A Baby at Pemberley Page 3

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  Everything about it was too tenuous, too unreal—like some sensational story she'd overheard from a young maid gossiping on about to other maids.

  Elizabeth reached the far wall and turned, ready to pace back the other way. Darcy stepped towards her and she looked up suddenly.

  "Hello there, Mama."

  "Darcy!"

  The wariness in her eyes froze the smile on his face.

  He frowned. He'd been about to tease her on the joys of motherhood, but the plaintive cries of the baby combined with her strained and closed-in expression made it seem like putting the boot in—kicking her when she was already down.

  "What kind of day have you had?" he asked instead.

  "Oh, I've had a ripper of a day," she said through gritted teeth.

  "That bad, eh?"

  "Finn's been crying for hours."

  Darcy's stomach tightened.

  There was something bothering Elizabeth. Something beyond exhaustion. He knew her too well. She'd wanted a baby so badly and for so long. And she knew what babies were like. A few hours of crying wouldn't make her this upset.

  She was deeply troubled.

  His mind sprinted, trying to make sense of this. Of course, having the baby arrive out of the blue this morning had been quite a shock. Perhaps she was upset that her little sister had achieved so easily the very thing she had failed at.

  But that wasn't a question he could ask her. If she did feel any resentment about Lydia's pregnancy, she wouldn't thank him for forcing her to admit it.

  "Have you given him his meal?" he asked her now.

  She nodded with a rueful smile. "Of course."

  That about emptied his repertoire of questions to ask about crying babies. "Would you like a spell? I can take him for a bit."

  She hesitated and Darcy felt a wave of relief. If Elizabeth did hand the baby over, he didn't have a clue what he would do with him. He was too proud, however, to voice his apprehension.

  But suddenly she thrust the little warm bundle at him. "I would appreciate a break. Here, you take him."

  And, the next moment, he was fielding the surprising weight of little Finn while he watched Elizabeth hurry out of the room.

  He wanted to rush after her, to find out what her problem was, but he didn't have time to dwell on Elizabeth's mood with this squirming little shrieker taking center stage.

  "Left holding the baby," he mused, holding Finn tightly around the middle with both hands.

  He had a job to get on with.

  "Now, don't wriggle too much, little man," he warned. "I'd hate to drop you." Newborn animals he could handle. Baby humans were another thing altogether.

  Gingerly, he held the stiff little body closer to his chest. The baby seemed to be pulling his legs up into his stomach. "I think you have a pain in the gut," Darcy told him. "You been guzzling your milk too fast? I've been known to do that on occasions. What you need is a walk. It's good for the digestion. How about I take you outside and show you around?"

  Instinctively holding Finn so that his stomach was pressed firmly against his chest, Darcy paced through the house, out to the veranda off the blue sitting room near the library. As he went down the steps he did his best to ignore the baby's cries and he felt a pang of sympathy for Elizabeth. Perhaps a screaming baby was enough to make her look so wrung out.

  Elizabeth sat in the library with her head in her hands and listened to Finn's cries and Darcy's footsteps as he made his way along the veranda and down the steps.

  Oh, heavens! She was a mess! When Darcy had come into the bedroom just now and sent her one of his beautiful smiles, her knees had almost given way. She loved him so much. This was their first day as parents. She should be on top of the world.

  But all afternoon her mind had been racing, going over and over the question of Finn's father. When she'd seen Darcy looking so dark and strong and drop-dead gorgeous, the pain of such thoughts had come back with a vengeance.

  It was too much to cope with a crying baby and such tormenting thoughts all at once.

  She thumped the table with a helpless fist. Surely Darcy hadn't slept with Lydia? It couldn't be true. She tried to force her mind elsewhere, but she still couldn't leave the problem alone.

  Wild and vicious thoughts kept chasing each other back and forth.

  She would have to be ill in the head to start suspecting her husband. Darcy would never break his vows. Yes, Lydia was a flirt, but Darcy's wasn't a rake like George Wickham. He couldn't make love to Lydia. He wouldn't go that far just for the sake of an heir.

  Wouldn't he? Prior to their marriage, had she not accused him of being proud and selfish on more than one occasion?

  No! No! No!

  She'd wanted a baby for so long, but not at that price. Never at that price.

  What on earth was she going to do?

  "Now listen, little one," Darcy said to Finn as he stood in the middle of Elizabeth's new courtyard. "This is Pemberley. And it looks like it's going to be your home. You could do a lot worse than end up here."

  Just talking about it sent his mind flashing back to his own boyhood. He had spent most of his youth making the most of the outdoors: boating and fishing on the lake, exploring the country—camping out under the stars. He'd begun riding a horse at such a young age, he couldn't remember how he'd learned.

  "It's a terrific place for a child—all kinds of animals, plenty of open space and clean air. Most importantly, you will hold a mighty place in society." As Darcy paced he looked down towards the lake. Lit rosy pink and gold by the afternoon sun, it was slinking across the landscape like a sleepy snake. "You've got nothing to complain about, young man."

  Suddenly, there was an explosion in the baby's lower regions. Darcy stopped his pacing.

  And Finn stopped crying.

  "Was that the problem?" he asked softly, before glancing nervously over his shoulder towards the house. "Elizabeth?" he called. Then his pace quickened and an edge of panic sharpened his voice. "Elizabeth?"

  Hurrying back up to the veranda, he called Elizabeth a third time and, to his relief, she appeared at the door. "I think the problem is solved," he told her.

  "Oh?" Her expression was careful.

  "Well, partly solved," he amended. "He's stopped crying, but I think he's filled his wrapper."

  He held the baby out to her, but she stood in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

  "You're going to help me out, are you not, sweetheart? This is scary territory. After all, I'm only a gentleman."

  The expected smile didn't happen. "We should probably give him a bath," she said. "Bring him in. I'll set up the baby bath in the nursery."

  Leaning a bulky shoulder against a cupboard, Darcy held Finn and watched as she filled a ceramic tub with warm water and tested the temperature with her elbow. She set out soft white bath towels and washcloths, a tin of baby talc, somes wipes and a little set of clean clothes.

  "Where did all that come from?" he asked.

  She blushed. "I've had it tucked away in a cupboard for some time now."

  Again Darcy felt uneasy. Elizabeth had been wanting a baby for so many years—she'd had so many things ready and waiting for so long—but where was the excitement? The joy? There was definitely something wrong.

  She took Finn from him, laid him on a towel on the table and began to undress him. And, despite his concerns, Darcy couldn't help but be fascinated as the mottled pink limbs and little body emerged. Before long the naked baby was lying there looking exactly as he should—like a pink and perfect miniature human being.

  And he submitted to the attention Elizabeth paid to his bottom with impressive, dignified silence.

  "He's a grand little fellow," Darcy commented.

  Elizabeth nodded, but looked upset.

  "Do you reckon he'd be slippery when he's wet and soapy?"

  "There's a special way you have to hold them," she told him and then proceeded to demonstrate by slipping her left arm behind F
inn's head and grasping his shoulder firmly. With her other hand she held his legs and lifted him carefully into the water.

  Then she continued to support his upper body while letting his legs go.

  "That's impressive," Darcy told her.

  He was rewarded by the merest chink of a smile.

  Finn laid there quietly for a minute and both Elizabeth and Darcy watched him intently.

  Darcy said, "I think he likes it."

  At the sudden sound of his voice, the little body jerked and Finn frightened himself as he thrashed in the water. He cried again.

  "Shh," Elizabeth murmured in a soothing manner and bent low and kissed the baby's cheek. He calmed quickly and began to give little kicks. With a tiny white cloth, Elizabeth drizzled warm water over his chest and then she began to bathe him.

  Briefly, she glanced towards Darcy and he could see the flush of pleasure in her cheeks.

  The tight knot in his stomach began to loosen. Maybe the effects of the bad day she'd had were wearing off.

  "You're great at doing that," he said. "You're a natural at this mothering business."

  Her face was hidden by a tumble of curls so he couldn't see her reaction.

  In silence, he watched her graceful movements as she finished washing Finn, lifted him out of the bath and wrapped him in a towel.

  She looked up at Darcy and, with a lurch of disappointment, he noticed her expression was still unsmiling as she asked, "Would you mind asking the maid to empty the bath water?"

  Would you mind telling me what is bothering you?

  With supreme will-power, he resisted the temptation to pose his own question. He sensed that, somehow, this wasn't the best time and place for a heart-to-heart discussion about what was troubling Elizabeth.

  Searching for the maid, Darcy nearly bumped into Mrs. Reynolds as she came up the stairs carrying a casserole dish in her hand.

  "Evening, Mr. Darcy. I told Elizabeth I'd have Cook prepare a double batch of stew and bring you some," she said. "I know what it's like settling in with a new baby. It's hard to find leftover energy to get an evening meal with your husband."

  They stood facing each other awkwardly, Darcy holding a small ceramic tub of bathwater and Mrs. Reynolds a pottery casserole dish.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds," he said. "It is much appreciated."

  As he was about to walk away, it occurred to him that Mrs. Reynolds could hold a clue to Elizabeth's behavior.

  "I think Elizabeth's had a tough day," he commented.

  Mrs. Reynolds's eyes narrowed. "You'll put her mind at rest, won't you, sir?"

  Her mind at rest? Darcy knew he looked puzzled. "No need to worry, Mrs. Reynolds. I've already reassured her she's a natural mother. She seems to know quite a lot about caring for a baby."

  "A natural mother?" Mrs. Reynolds repeated and her voice suggested that it was the most unsatisfactory answer she'd ever heard. She hesitated, as if she wanted to question Darcy further, but then she must have thought better of it, because she turned and entered the nursery.

  When he returned to the nursery several minutes later, he found the two women clucking over the clean and freshly dressed baby.

  "He'll probably be hungry again by now," Mrs. Reynolds was saying. "Make sure he takes this next feeding nice and calmly and he'll no doubt sleep for hours. Must be exhausted, the poor little mite."

  She cast an uncertain glance over her shoulder in Darcy's direction as if she suspected his very presence might turn the baby's formula sour.

  In need of a drink, he decided to leave the women to it. He'd had enough of mysteries. Retiring to the study, he headed straight for his desk.

  It was time for some answers. Time to track down Lydia Wickham.

  Chapter Four

  After she'd fed Finn and put him to bed, Elizabeth was surprised to find Darcy at work in the study. He hadn't turned on the main light, so he was sitting at the silky oak desk, surrounded by gloomy twilight with only a little circle of yellow cast by a small desk lamp.

  The village directory was open in front of him and he was leaning forward, running his finger down the finely printed lists of names. In the lamplight, his hair gleamed, dark as a crow's wing, and the back of his neck looked tanned and strong. Reliable.

  On any other evening she might have bent low and kissed it, breathing in the scents he carried from the outdoors—sunshine and eucalyptus.

  "The baby's asleep at last," she told him.

  He turned. "You look tired, too." His voice was gentle and he held out a hand to her.

  Oh, Lord! She wasn't prepared for the tender way he smiled at her.

  "Come here," he said. "Take the weight off your feet."

  Normally, those words would have brought her curling onto his lap with her head tucked into the welcoming curve of his shoulder. But tonight Elizabeth couldn't move forward. Instead, she stepped stiffly backwards, nearer the door.

  "I will have Cook heat you up some of Mrs. Reynolds's casserole," she mumbled.

  "If you'd like..."

  She was aware of the cautious tone in his reply. He didn't move, just remained seated at the desk, watching her, and she could sense his concerned gaze following her retreat to the kitchen.

  She couldn't bear this! Everything is too hard!

  She had a newborn baby to care for. A huge ball to plan. And yet hovering over all that was the fear that the baby's mother might come back at any minute and claim him as her own. And then there was the even bigger fear that her sickening jealousy was warranted.

  That Darcy could be the baby's father.

  That he and Lydia had made love.

  Elizabeth felt as if she were teetering on the edge of a very flat Earth. One wrong step and she would tumble into endless, empty nothingness.

  If she were sensible and brave, she would put the fateful question to Darcy. Clear the air once and for all.

  It would be a simple matter to march straight back to the study, to open the drawer in the desk, find the key and pull out the portrait album. She should confront him with the damning evidence.

  In her head, she could hear her voice, challenging him. Tell me, William, are you Finn's father?

  That was all it would take. Four simple words. Are you Finn's father?

  And the answer was even more simple. Yes, no, or maybe. That was all. It would be over in seconds.

  Then she would know one way or another. She would know if her husband had slept with her sister.

  But she couldn't do it. She couldn't. She didn't dare. She was as helpless as a wounded insect. It was too much to ask. Too scary. How could she face that awful possibility?

  Standing at the sink, Elizabeth clutched its edge for support and her hunched shoulders shook with the effort of holding back tears.

  She heard Darcy's footsteps as he came into the kitchen and then his startled exclamation, "Elizabeth!"

  In two swift strides, he closed the gap between them and she felt his big hands settle on her quivering shoulders. He tried to draw her back against his chest, but she stiffened, almost flinched at his touch.

  This was awful. She couldn't believe she was behaving this way with Darcy. Her Darcy. The man whose arms had always meant paradise for her—sweet comfort and perfect release.

  For a tense, silent stretch of time, she sensed him standing there with his hands hovering uselessly in the highly charged air above her shoulders, then, eventually, she heard them slap as they fell against his thighs.

  "What's the matter?" he asked in a voice so shaken she hardly recognized it as his. "How can I help, Elizabeth?"

  She couldn't answer. If she opened her mouth, she knew nothing would come out except loud, heartbroken sobs. Or, worse, she might blurt out the dreaded question.

  All around them, savory smells of food filled the air. Elizabeth's stomach churned at the thought of food. She heard Darcy's resigned sigh and his voice saying dully, "So you're opting for the silent treatment. You know I don't play those kind of games. I'm going t
o eat. I'll set the table in the morning room, so we'll be closer to the baby if he cries."

  She nodded and took a deep breath and forced herself to think about basic things the way he could. If Darcy could think about their dinner and the baby, so could she. Any minute now she would begin to feel calmer.

  But Darcy didn't set about the routine domestic task he'd offered to do. He remained standing close behind her and the next minute he said softly, "I've been trying to track down Lydia."

  Panic raced through her. Spinning around, she cried desperately, "Why?"

  Her heart shuddered when she saw how suddenly pale and drawn Darcy looked and the single word seemed to ring through the silent house, like a gunshot from a hidden highwayman.

  "Why?" he repeated, frowning. "Because—because, damn it, we have to get some answers."

  "Do we?" She wrung her hands together, feeling so sick and scared she thought she might faint.

  "Don't you want to know the full story about this baby? Isn't not knowing what's making you so upset?"

  "I—I—guess so."

  "You guess so?" With an arm raised, rubbing the back of his neck, he stood staring at her. "Well," he said after some time, 'there are things I certainly want answered. I want to know if Lydia plans to let us have guardianship. You know—officially. Then we'll know exactly where we stand."

  Guardianship... "Is that all you want to know?"

  "It's a start, is it not?"

  "Yes," she said faintly. "Yes, of course."

  His mouth twisted as he forced a smile. "Taking on a baby isn't quite the same as acquiring a calf. We can't just slap a branding iron on the poor little fellow and claim him as ours."

  "No," Elizabeth whispered. "Of course not."

  She waited for Darcy to continue with the list of questions he wanted answered. But when he didn't, she realized with a rush of relief that the unbearable moment was over. Darcy was worried about legalities. He wasn't going to announce any terrible news about himself. Not yet, anyhow.

  Feeling just a little calmer, she moved to the drawer where the cutlery was stored and began to select knives and forks. "So how much success have you had with your inquiries?" she made herself ask. "Have you been able to find Lydia?"