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“Mrs. Bingley, listen to me.”

Jane opened her eyes and turned toward the midwife. Elizabeth heard the instruction, saw her sister nod, and understood that the work of bringing this child into the world still lay before them.

Her own hands had grown so accustomed to opposing the pressure that she scarcely knew how to hold them without it. She folded the loose thread into the scrap upon her lap with her right hand. The spare length remained untouched beside it. She put both into the workbag and returned her right hand to the edge of the bed.

Reynolds looked toward her.

Elizabeth gave one small nod.

The housekeeper’s lips parted. She did not ask her question in front of Jane. Mrs. Talbot required her assistance, and she turned at once to provide it.

Elizabeth stayed beside her sister.

There was no sudden ease in Jane’s labour. She was tired, and the pains still frightened her. Once she shook her head when the midwife spoke, as though she could not bear being asked to do anything more.

“I cannot,” she said.

Mrs. Talbot answered with a firmness Elizabeth was grateful for. She neither scolded nor pretended not to have heard. She told Jane what was needed now, without asking her to imagine everything which might follow.

Elizabeth held her hand.

“Stay with me, Lizzy.”

“I shall.”

She wanted to tell Jane that something dreadful had ended. She could not tell her what it had been.

Reynolds brought water when Jane asked for it. Elizabeth let her. When the midwife needed more room, Elizabeth moved her chair back and rose beside the bed, keeping Jane’s hand only as long as it did not hinder what Mrs. Talbot must do.

She took her sister’s hand again as soon as there was room. The cold did not return. Jane caught her hand hard, and Elizabeth welcomed the familiar pressure of living fingers. She could bear that. She would have borne far more for the right to stand there and feel Jane holding fast.

Time ceased to arrange itself into anything she could measure. There was the midwife’s voice, Reynolds beside her, Jane’s hand, and the next thing required. Once Elizabeth looked at the window because she had promised her sister she would tell her when morning came. The panes still reflected the candles.

She looked again later and saw a faint difference at the edges of the glass.

“Jane,” she said. “There is a little light.”

Her sister turned her face toward her.

“Morning?”

“Yes.”

Jane closed her eyes, and the next pain took her attention before she could answer.

Elizabeth kept hold of her hand.

When the child’s cry came, she did not understand it at first.

She had listened for so long to the quieter sounds of the room that this small, indignant voice seemed to belong to somebody who had arrived without warning. Then Mrs. Talbot spoke, and Elizabeth looked toward her.

“A son, Mrs. Bingley.”

Jane’s hand tightened.

“A boy?”

“A fine boy.”