“And I you, Fitzwilliam. By the way, I know it yet a couple hours early but… Happy anniversary my darling. Do you like your gift?”
“I daresay I love both the gift and the packaging it came in. Happy anniversary, Mrs. Darcy.”
Many hours later, well after midnight and nearing the dawn of November 28, 1817, another date of import, Lizzy woke. The unfamiliar room was dim, Lizzy momentarily befuddled by the strange and empty bed as well as the cramping leg muscles, burning arms, and throbbing bottom. The happenings of the twenty-seventh rushed through her consciousness, Lizzy smiling brightly at the surge of exultation, and then suddenly panicking as the vacancy in her arms stabbed her heart.
Her eyes flew open and she painfully attempted to rise, halting and relaxing with a gratified sigh at the vision greeting her.
Darcy lay asleep on the narrow, short sofa before the smoldering fire. His vest had been discarded and the linen shirt loose and gaping open over his bare chest with a blanket haphazardly covering his lower body. His feet were also bare and one long leg had fallen off the sofa onto the floor while the other was draped over the arm and dangling from the knee on. His beautiful face was turned toward the bed, lips parted, and he breathed in a deep rhythm. Lying on his ample chest was Alexander. The baby was swaddled and dressed, one arm free and hanging over his father's side. His tiny pink face was visible, full lips parted just like his father's. Darcy held his son securely, even in sleep, one large hand resting on the infant's rear and the other hand wholly encompassing the curly brown-haired head.
Lizzy lay awake for a long while watching father and son in peaceful slumber. It was a picture more moving than anything created by the greatest artist. The new mother studied the scene in the finest detail, reverently hanging it in her mind's gallery to be remembered for all of her life.
Alexander William George Bennet Darcy, Heir to Pemberley, Master Alex as he would be commonly known to the staff as he grew, was hungry and it was quite feasible that the entire household knew it! The future Master of Pemberley's character was yet unknown, his personality to undergo years of molding and development, but one trait that was instantly recognizable was his demanding persistence.
“Merciful heavens, my sweet, you ate barely two hours ago! I apologize most profoundly for being a bit fumbling at the procedure and for yet providing little in the way of actual milk. Bear with me.”
“I cannot fathom where he comes by such a temper. Astounding, actually.”
“Most humorous, Mr. Darcy. Make yourself useful and prop that pillow under my elbow. Your son is heavy on my tired arms. There you are, darling, that's my bright boy. Ouch! Goodness, I certainly know where he gets that talent from!”
“Be thankful as the ability to suck well induces the milk to produce rapidly, or at least that is what the book states.”
It was mid-morning following his birth, the young master just over twelve hours of age. Despite Lizzy's playful teasing he actually had slept for nearly five hours nestled snuggly belly to chest with head tucked under his immeasurably proud father's chin and warm hand, lulled by the strong beat of a blissful heart beneath his ear. Darcy had awoken first, cramped and with no sensation to his left limb from the knee down, and a spreading wet warmth over his abdomen.
Both Darcy men had changed their clothing; elder Darcy with relief and baby Darcy with extreme indignation. Only the loving presence of his mother, and most especially her breast, had calmed him. He had eaten well, promptly falling asleep in Lizzy's arms, and woken two hours later apparently famished. In the meantime Darcy had called for coffee and tea, George had peeked in to assure all was well with the new mother, and the lovers had lost themselves in gazing at their son's face.
They were still lost. Darcy reclined with his wife on the bed, fingertips gently brushing over the wisps of brown curls while the infant nursed. Lizzy wore a smile unique to all mothers everywhere since time began, dreamily memorizing each twitch and curve, while allowing the sensations to course through her blood. Some were mildly unpleasant, such as the cramps elicited by his sucking, but most were joyous, such as the wash of intense love and happiness.
She rested her head onto Darcy's inner shoulder, sighing contentedly but wearily. “I think I could sleep for a week. After I eat the entire kitchen, that is.”
Darcy kissed her brow, hugging close as fingers played through her hair while yet caressing the baby's fine locks. “As soon as Alexander is satisfied I will call for another tray and help you to freshen up. Marguerite is drawing a bath.”
Marguerite assisted a stiff and hobbling Lizzy into her bathing room while Darcy stayed with the baby. He lay with him on the bed while Lizzy bathed, Alexander enjoying a brief span of contented wakefulness after filling his stomach. Father and son studied each other, Darcy again examining each feature and marveling at how tender yet sturdy the helpless infant was. He recalled a vague memory of his mother telling him not to fear holding Georgiana as, “She will not break, Fitzwilliam. Babies are tougher than most give them credit.”
He could better perceive this in Alexander than he could as a young boy with Georgie. His legs kicked forcefully against Darcy's palms, the very bones firm inside robust muscles. He gripped Darcy's fingers or hair when it came within reach with tight fists that actually caused pain. His movements were random and uncontrolled, but strong, even lifting his head for short spells and arching his spine to the point of nearly flipping over! Of course, his stamina was transient, the hours-old infant sleeping more than anything. However, that was a delight as well. Darcy's tender crooning, arising from some internally paternal instinct he did not know he possessed, pacified Alexander, eyes drooping and limbs relaxing as his father whispered nonsense and devotion in a melodic voice.
Mrs. Hanford assumed her attendance over the sleeping infant while Darcy retreated for a thorough cleansing and a shave. He returned to discover his wife walking about the room, gently bouncing a soundly sleeping Alexander in her arms. Darcy scowled and grasped her elbows as if she were an invalid, ordering her back to bed.
Lizzy laughed, tiptoeing to kiss the creases between his brows. “If I lie in that bed a moment more, I shall scream. Sore muscles need to be exercised, as you well know.” She rubbed the slowly fading wrinkles with a happy grin, Darcy gradually matching her expression, as she continued musingly, “Alexander has your eyebrows, nearly your whole face in point of fact. Shall be an advantage for me now that I finally know how to read the moods and thoughts so dramatically detailed in your eyes and perfect brow.” She encircled his neck with one smarting arm, intent on indulging in a time of pleasurable kisses. Darcy blissfully submitted, hands flattening on her back as he tentatively pulled her close to his body, thrilling at the ability to do so. The soft bundle between their chests that was their swaddled son did not inhibit drawing her tighter than he had been able to do for the past several months.
Of course, nothing further could be accomplished so soon after giving birth even if Alexander had not decided to interrupt for another feeding. George visited several times throughout the day, but did not examine Lizzy. Rather he asked a number of pointed questions that caused her to absurdly flush considering the events of yesterday, to his great amusement. Since nothing appeared to be remiss, Lizzy actually feeling quite well aside from being extremely tired and sore, he left it at softly spoken reminders of what to watch for. And a new, foul-tasting tea concoction to ease the pain and augment her recovery.