Mrs. Phillips took the baby from his arms and returned her to her mother, who put the babe to her breast. It was slow going, but eventually, the babe suckled weakly.
Bennet watched, calming his anger before turning back to the midwife. “What did you say?”
The old woman pressed her lips together even more firmly. “I’ve seen this before, sir. Babies who have these deformities rarely live long. Those that do won’t grow at a normal rate. She’ll struggle to eat, never be able to learn how to read, and may not even be able to walk or talk.”
Bennet felt as though he’d been hit by a carriage. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m saying it’s best if we take the baby now away from its mother. Mrs. Bennet will not recover well if she bonds with the child, only to have the child die early or be too stupid to grow.”
When Bennet’s only response was a blank stare, the midwife sighed. “For your sake, and that of your wife’s, we need to tell everyone the babe died in childbirth. Your wife is young and healthy.”
“But what… what do you intend to do?”
“I know of a workhouse not too far from here. They take in infants in the hopes that they can be raised to work hard. The other option is to let the babe be out in the cold to hasten its passing.”
Bennet’s jaw dropped in shock, and he stared disbelieving at the midwife. “Are you telling me we should… shouldmurdermy daughter? Or send her—the daughter of a gentleman—to aworkhouse?” His voice escalated until he nearly shouted the last word.
“Quiet!” she hissed at his loud voice, glancing warily at the new mother. “It’s just what should be done, that’s all. If word gets out that your wife carried a deformed child, any future children will be tainted. And since the child will most likely die young anyway, you’d only be hastening what nature intended all along.”
Bennet swallowed hard and looked over at his wife, tears filling his eyes. “So you’re telling me I have two choices. Sentence my firstborn to death or destroy the hopes of my future children’s lives?”
The midwife nodded solemnly. “There is only one right choice, sir.”
Pemberley 1794
George Darcy stared down at his wife in disgust. “What have you done, Anne?” He seethed with fury, his face turning purple in apoplexy. “You gave birth to this… this monster!”
The frail woman burst into hysterical cries. “Please, George. I didn’t… I don’t…”
“Who is the father? It clearly can’t be me, as no Darcy has ever produced such unnatural evil!”
Lady Anne Darcy’s weeping only increased. She shook her head vehemently, but her gasping sobs prevented any words from leaving her lips.
“We must get rid of it.”
George stepped forward with a snarl on his face, hands reaching out to take the infant from its mother’s arms. She jerked away from him, shielding the baby with her body.
Enraged, he tried once more to separate his wife from the child. Lady Anne shrieked and twisted back and forth, frantically trying to keep the bundle from her husband’s grasp. “No, George!”
“Anne, so help me—”
“Stop it!”
Both parents froze and turned towards the door. Eleven-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy, who had come home on holiday, was standing in the frame with wide eyes, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was tall for his age, which made it easier for him to fit in at Eton, although he was two years younger than the age most students began their attendance at the prestigious school.
“Leave her alone,” the tall, gangly youth demanded, his voice cracking on the last word.
If the situation hadn’t been so serious, the high pitch would have forced his parents to smile. Instead, it caused George to turn from his wife and approach his son.
“Fitzwilliam, you don’t understand—”
“You’re right; I don’t! You werehurtingMother! You want to get rid of the baby! Why?”
The anguish in the boy’s words caused Lady Anne’s sobs to begin again. “You can’t do this, George. I swear to you, I have always been faithful. I don’t know how—”
“Enough.”
Lady Anne fell silent, her ashen face wet with tears burrowed into the bundle in her arms. George’s shoulders sagged. “The babe can’t stay here, Anne.”
