A Baby at Pemberley Read online

  "Who would have thought she'd damn well come up with a madcap scheme like that?"

  "She didn't even tell me she was pregnant. All this time and no one told me."

  Elizabeth grabbed the back of a chair with a shaking hand and, holding the baby against her, she lowered herself into it.

  "Your sister is not the best communicator. And always moving about—Brighton, Hertfordshire, London," Darcy reminded her gently. "Besides, she probably thought it might upset you."

  Elizabeth looked down at the little boy in her arms. "Lydia must have fallen pregnant the very minute she left here."

  "Yes."

  She attempted a smile, but failed.

  The unspoken thought hung in the air between them. Another of Elizabeth's relatives was as fertile as a field mouse.

  "At least the little guy's stopped crying," he said, deciding it was time to direct attention back to the baby. "Phineas is an unusual name, is it not?"

  Elizabeth's chin lifted to a stubborn angle. "I think it's lovely. It's—it's a unique name. It's very Lydia and it's rather dignified."

  "Yes, of course."

  His tension lessened momentarily as he saw the way her big brown eyes grew misty and soft as she took a good long look at the tiny bundle in her arms.

  "I cannot believe it," she said softly. "The doctors always told us that if we put babies out of our minds, one might turn up unexpectedly, but I bet they never guessed it would happen this way."

  "This wasn't how I pictured it either."

  After a few more minutes of gazing at the little fellow, she said, "Come and say hello to our little boy, William. He's so cute."

  "Don't get carried away, sweetheart. I'm going to do my best to track Lydia down. There's no way we can just assume this baby's ours to keep. Besides, Pemberley must have a legitimate heir, one that can go uncontested."

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "You read the letter, William, and I know my sister. She won't let us find her till she's ready to be found."

  "Maybe, but I'm not so sure we shouldn't make a determined effort to find her anyhow. She's left us with far too many unanswered questions. I like everything to be clear. I want more details."

  "What sort of details?"

  "Well, for starters, if you and I are to be this baby's parents, I'd like to make his guardianship official. I'll have my steward draft up the paperwork."

  "I'm sure we'll sort all that out with Lydia later."

  "And I'd be very interested in sighting a birth certificate."

  She frowned. "Why? Don't you believe Lydia is his mother?"

  "It's not that," Darcy said quickly. Then he sighed noisily. What he really wanted to know was why Lydia was hiding. It bothered him that there seemed to be aspects of this birth that she didn't want to reveal.

  Like the identity of the baby's father. Wickham had been dead less than a year, and yet no mention of him in the letter.

  "Come over here, William," Elizabeth said quickly, looking worried, as if she was afraid that he would start rejecting the whole idea of keeping the baby. "It won't hurt you to take a proper look at Finn."

  Stepping forward, he took up a position of relative safety just behind Elizabeth. From there, he could peer over her shoulder at the tiny creature. He was used to newborn animals, but the only times he'd been at close quarters with a baby human there had usually been an entire gaggle of females providing a comforting barrier between himself and the infant.

  This tiny fellow was scowling at the end of his own nose and sucking his fist noisily.

  "He looks a bit cross-eyed," Darcy said.

  "All new babies look like that," Elizabeth scoffed. "Their eyes have to learn to focus properly." She dropped a kiss on the little boy's fat cheek. "I think he's just gorgeous."

  "At least he has a good head of hair."

  Elizabeth stroked the dark, downy cap of hair. "It's lovely. Like yours. As a matter of fact, Darcy—" Cocking her head to one side, she looked over her shoulder at him and studied his features. Then she looked at the baby again.

  Her smile wavered.

  Darcy frowned. "What's the matter?"

  "He looks like you."

  "You're teasing. I don't look anything like that."

  "You did when you were a few weeks old. I've seen portraits."

  Darcy shrugged. "Most little babies look much the same, do they not?"

  "You could be his father."

  "Elizabeth!" Blood rushed into his face. "You're talking absolute rubbish."

  "William," she said softly, but she continued to stare at him with a thoughtful frown. "Do remain calm. You are correct. I know you could not possibly be his father."

  The flash of panic in Darcy's guts subsided. Almost.

  Elizabeth nuzzled the back of the baby's neck. "Why don't you call for a cup of tea while I find out what we have in this bag to feed our little guy."

  As Darcy took the tea tray from the maid at the door, he called over his shoulder, "What about all the supplies you're supposed to have for babies? We're going to need something for him to sleep in, are we not? He wouldn't want to spend all his time in that little basket."

  Elizabeth looked surprised. "That's not a problem. Don't you remember that room at the end of the nursery wing? The one that's locked up. It's full of necessities."

  "Truly? I wouldn't have a clue what's there. Haven't been near that room for years. Since Georgiana was a baby, in fact."

  "Well, I know there's a crib and a bath. They're pretty old, but I'm sure with a bit of a clean-up they'll do for the time being."

  "That's handy. Straight after breakfast, we'd better do an inspection."

  * * *

  As good as his word, Darcy found the baby equipment and helped Elizabeth to dust and clean it before he headed off on horseback to meet his steward in town.

  Reassuring him that she would be fine and that, with Mrs. Reynolds's help, she would manage the baby beautifully, she waved him goodbye and then mixed Finn's milk. Bubbling with excitement, she settled herself in her rocking-chair to feed him.

  Finn's brow furrowed with concentration and his dark little eyes stared straight up at her with a very serious expression as he sucked. If Elizabeth hadn't already loved him, she fell in love with him then.

  Afterwards, full of milk, he snuggled contentedly against her with his little head resting on her shoulder. His feather-soft breath came in tiny puffs against her neck and a completely new level of happiness began to seep through her.

  She sat very still and savored the way his trusting little body grew floppy and relaxed in her arms, like a bow coming undone. Soon he was asleep.

  When she was quite sure he was sound asleep, she gently lowered him onto her lap so she could take a good long look at her baby.

  Her baby.

  A baby of my own.

  Thinking of that brought her first giddy stirrings of motherly love—the poignant, sweet thrill of knowing that at last she was to be a mother. This tiny little person would grow up needing her completely, loving her without question.

  She was his mother.

  What a wonderful gift he was!

  Her sister's gift.

  Tears blurred her vision as she thought about Lydia. It was so hard to imagine this warm little baby growing inside Lydia for nine long months.

  She tried to picture her sister's body becoming round and heavily pregnant. And what about Finn's birth? Had it been difficult? Lydia was so finely built and Finn was such a bonny, bouncing boy.

  And, after all that, how could Lydia bear to give him up now?

  She had been so generous. Suddenly Elizabeth wanted her sister to be there. Wanted to wrap her arms around her and to thank her. Thank her for being so sweet, so clever. Who would have guessed Lydia Wickham could be so big-hearted?

  But it was then, when she pictured Lydia sprinting back up to the house, that she also imagined her suddenly announcing that she'd changed her mind and would like her baby back. The image brought a sharp, unexpected
slam of panic.

  And it returned to haunt Elizabeth throughout the day.

  One minute she would be excitedly planning the finer details of Finn's room, the next she would be fighting off pangs of guilt, thoughts that she shouldn't really keep him. "Lydia would just tell me to stop being silly," she told the sleeping baby with a fond smile. Of course everything would be all right. This was what Lydia wanted for her.

  But as the day wore on, guilty doubts began to linger with annoying persistence until they lodged deep inside her like an unavoidable pain.

  Finn wasn't hers.

  When Mrs. Reynolds, usually so unflappable and brimming with good old-fashioned common sense, arrived at Pemberley to start her chores for the day, her reaction didn't help Elizabeth at all.

  "Good heavens," she repeated over and over. I'm too old for shocks like this, Mrs. Darcy. I've come over all dizzy." And she had to sit down for a full fifteen minutes.

  Elizabeth poured her a cup of tea.

  "Mr. Darcy and I were rather shocked, too," she admitted.

  "That little sister of yours. Who would have thought?"

  "She spoke nothing of being with child when she visited last December."

  "December? That was nine months ago..." Mrs. Reynolds chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. "You're going to have your hands full, looking after this little fellow plus all the preparations you have planned for Mr. Darcy's birthday ball."

  "I'll manage."

  "We'll manage," Mrs. Reynolds said with a reassuring smile. And then she frowned again and pushed herself up out of the chair before crossing the room to take a closer look at the sleeping baby.

  Elizabeth followed nervously, not at all happy with the dark, mysterious air Mrs. Reynolds had adopted. She stood beside the housekeeper and looked down at Finn, innocently asleep in the old family crib.

  "He's an absolute darling, is he not?"

  "He's very handsome," Mrs. Reynolds agreed.

  "The first thing I noticed was his dark hair," Elizabeth said. "But look at his eyelashes. They're incredibly dark and long as well."

  As she stood next to Mrs. Reynolds she couldn't help admiring the baby all over again. She had lined the crib with a blue gingham sheet and he was lying with his head to one side and a tiny hand curled near his chubby cheek.

  She was fascinated by the minute perfection of his little fingers, each topped by a fine, transparent fingernail.

  As far as Elizabeth was concerned, every tiny feature of Finn was beautiful—his neat little ears, his nicely shaped nose and his dimpled chin.

  Mrs. Reynolds's pale blue gaze settled shrewdly on Elizabeth. "Ma'am, did Miss Lydia tell you anything about the baby's father?"

  Something in Mrs. Reynolds's expression frightened Elizabeth. Her heart began a painful kind of hammering. "No," she whispered. "She only left a very brief note and she didn't mention anything about the baby’s father."

  Mrs. Reynolds's mouth pulled in tight as if she was holding back a comment.

  "It doesn't really matter. He’s ours now," Elizabeth said.

  "I don't suppose so," replied Mrs. Reynolds in a tone that implied the exact opposite.

  Elizabeth didn't want to ask, but she found the question slipping out anyhow. "Did you have some special reason for asking?"

  The housekeeper placed a work-worn hand on Elizabeth's shoulder. "Elizabeth, my dear, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I think you should be prepared for the fact that a lot of people will see a mighty strong resemblance between this little baby and your husband."

  "Do you—?" Oh, God, she could hardly breathe. "Do you really think so?"

  "Oh, yes, dear. I remember Fitzwilliam when he was born. He was such a bonny baby. See the dimple in Finn's chin. Darcy's was exactly the same. And the hair and the shape of the nose..."

  Elizabeth snatched her gaze away from the baby, and by some miracle, she forced her voice to sound light. "I know there's a bit of a similarity. I've seen Darcy's baby portraits. But I'm sure any resemblance between him and—and my sister's baby is just a coincidence."

  "I'm sure it is, too, dear. All I'm saying is be prepared for tongues to wag. There are always some folk who can't keep their jaws from flapping."

  After Mrs. Reynolds was called to the kitchen, Elizabeth fled to the photo album that was stored in a cupboard in the library.

  With shaking hands she leafed through the early pages which showed wedding photos of George and Anne Darcy, her husband's parents, and then she arrived at his baby portraits.

  Oh, God, yes! The likeness was even stronger than she had remembered. Her heart slammed around in her chest. The baby lying there in Darcy's mother's arms could have been Finn.

  The evidence was unshakable—just as Mrs. Reynolds had said—the same dark hair, the same shape of the nose and that dimpled cleft in the chin! Even on a tiny baby it was very distinctive.

  Elizabeth's mouth trembled and she pressed her fingers hard against her lips. Darcy couldn't be the baby's father, she told herself. He couldn't. The thought was too absurd to contemplate. He wouldn't do that.

  He didn't!

  Sick and shaking, Elizabeth shoved the album back into the cupboard and locked the door. The key was usually left in the lock, but today she walked to the big desk in the corner of the room and put it safely out of sight in the stationery drawer.

  By the time Finn woke for his mid-afternoon meal, Mrs. Reynolds had finished her housework and had gone back to her own cottage with a basket of tablecloths to iron in preparation for the ball.

  Alone with her tortuous thoughts, Elizabeth set about preparing Finn's next bottle, but she didn't enjoy the task nearly as much as she had that morning.

  In the rocking-chair again, she offered him his milk and she tried to relax and enjoy the peaceful view of the garden. It was looking its best, but she couldn't admire it today. She couldn't stop thinking about that fateful morning last winter.

  The morning Lydia had left Pemberley. The morning she had woken to find Darcy had left their bed.

  A ghostly chill snaked down her spine and she shivered as she remembered that moment when she'd found them together in his study.

  But she mustn't get carried away. Darcy had simply been talking to Lydia. Talking and drinking tea! That was all!

  Of course, they hadn't been...

  Her hopeless imagination was racing out of control! Valiantly, she struggled to keep it in check.

  The baby splurted and coughed.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," she told him. "You poor little boy. The milk's been coming out too fast." She lifted him to her shoulder and patted his back and tried to calm down.

  Her miserable thoughts were interrupted by baby Finn grumbling restlessly against her shoulder and she remembered with a guilty start that she was supposed to be feeding him. Lowering him onto her lap again, she held the bottle to his mouth once more.

  But he must have been picking up on her restless vibes. He didn't want any more milk. Instead of taking the milk, he arched his little back and pulled away, emitting a fierce yell of complaint.

  And when Elizabeth set the bottle aside and tried to soothe him by rocking and singing to him, his cries continued. Perhaps he had wind? She stood up and began to pace up and down, patting his back gently as she'd seen other mothers do.

  Finn continued to cry.

  He was still crying an hour and a half later when Darcy returned home.

  Chapter Three

  Darcy's horse cantered at a slow and steady pace. As he drew closer to home, his thoughts were full of Elizabeth and the baby. And, for the most part, his thoughts were anxious.

  He was uncertain about this new turn their lives had taken. The arrival of a baby at Pemberley should be an occasion for celebration. But now there seemed to be little to celebrate. There were too many questions. Too many doubts.

  But, as he often did when he was troubled, he deliberately pushed the worries aside and turned his attention instead to the quiet beauty of his surrounding
s. A flock of black birds swooped over his head and rested neatly one after the other on the far bank of Pemberley’s lake.

  Across the lake, a huge flock of ducks circled in a fluttering mass of green and gold flashes like pieces of foil paper tossed against the bright afternoon sky.

  But after he'd stabled his horse and stepped onto the veranda of the house, he heard another less familiar sound—the pitiful wails of a baby. What kind of day had it been for Elizabeth?

  He dropped his muddy riding boots near the kitchen door and padded through the house in his thick woollen socks. It wasn't hard to track Elizabeth down in the mansion—simply a matter of following the sounds of the baby until he found her in their bedchamber, pacing up and down the carpet.

  He paused in the doorway, enjoying the novel sight of his wife in the role of mother.

  She was walking slowly down the length of the generously sized room and she had her back to him. The baby's head was lying against her shoulder and there was something about the contrast of his little head with its straight black hair so close to her ivory skin that made Darcy's throat constrict.

  He knew he shouldn't be surprised by the sudden rush of tenderness he felt for Elizabeth, but the sheer force of his feelings could still catch him out after three years of marriage.

  Was he imagining it or did she look more motherly already? Didn't her arms look a little softer and rounder as they encircled and rocked the baby?

  He chuckled quietly as he watched the way she walked. There was no doubt that, beneath the soft blue fabric of her skirt, her slim hips were swaying. It was as if she was using her whole body in her effort to comfort the baby.

  One thing was certain. Elizabeth was incredibly sensuous. It was a very special gift of hers. Without doubt, she was a woman who knew how to use her body as an instrument of comfort. But he shouldn't be thinking about that now!

  It was vitally important to track down her sister so they could sort this situation out as quickly and painlessly as possible. He wasn't at all happy with the furtive way Lydia had handed the baby over—as if she couldn't quite face up to what she was doing.