Darcy & Elizabeth by Linda Berdoll Page B

love for Elizabeth.
    Beyond the gift of an heir, the birth of his children had delivered unto him a renewed appreciation of the woman: his wife and now their mother. He had long thought of her as quite indomitable. Her spiritedness was what had first drawn him to her. He had prided himself upon being the husband to her that he believed she deserved. There was nothing that he would not do, no lengths to which he would not go, no place he would not travel, and no person he would allow to stand between him and her absolute happiness. He had drawn blood in her honour and would do so again in a heartbeat. Being her champion was what defined his manhood. When he learnt that he was away when she needed him most, it grieved him to his soul. That she managed to weather the entirety of a pregnancy and birth with little help (save for Jane catching the infants as they were expelled) was well and good. Indeed, it was all most fortunate. In his heart, however, feelings of relief and happiness conflicted with those of niggling resentment that she had, indeed, done it all without him. Hence, her enduring such an arduous birth, in a coach lumbering at top speed on the road to Pemberley, left him feeling both aggrieved on her behalf and miffed upon his own.
    These feelings remained deep within his breast, uninvestigated and largely ignored. Upon those rare occasions those thoughts attempted to invade his consciousness, he rebuked himself. He believed such selfish sentiments were unconscionable. But because they lay nameless, when those sentiments provoked strange attitudes about matters quite intimate in nature, they lay free to grow into inclinations that were most unexpected.
    As time went on and Elizabeth’s life revolved around their babies, he supposed that was only right. He began to look upon his wife and their children as his charges—to be guarded and nurtured. To do so effectively, one must observe objectivity at all costs. He was prepared to overcome any alteration that parenthood wrought upon their marriage. He feared that adjustment was inevitable. That had always been a thoroughly abstract presumption, but it was a presumption. He had not had call to apply it to his own marriage.
    The time had come, however, for it to be put to a test.
    Although it was not something that had been his constant study, his perception was that when a lover becomes a mother, even in those households where the children themselves are merely marital accoutrements, desires of the flesh often withered. He had actually heard husbands grouse that their wives found doting on their children sufficient excuse to plead abstinence from marital duties. These men either sought outside company or sat in their studies and sulked. Society not only condoned that response—it was expected regardless from which party such disinterest sprang. If he had ever truly doubted this truth, the philandering of his dear friend Bingley had solidified such a notion. Other than his own devotion to Elizabeth, he could think of no one more steadfast to his wife than Bingley. Beautiful, adoring Jane, who begat four children in five years. Bingley found consolation outside his marriage, in spite of all the affection within. That was troubling indeed.
    Not that he would ever betray Elizabeth—he would rather submit to celibacy. Yet neither was he inclined to sulk. In that he would never impose himself upon her, he found himself enduring a feeling heretofore unknown to him—uncertainty.
    In all things marital, the Darcys’ happy marriage ran against the grain. Their society frowned upon marriages formed for any reason other than to unite fortunes. Unlike those loveless matches of his peers, their union was borne of love, and fuelled by passion. Based on that anomaly, one would have good reason to suspect that their proclivities would run contrary to the norm after the birth of their children as well. But like his peers, Darcy was raised under certain canons