And yet, for all the increased movement within the house, Mr. Bennet felt more still than ever.
Evenings were passed quietly in the parlor now. Fanny sat with embroidery or a book, subdued and docile, nothing like the sparkling girl who had bounced on her toes at the prospect of meeting militia officers in red coats. He remained with her out of duty and kindness. Not that he disliked her company—but she was no longer a child, and she was certainly not a wife in the way the world expected.
He had told her so, gently and directly, on their wedding night.
“I will not be visiting you,” he had said, awkwardly, but kindly. “At least—not until after the child is born, and only if we are both in agreement.”
She had flushed, looked away, then nodded. “Thank you,” she had whispered. The relief in her voice had made the extremely uncomfortable conversation worth it.
Since then, he had allowed her to redecorate several rooms—nothing lavish, but fresh curtains, new cushions, softer color palettes. She needed something to control, some way to take root in her new life. He gave her what he could.
A sudden scream pierced the ceiling, causing Mr. Bennet to sit upright.
Stephens calmly closed his book. “I believe the end is finally coming, sir.”
Mr. Bennet nodded and stood, pacing toward the door and back again. The midwife had arrived some hours ago, her lips pinching in disapproval as she eyed the parents, making note of their difference in age.
Both a nanny and a nursemaid had been installed into the nursery a week ago, and a wet-nurse had been procured as well. All of the preparations had been seen to, and they only had to wait for the child to arrive.
They did not have to wait long; only a few days later, Fanny had gone upstairs with Hill and one of the maids in the middle of supper, clutching her lower back and breathing shallowly.
Another scream, sharper this time.
He clenched his jaw and pressed one hand against the back of the chair to steady himself. His thoughts raced, not to protocol or timing, but tohim—the officer. Colonel Millar. Older, experienced, practiced in false promises.
It was his fault young Fanny was in this potentially fatal situation.
Curse him.
He felt rage. Guilt. Helplessness.
He found himself whispering a prayer—not one of piety, but of hope.
Let it be a boy. Please. Let it be a boy.
If it were, then there would be no need to make the attempt at an heir. And the current heir, a miserly sort of man with a young son, would be deposed.
Time slowed. The fire popped. Footsteps passed above.
Then the door creaked open and the midwife descended the stairs with brisk but even steps.
“It is a girl,” she announced.
“How is my wife?” he asked, dismissing the woman’s words.
The woman tilted her head, a faint note of approval at his concern warming her eyes. “Very well. Very well indeed, considering her age and the circumstances. She is resting now. Strong as an ox, that one. And brave. You may go to her, if you wish.”
He nodded his thanks and climbed the stairs, each creaking tread carrying him further from solitude and closer to something else. Something heavier.
Fanny lay against the pillows, her face pale and damp, her dark hair curling against her temples. She looked young again—too young, and yet older somehow. In her arms was a swaddled bundle wrapped in soft flannel.
She saw him and smiled faintly. “Mr. Bennet,” she said, voice trembling. “She is very small.”
He crossed the room, uncertain of where to look—her flushed face, the child, the pale blue curtains. She turned the bundle slightly so he could see.
The baby had a shock of blonde hair and a pinched little mouth. Her eyes were closed.
“I am sorry,” Fanny said softly, not meeting his gaze. “I know you were hoping for a boy.”
