Chapter Seven
“Lizzy!” Jane’s gentle exclamation from the entrance hall below brought Elizabeth hurrying from Ambrose’s chamber, her heart lightening at the familiar sound of her dearest sister’s arrival.
She descended the stairs with unseemly haste, propriety forgotten in her relief. Jane stood in the marble foyer, still in her traveling pelisse, speaking quietly with Miss Bingley, whose expression bore the strained politeness reserved for guests one feels obligated to receive.
“I came as soon as I received your note,” Jane said, embracing Elizabeth as she spoke. “Though I confess I was surprised by your request for fresh clothing and personal items. I hope all is well?”
“I fear my stay has extended far longer than anticipated, and my limited wardrobe has proven inadequate for the circumstances,” Elizabeth replied. “I did not wish to impose further on Miss Bingley’s generosity.”
Miss Bingley’s smile appeared somewhat fixed. “Indeed, I thought it prudent that Miss Bennet should attend to such practical matters herself. Mr Bingley was most insistent that family should provide whatever support was needed.”
The woman’s emphasis on ‘practical matters’ carried a subtle note of disapproval, though whether directed at Elizabeth’s extended stay or her limited wardrobe remained unclear. Elizabeth chose to ignore the subtle censure.
“How thoughtful of you, Miss Bingley. Jane’s assistance is exactly what I require.”
Once they had gained the privacy of Elizabeth’s temporary chamber, Jane’s careful composure gave way to sisterly concern.
She settled beside Elizabeth by the window side, her blue eyes searching her sister’s face with the practiced attention of one who had nursed four younger siblings through countless ailments and anxieties.
“Tell me truthfully, Lizzy. How do you fare? Miss Bingley’s letter mentioned Ambrose’s illness, but I sense there is more troubling you.”
The gentle enquiry proved Elizabeth’s undoing. Tears she had held in check for days spilled forth as she leaned against Jane’s shoulder, drawing comfort from her sister’s steady presence.
“Oh, Jane,” she whispered, her words muffled against the soft wool of Jane’s shawl. “I cannot bear to see him suffer. When his fever was at its worst, and he called for me with such piteous weakness… I felt as though my heart might break entirely.”
Jane stroked her sister’s hair with soothing motions. “But he improves now, does he not? Children are remarkably resilient creatures.”
“Yes, thank heaven. His appetite returned yesterday, and this morning he demanded to know when he might venture outdoors again.” Elizabeth drew back, accepting Jane’s offered handkerchief. “Yet I cannot shake the dread that something else might befall him. He is so small, Jane, so vulnerable.”
“You speak as though you were his mother,” Jane observed gently.
The words struck deeper than Elizabeth had anticipated. “I know it is foolish. He has guardians, a governess, every material comfort. Yet when he looks at me with such trust, such affection… I cannot help but wish…”
“Wish what, dearest?”
“That I could protect him always. That I could ensure he never wants for love or understanding or gentle guidance.” Elizabeth twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Is that terribly presumptuous of me?”
Jane’s smile held infinite tenderness. “It speaks to the goodness of your heart. But you must remember that your attachment, however deep, does not make you responsible for his future welfare. That burden belongs to Mr Darcy.”
“And what if Mr Darcy proves unequal to the task?” The question escaped before Elizabeth could censor it, carrying all her doubts and fears.
“Whatever has given you such thoughts?”
Elizabeth hesitated, reluctant to voice the suspicions that had taken root since her conversation with Wickham. Yet the need to unburden herself overcame discretion.
“Jane, I have heard things… suggestions that Mr Darcy may not be the devoted guardian he appears. That his care of Ambrose stems from duty rather than affection, and that when duty conflicts with personal inclination… I do not particularly believe all of this to be true, but…”
“Lizzy.” Jane’s interruption was firm but gentle. “You must be exceedingly careful of listening to gossip, particularly regarding a man of Mr Darcy’s standing. Such tales are often motivated by envy or spite.”
“But what if they contain truth? What if Ambrose is merely an inconvenience he tolerates rather than a child he cherishes?”
Jane studied her sister’s agitated features with growing understanding. “These doubts arose suddenly. Someone has been speaking to you—someone with reason to cast Mr Darcy in an unfavourable light.”
Elizabeth’s silence confirmed Jane’s suspicion.
“Oh, Lizzy. Promise me you will judge the man by his actions rather than by the accusations of others. Watch how he treats the child when he believes himself unobserved. Listen to the way he speaks of Ambrose’s future.
Trust your own observations over the poison whispered by those who may have their own designs. ”
The wisdom in Jane’s counsel could not be disputed, yet Elizabeth’s unease persisted. “You are right, of course. I shall endeavour to be more circumspect in my judgements.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. At Elizabeth’s invitation, Miss Francesca appeared with Ambrose in tow, the boy dressed for outdoor activity and practically vibrating with eagerness.
“Miss Bennet, Master Ambrose has been most insistent that he is well enough for a brief walk in the garden. I thought perhaps you might accompany us to ensure he does not overtax himself.”
Ambrose darted towards Elizabeth, his earlier listlessness completely banished. “Lizzy! Miss Francesca says I may go outside if you come too. Please say yes!”
The transformation from wan invalid to exuberant child was so complete that Elizabeth laughed despite her recent tears. “Very well, but only if you promise to rest when I say you must.”
“I promise! I shall be the most obedient boy in all of England.”
The autumn afternoon proved mild and pleasant.
They established themselves on a stone bench near the rose garden, where Ambrose could run about without straying too far from supervision.
Jane settled beside Elizabeth while Miss Francesca positioned herself at a discreet distance, her eagle gaze tracking the boy’s movements.
“He seems quite recovered,” Jane observed, watching as Ambrose chased fallen leaves with determined concentration.
“Indeed. His resilience astounds me. Yesterday he could barely lift his head, and today he wishes to conquer the world.”
Ambrose’s game led him gradually closer to where they sat, until at last he abandoned the leaves entirely and flung himself against Elizabeth’s knees, his small arms wrapping around her waist with fierce affection.
“I missed you while I was sleeping,” he declared, his face pressed against her muslin skirt. “Miss Francesca read to me, but she doesn’t do the voices properly.”
“The voices?” Elizabeth enquired, smoothing his dishevelled hair.
“The dragon’s voice should be deep and rumbly, but hers sounds just like her ordinary speaking sound. It quite ruins the effect.”
Jane’s soft laughter mingled with Elizabeth’s. “That is indeed a grave fault in a storyteller.”
Ambrose studied Jane with the frank curiosity of childhood. “Are you Lizzy’s sister? You look very much alike, though your hair is fairer.”
“I am Jane, and yes, I am Lizzy’s eldest sister.”
“I should like to have a sister,” Ambrose confided. “Or a brother. Miss Francesca says some children have many brothers and sisters all living in the same house. That must be wonderfully merry.”
“It has its advantages,” Jane agreed solemnly. “Though it can also be rather noisy.”
Ambrose considered this. “I should not mind the noise. This house is often very quiet, particularly when Pap…I mean when Mr Darcy is attending to business matters.”
The wistful note in his words tugged at Elizabeth’s heartstrings. She drew him closer, settling him on the bench between herself and Jane.
“Tell me, what would you like most in all the world?”
He pondered the question with the gravity it deserved. “I should like to have a mama,” he said at last. “Not just someone to take care of me, like Miss Francesca, but a real mama who would love me specially and read stories with proper voices and not mind if I got my clothes dirty while playing.”
Elizabeth’s throat constricted. “Ambrose—”
“Could you be my mama, Lizzy?” The question tumbled out in a rush of hope and innocence. “I should love you to be my mama above all things.”
The world seemed to pause around them. Elizabeth was acutely aware of Jane’s sharp intake of breath, of Miss Francesca’s sudden stillness, of her own heart hammering against her ribs.
But most of all, she was conscious of the expectant hope shining in Ambrose’s dark eyes—so abundant and infinitely trusting.
“Oh, my dear boy,” she whispered, cupping his small face in her hands. “You honour me with such a wish, but I cannot be your mama. You see, your Papa will one day marry and then she will be your Mama.”
“Mr Darcy does not like it when I call him Papa,” he said, bottom lip protruding. “Maybe you can marry him and tell him that you will be my Mama and Papa and then he will not mind it anymore!”
So this child longed to call Mr Darcy Papa and the man refused? Wickham’s words rung again in the back of her head. Why was he so resistant to this request? Because of propriety?
Before Elizabeth could respond, a shadow fell across their little group. Mr Darcy approached from the direction of the house, his expression unreadable but his pace suggesting he had witnessed at least part of their conversation.
“Ambrose,” he said, his tone carrying a note of gentle reproof. “You must not burden Miss Bennet. She has been exceedingly kind to care for you during your illness, but you must not presume upon her goodness.”
The boy looked between Elizabeth and his guardian with puzzlement. “But why can’t she be my Mama?”
“Because Miss Bennet has her own family, her own life to consider. You cannot ask her to abandon everything for your sake, no matter how much affection exists between you.”
The practical words struck Elizabeth with such force, she almost staggered backward. She understood their wisdom—indeed, she had been struggling to express the same sentiments—yet hearing them delivered with such bluntness seemed unnecessarily harsh.
“Mr Darcy,” she began, rising from the bench with Ambrose still clinging to her hand. “Surely there is no harm in the child’s affection. He seeks only to understand his place in the world.”
“And it is precisely because I wish to spare him future pain that I must speak plainly now.” His gaze met hers, and she saw something almost like regret in those dark depths.
“You were correct to discourage his… maternal fantasies. Such attachments can only lead to disappointment when circumstances inevitably change.”
“Circumstances?” Elizabeth asked quietly. “Is that also why you do not wish him to call you Papa?”
“I am not his father, Miss Bennet. I am his guardian. These are the facts. I may adore the child and consider him family, but in the eyes of society, he will always be my ward, not my son. It is best he understands that.”
The cold logic was sound, yet Elizabeth could not accept its sharp delivery. “I understand the wisdom of managing expectations, sir. But what of love and affection?”
“I speak of practical realities. It has nothing to do with love and affection, he has care, along with everything else he needs.”
Elizabeth glanced towards Miss Francesca, who maintained her rigid posture at a distance, then back to Mr Darcy. “I do not question the quality of his physical care. Yet I cannot help but observe that he seems hungry for something beyond what duty provides.”
“You suggest I do not show him enough affection?” He sounded genuinely upset at the notion. “You presume to know my feeling and thought based on a handful of interactions we have had?”
“I presume nothing.”
“Miss Bennet,” Mr Darcy said in a measured tone, “you say that but speak with great confidence about matters of which you have limited understanding.”
“I only want what is best for Ambrose. His desire for a mother seems strong. Have you never considered that perhaps he might need more than a governess? But a true mother?” She knew it was presumptuous to ask this man if he had never considered marriage, but she could not help herself.
Mr Darcy was quiet for a long moment, his gaze moving to where Ambrose played with a handful of pebbles. “I care deeply for Ambrose, Miss Bennet. I do not require marriage to prove that. Moreover, there are complexities that make simple solutions impossible.”
Elizabeth studied his profile, noting the tension in his shoulders. “Then perhaps you might help me understand? If there are circumstances that prevent him from receiving the love he seeks, I should be grateful to know of them.”
The silence stretched between them. Mr Darcy’s hands remained clasped behind his back, and she could see the careful control he maintained over his expression.
When he finally spoke, his words were subdued. “Some matters are too delicate to discuss openly. Some wounds run too deep to be easily examined, even with the best of intentions.”
The unexpected vulnerability in his admission caught Elizabeth off guard. Her frustration melted away, replaced by something approaching sympathy. Before she could respond with the gentleness his pain seemed to warrant, he had turned and walked back towards the house with measured steps.
Ambrose looked up from his pebbles, his small brow furrowed with worry. “Lizzy, why did Mr Darcy look so sad?”
Elizabeth knelt beside him, drawing him into her arms as her mind constricted with questions she could not answer. What opinions did Mr Darcy hold that made a marital alliance for the sake of the child in his care seem imprudent? What pain had taught him such careful restraint?
And why did the glimpse of something vulnerable beneath his rigid composure make her long to offer understanding rather than judgement?