in thought, my love?”
“Forgive me, dearest. I was merely trying to decide what to do next. Stroll about the grounds? Walk into town and see the sights? Or remove all your clothes and make love?”
“What a dilemma, Mr. Darcy. What shall you do?”
He laughed, pulling her around and clasping her face. “First, I shall kiss you, my wife, as I have yearned to do all day.” He did, Lizzy rapidly growing weak in the knees from the power of his allure and love as poured was evident from his kiss. Such a simple thing a kiss is, yet potent to a degree unmatched by any other force on earth. Darcy encircled her waist, pressing her tightly to his body. Both allowed the magic of the kiss to course through their beings, the indescribable intimacy of this fundamental act of devotion bonding them.
Darcy broke away with a contented sigh, resting his forehead on hers. “My Elizabeth, how tremendously I love you. So much so that I do not wish to rush loving you.” He brushed her lips tenderly with a feathering tickle of his tongue. “Let us walk a bit, my heart, explore, and enjoy each other's company. Tonight I shall make love to you slowly, no haste whatsoever, followed by endless hours of bliss in your arms.” He withdrew, meeting her eyes with a smile; Lizzy's expression suffused with passion and clearly undecided regarding waiting. Darcy chuckled softly, bestowed a brief buss to her nose. “Anticipation is sweet, lover. Now, write a note to the Sitwells, and then we shall survey the land.”
They stopped at the lobby to obtain a general map of the town and information from the manager as to the main attractions. Darcy called for the coachman to deliver the missive to Reniswahl Hall, and then he and Lizzy set out. They walked through the immediate surrounds, highly impressed by the finely landscaped gardens so perfectly merged with the natural vegetation by the river. Enormous trees grew haphazardly, offering shade and providing the beginning carpet of autumn leaves of red and gold that padded the cobblestone pathways. An arched stone bridge spanned the narrow, placid river, Chesterfield proper looming on the far side. Ducks and swans paddled serenely across the still water.
Like all English towns of ancient ancestry, there are always the occasional stories to tell. Chesterfield was no exception, although the vast majority of the town was fairly modern and the region relatively devoid of any truly exciting history. A narrow street known as The Shambles held the claim as the oldest part of town, dating from the twelfth century. It was an area of tea houses, small exclusive shops, and a pub called the Royal Oak, which was reputedly once a resting place for the medieval Knights Templar.
The shopping district was inclusive, even boasting a small toy store that Lizzy forbid Darcy to enter. They did a bit of shopping, purchasing four baby outfits which were simply too adorable to resist. Darcy noticed the rare bookstore on the far side of the street prior to Lizzy, grasping her arm and propelling her onto the road, narrowly avoiding a pile of horse droppings in his enthusiasm. No doubt the highlight of that leg of their trip was finding a Chaucer, Thomas Paine's
Late afternoon found them before another church. Here was the one true oddity and tourist attraction of Chesterfield. The thirteenth century church, dedicated to Saint Mary and all Saints, was beautifully constructed of grey and gold bricks in the typical cruciform formation, with tall arched windows gracing the sides and above the main entrance. Both the interior and exterior was a marvel of ornate craftsmanship at its finest. However, it was the spire atop the clock tower which lent the church its uniqueness and countrywide fame. Apparently, the architects erred in their engineering and erection. The two-hundred-foot spire of wood was built perfectly and then covered with over thirty tons of stunning lead tiles in a herringbone style, a massive cross at the pinnacle. It was brilliant and surely struck awe in all who beheld it. Unfortunately, the error was in utilizing unseasoned wood, which, as it gradually dried over the centuries, had been twisted by the sheer weight of the tiles. Now, the once reportedly spectacular but standard spire, was yearly changing as it continued to spiral incrementally, creating a wonder both strange and extraordinary.
They returned to the inn as dusk was descending. Deciding to dine early so they could spend the remainder of the evening in quiet, casual solitude was Darcy's idea and was met with his wife's smiling approval. Therefore, by eight, they were reclining in their sitting room in robes, Moliere imparted in flawless resonant French to a rapt Lizzy. She sat propped against the sofa arm, her feet on her husband's lap being softly massaged while she knit a blue baby blanket. Lizzy did not understand a word, but this was inconsequential as far as she was concerned. The joy was in hearing Darcy's voice and the placid companionship engendered in these relaxed enterprises.
“I finished!” she announced with pride and relief. “How does it look?”
She held the small blanket up, Darcy reaching over to touch the edge. “It is so soft. Is this special yarn for infants?”
She nodded. “Yes. It is woven to be pliable and tender to their delicate skin. Harsh wool would be scratchy and leave a rash.”
“Oh. I did not remember that their skin was so sensitive. It makes sense, I suppose. Foals have fine hair and delicate hides initially.”
Lizzy laughed. “Well, I do not expect our child will be covered with hair nor have a hide necessarily, but his skin will be fair and very soft, like velvet.” She cocked her head. “Have you truly not seen or touched a baby, William?”
He shrugged. “I remember Georgie when she was small. Her skin was nearly translucent it was so fair. Minute veins visible and she had little hair. I recall mother bemoaning in jest how bald she was.” He smiled in memory. “Mother said I was born with a mass of dark hair, so perhaps our son will be as well.” He paused, still stroking the blanket with faraway eyes. “The blanket is beautiful, my love. You knit masterfully despite your disdain for the activity. As for the answer to your question, I have seen infants in perambulators about the park, held by parents as they stroll, that sort of thing. However, I have not, since Georgiana, actually touched nor really examined one. I confess this with trepidation as you will likely decide I am unfit to hold our child, and you would be wise to do so.” He smiled, laying one hand on her belly.
Lizzy shook her head. “You are mistaken, love. I have no fears whatsoever as to your competence as a father.” Darcy beamed, leaning forward to initiate his ritualistic conversation with his child, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
He rose with a frown, tightening his robe as he walked to the door. Lizzy observed him, always delighting in his fine figure so perfectly displayed when robed. It was a servant delivering an envelope. “It is from the Sitwells,” he declared, handing the letter to Lizzy and promptly resuming his interrupted task.
Darcy spoke French endearments, Lizzy reading Julia Sitwell's letter with a giggle. “Julia insists we visit tomorrow afternoon and stay for dinner. She even enclosed a sketch map with noted interesting sights between here and there. She says Mr. Sitwell is already chalking his cue, determined to triumph over you.”
Darcy snorted. “Highly unlikely that. Rory has never been proficient at billiards. I taught him when we were at Cambridge, but he never readily grasped the game. His hand to eye coordination is horrendous. Now, give the man a deck of cards or dice and a genius emerges. His tactic is to mellow me by gracefully losing several billiard sets then roping me into faro and emptying my money clip.” He kissed above her navel, resting his cheek on her mound. “I shall ensure I have adequate funds on hand so our host will feel vindicated. Ah, there you are my son! He was being very sedate tonight.”
“Perhaps he did not recognize your voice in French. You confused his fragile mind.” Lizzy ran her fingers through Darcy's hair, smiling at the sweet vision of her husband's head lying on her abdomen, one hand gently stroking her belly.
“Pardonnez-moi, mon petit fils, mon enfant precieux. English hereafter, until you are older. Then, alas, you must learn French, and more.” He lifted slightly, peeling Lizzy's gown upward until bare flesh was revealed. He kissed her belly again, stroking and talking quietly. “How big do you think he is? Do you recall what the book said for the sixth month?” He glanced up at Lizzy, who shook her head.
“I believe it said a little over a pound. Still so small to cause me to swell so,” she finished with a frown.
Darcy raised a brow. “Are you concerned, beloved? You should not be, as you are beautiful. This”—he kissed her belly once more—“is beautiful. It is only for a short span of time, my heart, and then you shall be thin again.”
“How can you be so certain of that, William? Women's bodies do alter dramatically after childbirth, or so I am told.”
He rose, threading his way up her body until fully over her and caressing her face. “Not always, Elizabeth. My
