“Then allow me to convey word, Aunt!” Jane swiftly gathered her bonnet and shawl. “I know Robert was out surveying his western fields this morning. I’ll go at once to inform him Helen has been taken ill.”
“Bless you, Jane, dear!” Aunt turned beseeching eyes my way. “And Lizzy, you recollect the doctor’s house in Lambton still, I trust?” At my swift nod, she continued, “Could you fetch round the phaeton or mount the plow horse—I cannot recall which is still here—and beard the man himself in his den?”
“Consider it done!” I assured her, stopping only long enough to squeeze her shoulder comfortingly before hastening out the opposite door toward the carriage yard. Saddle the sturdy plow mare or venture out in the noisy contraption? Deciding on expediency over style, I opted for the latter and endeavored not to run full tilt toward the grubby building at the side of the house. My hands only trembled faintly, tugging Mrs. Westing’s worn driving gloves into place as I swiftly negotiated the narrow phaeton back up the lane.
Truth be told, my pedestrian driving skills saw little opportunity for practice, my independent rambles requiring only sturdy boots and a tolerance for a bit of dirt. But needs must! I set my jaw, gathering reins determinedly. Propriety never condoned ladies careening unchaperoned on urgent errands, outside emergencies notwithstanding, but what was independence for if not seizing control when crisis demanded action?
Lambton’s modest streets seemed eerily deserted under scudding grey clouds when I finally threaded through its outskirts. But no matter—the doctor’s shingle still hung over a shabby green door near the draper’s shop, close by the inn. I drew rein and vaulted down, rapping the shining brass lion head knocker imperiously. Muffled cursing preceded reluctant shuffling steps and the emergence of a silver-haired housekeeper blinking at my unexpected appearance.
“Is the doctor in?” I pleaded.
“Gone to Smithfield’s,” the housekeeper replied shortly. “Young Browning lad broke ‘is arm.”
“Pray inform him that Mrs. Westing of Farthingdale is in urgent need. She fears a miscarriage! Is there a midwife in town?”
“Aye, but she’s off with Hattie Durham, blessed thing. Twins! ‘Tis a bad business.”
I sagged. “Will you please send the doctor as swiftly as you can? I am going back to Farthingdale now.”
The housekeeper’s promise that she would send him the moment she saw him brought scant relief as I raced the final dusty mile back to Farthingdale. Hoofbeats and shouts to clear the path went unheeded, my frantic speed unchecked until a familiar tall figure burst from a copse directly in my path. I yanked violently on the reins as Darcy reined his mount alongside, features creased in concern.
“Elizabeth! I have just come from Farthingdale, and your aunt said I would likely intercept you. Were you able to rouse Lambton’s physician?”
My heart still rabbiting from my abrupt halt, I shoved tangled curls off my damp face. “I got word to his housekeeper, but the doctor was out. I asked for a midwife, but there was none to hand! Oh, Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Westing might be in a very bad way, indeed. Is there anyone else?”
“Peace.” Darcy’s steady tone calmed my resurging agitation. “Your aunt has things well in hand. I sent a farm boy at once to get word to Mrs. MacGregor from Pemberley without delay.” At my puzzled look, he explained. “The estate has long retained a capable midwife ready to attend to tenants in their need. Pemberley’s coachman will drive her, so she will arrive swiftly. She will help Mrs. Westing until the doctor arrives.”
I loosed a shuddering breath, sagging against leather squabs. Of course, Fitzwilliam Darcy had already implemented his legendary competence to our aid. I ought never to have doubted. How did he always know just when to show up to save me? “Bless you for quick thinking.” Impulsively, I reached for his hand, and he shifted his reins to give it. “How ever can I thank you for rushing to our help this way, Fitzwilliam?”
His glance gentled, thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles. “No need for gratitude between friends. Although...” He checked his horse beside me, features softening unguardedly. “Perhaps when the crisis passes, you might speak with me privately? There is something I must tell you.”
I blinked hard, groping with a confusing swirl of emotions. “Yes, of course. I would always make time to speak to you.”
ShadowslengthenedinFarthingdale’sdrawing room as our small party maintained its anxious vigil. Mr. Westing alternately paced and sank into chairs as Mr. Bingley murmured a steady stream of encouraging words. The master’s drawn features softened fractionally under such tireless sympathy. I marveled anew at Fitzwilliam and Bingley’s quiet solidarity bolstering our worried host without being asked.
Jane was patiently amusing little Annie Rose upon the carpet, her graceful form concealing weariness from long hours of waiting. My poor darling sister deserved respite from restless toddler wrangling.
Impulsively, I crossed the room and touched Jane’s shoulder. “I will take a turn entertaining Miss Anne if you wish to stretch your limbs.”
Jane turned gratefully up to me, though still hesitating to shift her charge. “Are you certain, Lizzy? That hand cannot have improved, despite Aunt changing the bandages.”
I waved off her solicitous concern with my good hand. “A little discomfort hardly signifies. Go, refresh yourself while Annie and I play a game.”
Laughing softly, Jane yielded the child into my hold before excusing herself upstairs. I shifted the solid little body more comfortably on my lap, wincing slightly as my bandaged thumb throbbed warning. But Annie’s openly adoring gaze raised my spirits far above trifling physical complaint.
Soon I was wholly absorbed entertaining the little girl. Seeing me struggle somewhat one-handed, Mr. Westing considerately fetched playthings from the nursery to tempt Annie Rose’s restless energy. The toddler was gleefully sending wooden animals skittering over lately polished tables when Jane slipped quietly back within doors.
Wan but composed, she rescued an ornamental shepherdess just before pudgy fingers sent it toppling. “Come, Annie darling. Lizzy, I rather think we ought to look to supper preparations. Would you prefer to help Martha, or should I?”
“I will. Just take Annie, please.”
Jane held out inviting arms that I willingly released my small charge into before standing to assist. Once Mr. Bingley and Mr. Westing politely averted their eyes, I bent stiffly to brush crumbs from my skirts, my thumb giving an unpleasant throb. I straightened wearily and moved toward the kitchen.
My step faltered just over the threshold, as an unexpected sight met my eyes. For there stood Mr. Darcy, shirtsleeves rolled back as he industriously chopped potatoes. Martha was nowhere to be seen, and I had lost track of Fitzwilliam while I was entertaining Annie. I had just assumed he had other business and went away.
My lips curved helplessly upward even as I pressed my fingertips to them. When had such a domestic tableau touched me so profoundly? There was just something viscerally affecting seeing evidence of those strong hands working at something other than pen and ink.
As if sensing my scrutiny, Fitzwilliam glanced up. Something in my undisguised turmoil seemed to pull him swiftly around the table, concern etching his brow. My smile faltered under such piercing perception.
