Page 47 of Yearning

She shook her head. “I think it is false labor, actually.”

He drew back, eyes very wide. “Well, what does that mean?”

“The midwife says that one’s body starts to get ready by testing everything out is all,” said Elizabeth, repeating what she’d heard. “I know that my aunt would have bouts of it for weeks ahead of her delivery. It’s not so bad.”

“What is happening to you?”

“Oh, it’s only, erm, twinges,” she said. It did not actually hurt, not at that point. But soon enough, she began to feel that it was too uncomfortable to remain seated. She excused herself, and Mr. Darcy was very worried.

He protested at the idea of her walking back home alone.

She said that she would be fine.

“Nevertheless, I think I must accompany you,” he said. “I cannot, in good conscience, send a woman this close to the birth of her babe on a walk alone through the woods.”

“I am not going to simply drop to the forest floor and squeeze out the babe, Fitzwilliam,” she muttered.

“You do not know that.”

“You do not even know how this works!” she said. “How many births have you attended?”

“Well, none,” he said. “But I did have an anatomy class at university, and so I do indeed know how it works.”

“It is always very slow,” she said. “It takes quite some time. Hours and hours, really. You need not worry that I cannot make it home.”

“Even so, I think I must accompany you,” he said.

He accompanied her.

She was able to get back home without any trouble, as she had suspected, and she left him in view of her house, saying that she was sure that the false labor would end soon, and that she would see him tomorrow as per usual.

He turned his chair and began to roll himself off through the wooded path.

She turned back towards the house and began to walk towards the door.

A clap of thunder sounded overhead, seemingly out of nowhere. She looked up at the sky, and the heavens open up, just like that, and it was a torrential downpour. Well, it was March, after all, she supposed.

She turned and yelled for Mr. Darcy to come in.

“I cannot! We have decided it is best if you come to me, not the other way round.”

“You are getting soaked, sir!” she said stoutly. “And the path will grow muddy and your wheels will get stuck. Come in with me.”

“But—”

“I do not have time to argue any longer.” She was getting very, very wet. Her hair was coming down from where it was pinned.

Together, they rushed into the house. He consented to allow her to push his chair, something he usually would never let her do, intent on doing everything himself.

Inside, the dogs greeted them straightaway, wagging their doggy tails, ever so pleased to see their mistress. She patted Prince and patted Scepter, and she called them both very good boys in a voice she used only for the dogs. Then, she told the servants that Mr. Darcy would be staying for dinner and that he would need a fresh change of clothes.

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Darcy. “I have neither of my valets with me, and you have no idea what a production it is to get me into another set of clothes.”

“Well, I suppose you will marinate there in your wetness then,” she retorted. “I, however, am changing.”

“I cannot put your servants out,” he said.

“Give me but a moment, and I shall assist you myself,” she said, already walking down the hallway away from him.