Sharon Lathan - The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

“No offense, Uncle, but I hope not.”

“You worry too much, William.” Lizzy patted his cheek, gazing into his face with shining eyes from her perch against his broad chest. He was trembling, partly from the frantic ride back to Pemberley and pell-mell dash up two flights of stairs, but also from excitement mingled with fear. He could not believe it was happening today! Lizzy, conversely, was calm in between contractions. She spend more time trying to comfort him than the other way around, only losing her composure once it came time to push the baby out.

The wild drama was somewhat anticlimactic as Michael slipped into the world with minimal effort on Lizzy’s part. That was a miracle it would take her months to fully appreciate due to her and Darcy’s all-consuming preoccupation over his survival.

Michael was a fragile infant who required careful handling. The respiratory distress that George most worried about never transpired. Michael’s lungs were healthy, as he would display in due course. Rather, his delicacy arose in the vicinity of his gastrointestinal area, Dr. Darcy indeed proving his worth. The initial month was a trial, no other way to state it. Lizzy produced copious amounts of milk, but Michael simply did not have the strength to nurse on more than one side at a time and often was too sleepy to do even that. In the first week he lost precious ounces he could not afford. George encouraged the anxious parents to wake him every two hours for feedings, a schedule that did work in filling his tiny stomach, but was exhausting on Lizzy and irritating to an already finicky newborn.

Additionally, he was extremely sensitive in the amounts he could consume. Vomiting after each feeding became the norm with the fussiness of true colic following. Lizzy monitored every bite that passed her lips, obsessed with discovering what foods were most distressing to his stomach. Lizzy insisted on keeping him close and attending to caretaking since no one else could feed him, and he notably slept and digested better when nuzzled onto her chest. Darcy barely managed to touch his son in those early weeks, Mrs. Hanford even less. Without realizing what was happening, Darcy gravitated toward caring for Alexander since Lizzy seemed to have forgotten the toddler’s existence.

George experimented with numerous herbal tonics, not finding the precise combination that allayed the worst of the messy symptoms for nearly three weeks. It was only then that the babe began to gain weight and achieve a healthy, ruddy glow with plumping cheeks, softening skin, and brightening eyes. By his one-month birthday he had reached six pounds, a day of rejoicing for his frantic parents.

It was not until Michael began to improve and life settled into a semblance of order that the exhausted Master of Pemberley gazed beyond the confines of the nursery, Alexander’s room, and the bedchamber. The first shocking revelation was the physical appearance of his wife. The weight gained during her pregnancy had gone, leaving her gaunt and pale. Gray circles rested under her troubled eyes. Once rosy, full lips were chapped and dull.

Darcy’s aspect was not much better, he too having missed more meals than normally required to keep a man his size functioning, but he was hale compared to Lizzy.

Dr. Darcy watched them closely during those stressful first weeks and did his best to encourage rest and an adequate diet. A couple of thorough examinations determined that Lizzy was recuperating speedily from the birth itself, so other than plying her with strengthening teas and trays of hearty meats and fruits—most of which were left barely touched—he took no overt action, confident that once Michael improved they would as well.

Darcy, however, was profoundly disturbed. He was also disgusted with himself, engulfed with guilt at what he perceived as failing in his obligations. Therefore, in true Darcy form, he took charge of the situation.

“Elizabeth, Michael is past the crisis. His temperamental nature and crankiness is probably here to stay. You, however, are becoming increasingly cranky. I am ordering you to rest more often.”

“Ordering?”

“Do not bristle, darling.” He smiled at her scowl. “I am not demanding anything untoward. You need to rest and consume healthier meals for Michael’s sake as well as your own.”

Initially she complied. She left the nursery from time to time, dined in the dining room with Darcy and George, took walks in the hallway, and twice was enticed into the private garden with Darcy. She slept better at night and napped during the day with Michael. She refused to leave the bedchamber close to the nursery—this was extremely annoying to Darcy—and she always hurried back after any absence. But the improvements were pleasing to him, and to George, and for a week or so it seemed as if the tide was changing.

Yet on one point she stood firm and that was her unwillingness to abdicate Michael’s care to his nanny. She was compelled by some untamable force to touch him and check on him constantly. The fear of losing him had taken hold of her heart and she could not yield. Furthermore, she guiltily plunged into an urgent desire to care for and be with Alexander, thus consuming more of her time and energy.

Rapidly, her tenuous grip on health faltered as the stress of her set demands took a toll. When Darcy attempted to reassert his authority she refused to listen, no matter how calmly or rationally he spoke. Frustration mounted and petty spats were the result of nearly every conversation. Darcy’s natural patience held for a time, but the first in a series of intense arguments transpired over Michael’s christening.

“He will be six weeks old tomorrow, my love. He is healthy and strong, the weather is relatively fair, and it must be done before Richard and Simone depart for Europe.”

“No. He is still too small.”

“Elizabeth, be reasonable! He is nearly eight pounds now. He eats well, rarely regurgitates, and the colic is lessening with Uncle’s tonic. You are allowing your fears to rule your judgment.”

“If anything happens to him…”

Darcy gently clasped her arms, speaking softly. “Nothing will happen to him, dearest. He needs to be named and blessed. This is important…”

“More important than his life? Would you doom him to an early grave?” She spat, shaking off his comforting hands.

“Elizabeth! That is unfair and ridiculous! I would never do anything to jeopardize his life. How can you intimate such a thing?” Darcy was truly aghast.

“I will not allow him out of the house. That is final, William. It can wait until spring.”

“His christening will not wait until spring.” He spoke flatly, anger constrained and simmering. “I will grant one more week, that is all.”

“But…”

“There are no buts, Elizabeth. That is final.”

Lizzy stared furiously, trembling in rage, eyes filling with tears. Darcy sighed, moved despite his anger by the emotions he knew controlled her logic. He reached to caress her cheek, but she stepped away. “If he dies it will be entirely on your head, Mr. Darcy.” And she pivoted, exiting the room without a backward glance.

The tension was thick on the air for the following days, but Darcy stubbornly proceeded with the christening plans. Lizzy’s emotions grew wildly unstable and dozens of trivial disagreements and major rows broke out between them, when she talked to him at all.

Darcy was in a constant state of turmoil. Vexation battled with disquiet. That Lizzy was irrational in most matters was obvious, but he seemed unable to calm her or appeal to the analytic intellect he knew she possessed.

When Lizzy was not riled over some perceived slight she was crying. More than once Darcy walked into the room to discover her curled in a ball weeping. These moments, fleeting as they lasted, were the few times she permitted him to embrace her.