Estranged, page 11
When she woke next at the break of dawn, Elizabeth rang for her son to be brought to her. Today marks the start of a wonderful new adventure, and I do not wish to miss a single second of it.
Her unease only grew when the nurse and a servant entered the room empty-handed, their faces grim.
“I have tragic news. I am afraid the child must have taken ill in the night... He is no longer of this earth. The young master was discovered still and cold in his crib just moments ago. There was naught to be done to revive him.”
At Elizabeth’s cry of anguish, the nurse firmly guided her back against the pillows. “Rest, and trust that time will heal your sorrow.”
Elizabeth’s piercing wail of agony and despair echoed through Pemberley’s ancient halls. Her son was dead? Her precious child born mere hours ago, now lost forever?
No! It cannot be. I would know if my heart’s own flesh had perished.
Her maternal instinct demanded she go to her child at once. Wildly, she threw off her bedcovers and arose. “I must go to him!”
When she got there, the cradle was shrouded by a veil, its occupant strangely still and silent. Unease prickled Elizabeth’s skin. She cried out at the sight.
An infant lay wrapped in linen, but it was not her son. She was sure of it, even as she drew back the cloth and inspected the babe’s shoulder. This child was pale and delicate, lacking the birthmark she knew so well. Her heart in her throat, Elizabeth whirled to confront the nurse.
“This is not my child! What have you done with my boy?” she demanded hoarsely.
The nurse gaped, stammering in confusion, until the housekeeper hurried in.
“Forgive us, Mrs. Darcy. I was just informed... there were complications in the night. Your baby took ill. Upon discovery, he could not be saved.” Her voice broke in grief. “He is gone.”
Elizabeth stood there, thunderstruck. The words seared into her soul like a sharpened sword. Her desperate cries echoed off the walls. Sobs shook her body as she staggered backward in disbelief. “No! This is not him! Can you not see? Where is my son?”
A torrent of footsteps crashed down the corridor. Mr. Darcy rushed to Elizabeth’s side. His countenance grew pale as the reason for his wife’s cries sank in. Their infant son, his heir, was dead. Darcy’s knees nearly buckled from the shock, and he grasped the wall to steady himself. His anguish threatened to overwhelm him, but he fought to maintain control. Elizabeth needed him to be strong now.
He surveyed the chaotic scene before him, his eyes blurring with tears he dared not shed. In a gruff yet tender tone, he instructed the servants. “Mrs. Darcy is overwrought with grief. Take her back to her chambers and give her something to steady her nerves so she might rest.”
As strong arms tugged at her fragile frame, Elizabeth desperately fought against them, screaming for her child once more.
“The mistress is beside herself with grief,” a servant said, forcing the tonic down Elizabeth’s throat with the aid of another. Bitter and strong, it slid down her throat like hot lead, climbing faster into her limbs than she had ever remembered liquid moving, until it weighed on her, like dank, slimy mud, holding her fast to the bed, drowning her, drowning her... With determination in her voice, before the darkness swallowed her whole, Elizabeth mumbled one last plea that lingered in the air.
“He is not dead... I know my baby boy still lives...”
It had pained Darcy to see Elizabeth being led away. He had picked up his son’s lifeless body and held it, allowing the truth to sink in before surrendering him, staggering into the nearest room, and collapsing into a chair. He dropped his head into his hands as heart-wrenching sobs racked his body. His first-born son, his precious boy—gone.
It was too much to bear. Darcy wept bitterly, cursing the cruel hand of fate that had stolen his child in the night. He thought of Elizabeth, her fragile emotional state, and the comfort she needed from him despite his own crushing grief. He must go on, for her sake, though at that moment life held nothing but darkness.
When she opened her eyes the next morning, Elizabeth was met with a sense of desolation that threatened to drown her. Scattered tears had dried on her cheeks like tiny reminders of the anguish she had experienced in her dream-like state. Could it have all been just an illusion?
That is it, she reasoned against anguish. It had to have been a nightmare...
Seeing his wife stir, Darcy stood from his chair and rushed to Elizabeth’s side. The pain in his heart was palpable. Even though he was not certain if his wife wanted him to be there, he had planned to be there all the same when the baby came. Except Elizabeth had gone into labor sooner than the physician had expected. The birth of his first child was not something he would have missed for anything in the world.
The past misunderstandings and any lingering bitterness between them seemed trivial now.
Upon receiving word that Elizabeth had given birth, he had abandoned his business in the next county and ridden hard for Pemberley and had arrived at the break of dawn in time to hear his wife’s anguished cries flooding the corridors.
His ambition for an heir quickly dissipated when he heard the tragic news, and grief overtook him. But deeper heartbreak stemmed from imagining Elizabeth suffering such sorrow and pain alone. Even now, he was not sure of what reception awaited him. It did not matter.
From now on, nothing will compel me to abandon her side as we grieve the loss of our child.
Elizabeth’s eyes were red-rimmed and hollow. “Our son?” she began. “Did you see him?”
Darcy frowned in confusion. “See him?”
She looked imploringly at Darcy, clutching his arm desperately. “Our son lives! I held him in my arms. He bore a port wine stain here.” She touched her shoulder. “But the dead infant lying in the cradle bore no such mark.” Tears shimmered in her eyes as Elizabeth pleaded, “Please believe me!”
Darcy’s heart wrenched, stunned by his wife’s declaration. He gently reached out for her hands, trying to provide comfort where he could. But his words only seemed to make matters worse.
“The physician who was brought in confirmed the child was lost,” he murmured soothingly, “You must accept this sad truth.”
Elizabeth wrenched away with a choked sob.
“You think I am mad,” she accused bitterly. “I can see it in your eyes! Our child was stolen from his cradle, I swear it!”
Darcy reached out to her in a desperate attempt to offer some kind of comfort. But his touch only enraged her, and she violently threw off his arm. She locked herself in a steely embrace and kept her face hidden as if her grief was too intimate for even her husband to bear witness to.
He stayed for a while until finally, he quit the room, knowing nothing he could say or do would bring her relief, leaving her to the soothing ministrations of her lady’s maid, her cries echoing down the hall.
Darcy felt a deep emptiness inside. He was the one who was meant to comfort his wife. How he wanted to reach out and take her in his arms, but the shadows of doubt around her and her mental anguish engulfed him and kept him from coming too close.
His chest collapsed with deep and unbearable pain. He fought back tears, wanting desperately to help her escape this prison she was creating for herself, but how was he to reach out to her in such a dark abyss of despair?
Chapter 20
MOURNING AND DISBELIEF
Elizabeth passed a fitful night, Darcy’s discouraging words ringing in her mind: “The physician confirmed the child was lost. You must accept this sad truth.”
If even her husband, who had created the child with her, refused to trust her memories, how could she make anyone else believe her? She tossed and turned, despair threatening to consume her.
As the first rays of light penetrated her window, she rose, no longer able to lie idle. She must act, or the clutches of madness beckoned. Ignoring her lady’s maid’s protests, she dressed herself and fled her apartment.
The manor was just stirring to life as Elizabeth moved through its halls like a ghost until she reached the cold, quiet room that had been prepared for the child. Her breath hitched at the sight of the beautifully carved crib, empty save for a linen shroud draped over a small, motionless form.
Heart pounding, Elizabeth slowly approached and drew back the shroud. Her lips curled in a cry of anguish. Here lay the pale, lifeless stranger she had been shown the day before. Gently replacing the shroud, she backed away, resolve burning in her. She would cling to the truth and make Mr. Darcy see, no matter the cost.
Voices sounded outside, and Elizabeth turned to find her husband standing in the doorway, face etched with concern. “My love, what are you doing here?” he asked.
Such an endearment gave her pause. She faced him directly. “You love me, sir?”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “Most ardently.”
Judging by the look in his eyes, he seemed to believe he did. Elizabeth had other thoughts on the matter and was not so easily persuaded—not after all they had suffered. “When did you discover that?”
“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun,” he confessed, his voice tender and loving.
“I must say you did a masterful job hiding it.”
“You gave me no encouragement, which is no excuse, I know. I could have done better.”
Elizabeth scoffed. “You will pardon me if I do not take your words to heart.”
“I sincerely wish that you would.” He drew closer. “I am sorry for all the hurtful things I have said to you—my disregard for your feelings, the disparaging words directed toward your family. If I could take back every bit of it, I surely would.
“I have not always been there for you as a husband should. But I am here now. What can I do to prove my love for you?”
“Come, lay your eyes upon the body that is supposed to be our child.” She waited as Mr. Darcy reluctantly obeyed. As he beheld the deceased child’s face, Elizabeth thought she saw a flicker of doubt cross his own.
“This is not our son,” she said firmly. “And I will search to the ends of the earth if that is what it takes to find him, with you or without you.”
Their eyes locked in a silent battle, one clinging to hope, the other resisting it.
At length, Elizabeth said, “Perhaps you do love me. Who knows the inner workings of someone else’s heart? But what good is all the love the heavens might bestow if you do not believe me?” With that said, she turned and walked away.
Numbness pervaded Elizabeth’s mind and body in the bleak period that followed. She moved through Pemberley’s stately rooms in a dreadful state, pale and hollow-eyed. The servants whispered rumors that the grief had deranged poor Mrs. Darcy, but she hardly noticed them.
Mr. Darcy arranged a small graveside service, but Elizabeth refused to attend. She could not stand over a pitiful coffin pretending it held her son’s body when her heart knew he still lived. At night, she lay rigid, straining to hear infant cries elsewhere in the house.
Nightmares plagued her brief bouts of restless sleep—visions of her darling babe crying for his mama or trapped somewhere begging for her rescue. Elizabeth knew in her soul her child still lived, though everyone else urged her to accept his tragic death. But a mother’s heart could not be so easily convinced.
As time passed with no answers, Elizabeth felt her despair hardening into steely resolve. She was determined to unravel this mystery, no matter the cost. She began waking before dawn and roaming Pemberley’s halls searching for...something. In truth, she knew not what. But she could not rest until she found some shreds of evidence about her son’s fate. Perhaps it was madness, but it was all she had left.
His wife’s ceaseless insistence that the dead child was not hers unsettled the servants. Whispers spread, questioning if the mistress was mad from grief. Darcy’s patience wore thin.
“Enough. No more of this, Elizabeth. It cannot continue.” Something like defeat filled his eyes. “For propriety’s sake, you must cease these wild claims,” he implored Elizabeth over supper, the first she had joined in days.
“I speak only the truth. Our son lives.”
Darcy’s countenance twisted in concern. “I should hate to resort to such a measure, but if this keeps up, I shall be forced to summon a physician to examine your mental faculties.”
Elizabeth stared back defiantly. “I shall never accept that lifeless infant was my child. Do what you will.” Rising slowly, she retreated to her apartment.
Chapter 21
AN ONGOING DIVIDE
In the weeks following Elizabeth’s disturbing discovery, Pemberley was gripped in subdued chaos. Darcy had ordered the house scoured top to bottom for any evidence that might lend credence to his wife’s suspicions. Thus far, no clues had been unearthed, only prompting Elizabeth to wilder fits of despair.
She alternatively collapsed into weeping and stormed through the manor in a temper. Darcy weathered these storms with stoic patience, though inwardly, he wavered between distress over his wife’s state and nagging doubt about her claims. She seemed so utterly convinced their son lived, yet no proof corroborated it.
The bitter wind scattered leaves across the graveyard as Darcy pulled his heavy woolen greatcoat tighter to fend off the chill. Kneeling, he traced his fingers over the simple headstone marking where his son had been buried.
Elizabeth refused to visit this place, insisting the grave was a mockery. But Darcy had come searching for clarity amongst the tombstones. Answers continued to elude him, however. He only felt hollow gazing at the cold marker bearing his surname.
Darcy wavered between pity for Elizabeth’s deranged mind and frustration at her refusal to accept reality. The physician had suggested he send her away for a time to allow her mind to heal. Even voicing the possibility in his head pained him, but what choices were there?
Lonely and disheartened, Darcy wrote to his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, confiding his distress and entreating his levelheaded counsel on how to deal with Elizabeth. Surely another rational gentleman would recognize lunacy.
Mere days later, a hesitant knock interrupted his brooding. Turning, Darcy espied the colonel hovering in the doorway of the study looking worried. The two gentlemen had always been the closest of friends. Darcy knew his cousin, his senior by three years, was the one person in the world he could lean on during such troubling times as these.
“I rode from Matlock as soon as I received your heart-wringing letter.”
Darcy nodded tersely, moving to pour them both brandy. “I confess I am at a loss, Cousin,” Darcy began wearily, collapsing into his desk chair. “Every effort I make to calm Elizabeth seems only to agitate her further.” He described her increasingly erratic behavior and adamant claims about their deceased son.
Colonel Fitzwilliam listened intently, occasionally stroking his chin. When Darcy finished, the colonel leaned forward. “Humor me here, old fellow. Could Elizabeth’s wild claims possibly hold some truth?”
Darcy recoiled reflexively at this. “Do not be absurd. How could they? I saw our lifeless son’s body lying in the cradle myself.”
“Perhaps.” Fitzwilliam held up a hand placatingly. “But might it still be worth investigating further? If only to give Elizabeth peace of mind. Even if you engage in a bit of subterfuge, it might be well worth the effort while allowing her the time she sorely needs to heal. She need not know the true extent of your efforts, or in this case, the lack thereof.”
Darcy stared at the other man, temptation warring with disbelief at this advice. Did he mean to suggest that he should pretend he had disregarded the physicians and his own eyes to chase after phantoms? Having the manor house scoured for evidence of his wife’s claims had been an exercise in futility, as it was.
“You know very well that disguise of any sort is my abhorrence,” Darcy said, running his hand through his hair. “Besides, I have too much respect for her to deceive her so willfully as you suggest.”
“In such cases as this, desperate times call for desperate measures. Whatever you decide, Cousin, I shall stand by your side and support you in any way I can.”
Later that same day, Elizabeth walked into the drawing room and saw her husband seated opposite Colonel Fitzwilliam. She acknowledged the visitor with a polite but uneasy greeting. Elizabeth could not help but feel a sense of tension in the room. She and Mr. Darcy had become practiced at feigning civility when there was none. This time would be no different, she supposed.
Elizabeth pointedly asked her husband if he had invited the colonel to visit, her annoyance at the unexpected guest clear in her voice. Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared taken aback, but he quickly recovered and replied, “I am not just any visitor though, am I? I hope I can visit the two of you without needing an invitation.”
Elizabeth reflected that, aside from his sister Georgiana, she had always favored Colonel Fitzwilliam the most of all Mr. Darcy’s relatives. “It would have been nice if I had known in advance of the colonel’s visit,” she said, directing her words to her husband. “We have not had many guests of late.” Aside from a steady parade of prying physicians, she thought but did not say.
Mr. Darcy sighed. “I believe my wife is disappointed I have discouraged Georgiana from visiting.” Directing his speech toward Elizabeth, he said, “I believe it is best, given your current state of mind...”
Elizabeth bristled at his words. “My current state of mind is due to everyone trying to convince me that our child is dead when I know he is alive!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam shifted uncomfortably, no doubt realizing he was caught in the middle of a tense domestic situation between the Darcys. He cleared his throat. “I posit the harsh, unpredictable weather must make for unpleasant travels.”
