Page 6 of Attempted Compromises
“But only on my conditions,” Darcy replied coldly.
“What conditions?” she demanded in return.
“This child will inherit Rosings Park, but it willneverbe allowed to inherit Pemberley. I will not allow the lineage to be so tainted.”
Lady Catherine gasped. “But think of the talk! What will people say when your firstborn child isn’t your heir?”
“Their talk does not bother me.”
“But, you will care for the child, won’t you?” Anne broke in.
At her gentle plea, Darcy turned back to his cousin. The fear in her eyes caused his face to soften. “Of course, Anne. The child is guiltless. I simply will not allow anyone save my own blood to inherit a Darcy estate. You are a Fitzwilliam and a de Bourgh, neither of which has claim on Pemberley. But in all other instances, yes, I will treat the child as my own.”
“Very well.” Lady Catherine’s ragged agreement behind him brought a look of relief to Anne’s face.
Darcy nodded, though the weight of the situation settled heavily on him. The marriage would secure Rosings, but as the child born from this marriage—Anne’s child—would never inherit Pemberley, his family’s estate would remain without a direct heir. The future he had imagined, of a marriage born out of choice and love, was an impossible dream now.
He cast those thoughts aside, focusing instead on Anne, who was looking at him with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. He would do what was necessary. He reached out, taking her hand gently in his, and gave her a reassuring smile. “We will do this together,” he promised.
In the days that followed, Darcy arranged to take Anne to London, where they would be married and she could be cared for by skilled doctors and a midwife. She needed more than the familiar walls of Rosings; she needed proper medical attention, and Darcy was determined that she would have it. Lady Catherine had been outraged at first, but Darcy’s will held strong.
They traveled in silence. The curtains of the carriage framed Anne’s pale face as they left Rosings behind. Darcy’s heart ached with the weight of his decision, yet he felt a fierce determination to see it through. This child, whatever its parentage, would bear the name of Darcy, and he would do everything in his power to protect both Anne and her unborn child.
In London, Darcy made arrangements with the best physicians, ensuring that Anne would be comfortable and attended to. He visited her regularly, offering words of encouragement, but he could see the toll that Wickham’s cruelty had taken on her. She was a shadow of the cousin he had known, her spirit diminished and her once-gentle demeanor marked by a resigned sadness.
One day, as he sat by her bedside, she looked at him with a faint smile. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam,” she murmured. “For everything.”
Darcy felt a pang of sorrow as he looked down at her, but he offered her a gentle smile. “You are family, Anne.”
∞∞∞
Two months later…
The halls of the Darcy townhouse were silent but for the sounds of gasping sobs and anguished cries filtering through the door to Anne’s bed chamber. Fitzwilliam Darcy paced the corridor outside the birthing room, his heart twisting with every scream that tore through the walls. Two days. For two days, he had listened, powerless, as Anne fought and struggled within.
His hands clenched at his sides, helplessness washing over him as another scream reached his ears. He had tried to stay calm, had tried to prepare himself for this day, but nothing could have braced him for the unrelenting agony of her suffering. Thedoctor had assured him it was normal, that first labors often took time, but it was becoming unbearable to wait any longer.
In the quiet moments, when he could drown out the screams and remember the happier sounds of her voice, his mind drifted back to their last few months together. He saw Anne as she had been then, pale but smiling as she sat in her favorite chair by the window, her hands tenderly resting on the swell of her belly. She had radiated a gentle peace that had eased his own troubled mind.
“You know, Fitzwilliam,” she had said one evening, looking at him with an almost childlike joy, “I think… I think I am happy.” Her hand had smoothed over her stomach as she sang, her voice a quiet lullaby for the unborn child who already seemed to know her love.
Anne had spoken of her hopes and dreams, of the kind of mother she would be, promising to be gentler, kinder than her own had been, to let her child feel cherished, not stifled.
“If I am to be a mother,” she had said softly, “I want to be a good one. I want to be like…” she paused, her voice catching. “Like yours was; so kind, so compassionate. The complete opposite of my own.”
He felt the ache of those memories in the present, his heart heavy with the contrast of her dreams and the harsh reality she was enduring.
At last, he heard the door creak open, and Dr. Williams emerged, his face grave, worn with a fatigue and worry that Darcy had not seen before.
“Mr. Darcy,” he began, his voice low, “I’m afraid there is little we can do. Mrs. Darcy is failing. Her frame… it’s too narrow to allow the child to pass. And she is bleeding heavily. She… she will not survive this.” He swallowed, and in that moment, Darcy felt his heart begin to break. “If you wish to say your goodbyes, you must come in now.”
Darcy was dumbstruck. Never in all of the many plans he had formed had he considered this outcome. Numb with despair, Darcy followed the doctor into the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and blood, and there, on the bed, lay Anne. Her face was pale, her hair plastered to her forehead, but she managed a faint, weak smile as she saw him.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, her voice drowned out by her own labored breathing. “Please… I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” he replied, his voice choked with emotion as he knelt beside her, taking her trembling hand in his.
“Save my baby,” she whispered, her eyes filled with a desperate plea. “Please, Fitzwilliam… I know I am dying, but don’t… don’t let my baby die with me. Let… let my life have meant something.”
