determination. Your devotion. Even this.” She traced a finger over the scrap of fabric yet secured to her wrist. “If I could not have the statuette itself, at least I could keep its mantle close to me.” She removed the cloth now and wrapped the ivory back within it. “I also had my mother, do not forget. For a short time, at least.”

“That did not last?”

“ She did not last. Just as I was about to suggest she return to my father and Lydia, she fretted herself into a fainting fit.”

He could not suppress a laugh. “Forgive me. Is she all right?”

“Oh, yes. I believe her loss of consciousness to have been beneficial to all parties. By the time she awoke, all was over, and her effusions could communicate entirely felicitous content.”

“I am glad she proved of some use to you. I imagine a woman would generally want her mother present during her travail, when possible.”

“This may sound odd, but I also seemed to feel your mother’s presence. Perhaps it is all the reading of her letters and journal, and knowing I labored in the same room as she, that fixed her so strongly in my thoughts. But I sensed that somehow she, too, supported me during my trial. At times, I even believed I detected the scent of lilies.”

“Were my mother alive, she most certainly would have wanted to be here.”

They both gazed at their daughter. He thought he saw his mother in the line of her chin, his wife in the shape of her brow. He wished the small eyes would open so he could ascertain whose resemblance they bore, but their child already demonstrated a will of her own by remaining quite determinedly asleep.

“You were so certain I carried a boy — and I, that I carried a girl — that we never settled upon a name for either,” Elizabeth said. “What shall it be? Who shall she be?”

“I am still partial toward Elizabeth.”

“Nay. She should not have to share her name with another member of the household, even her mother.” His wife stroked their daughter’s brow. “At least, not a living one.” She looked up at him. “Perhaps Anne?”

Her desire to honor his mother pleased him. But having witnessed Elizabeth’s struggle to establish her own identity at Pemberley, he hesitated to place this tiny being so directly in her grandmother’s shadow, to invite a lifetime of comparison before the child even opened her eyes on the world. “Jane?”

Elizabeth contemplated a moment, then shook her head. “She does not look like a Jane.” She sighed. “How do parents ever choose?”

Mrs. Godwin returned to check on Elizabeth one final time before retiring. A chamber had been prepared for the midwife, and she instructed Elizabeth to send for her if she required anything during what remained of the night. Darcy doubted he himself would sleep a moment.

“Mrs. Godwin,” he said. “Were you present when Georgiana received her name?”

She smiled sadly and nodded. “Your parents were talking quietly, and I was trying to grant them privacy while making your mother as comfortable as I could. She knew she was dying; they both did. She was exhausted by her ordeal, he by anxiety and grief. He declared he would name their daughter Anne, that Pemberley must have an Anne or he could not bear to live here any longer.

“She said no, let us join our two names, as we joined Fitzwilliam and Darcy to name our son. Let us call our daughter Georgiana, and may our children embody our union. May they grow, and thrive, and show the world what is possible when love conquers all.”

The glimpse of his parents’ final moments together prompted him to take Elizabeth’s hand and bring it to his lips. “Thank you for our daughter,” he whispered fiercely.

As Mrs. Godwin left, she reminded him that their daughter still had no name.

“Much as I appreciate my parents’ practice of combining their two, I am not quite enamored of Fitzabeth,” he said.

Elizabeth caressed their daughter’s cheek. “I have something else in mind.”

Lady Catherine entered Elizabeth’s bedchamber as if it were her own.

“You summoned me?”

Anticipating another volatile confrontation, Elizabeth had considered postponing this conversation until she had regained more strength. Her travail was but a day past, and she still experienced pain and fatigue from bringing her daughter into the world. But some pleasures should not be deferred, and the result of the communication she was about to make would be worth any unpleasantness arising from its delivery.

She glanced at the cradle, where her daughter was sleeping off the exhausting experience of having been born, and sat up as straight as possible in her bed. “I have the happiness of informing you that Mr. Darcy and Mr. Tilney apprehended the real thieves of the Northanger diamonds last night. While we appreciate your generous service these several months, we are no longer in need of a legal chaperone. You may return to Rosings.”

Darcy’s aunt appeared as satisfied by the news as Elizabeth. “I had myself decided that the custody arrangement had become insupportable, and was determined to devise a means by which Mr. Melbourne would release us from it. I only hope my own affairs have not suffered neglect while I sacrificed so much time and attention to yours.”

Elizabeth reflected that she and Darcy would have been perfectly content with a smaller sacrifice on her ladyship’s part, but graciously thanked Darcy’s aunt for her kindness.

Lady Catherine scoffed. “It was not kindness. It was duty.”

“Cannot duty be performed with kindness?”

Her ladyship did not immediately reply. Her gaze had fallen on the Madonna and Child statuette, which rested on the table beside Elizabeth’s bed. “Sometimes in the performance of duty, one is forced to be unkind.” She looked at Elizabeth. “My sister never realized that in withholding that ivory, I was saving her from herself. I could not allow those around her to know she believed in Popish nonsense.”