Chapter Eight
The sound of china clinking against silver spoons filled Netherfield’s drawing room as servants arranged the final touches for Bingley’s impromptu tea party.
Darcy stood near the mantelpiece, watching Ambrose dart between the assembled guests with renewed vigour, his recent illness now but a memory.
The child’s laughter rang clear as he chased a butterfly that had somehow found its way indoors, his small boots pattering across the Persian carpet.
“Such a relief to see the boy so well,” Bingley remarked, approaching with a cup of tea. “I confess, I was quite concerned when he took ill.”
Darcy nodded, though his attention remained fixed upon Ambrose. “Indeed. He has recovered admirably.”
Yet even as he spoke the words, Elizabeth Bennet’s sentiment echoed in his memory: Why had he not got married so he could have some support in raising Ambrose?
The question unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Was he truly providing all that the boy required?
Miss Bennet had perceived something he had been too proud to acknowledge.
Perhaps aspects of his personality had created an unwitting emotional distance.
Miss Francesca’s approach was undeniably strict.
The woman possessed excellent credentials and had come highly recommended, yet Darcy could not recall ever seeing her embrace the little boy or offer the sort of tender comfort that seemed to come so naturally to Miss Bennet.
When Ambrose had nightmares, it was Miss Francesca who administered firm lectures about courage and propriety, not gentle reassurances and soothing words.
On the other hand, Miss Bennet had been instrumental in the boy’s recovery, sitting by his bedside when fever rendered him restless and coaxing him to take his medicine with gentle persistence.
His gaze drifted across the room to where Miss Bennet sat conversing with her sister.
She had changed from her walking dress into a gown of pale green muslin that complemented her dark hair beautifully.
The sunlight streaming through the windows caught the auburn highlights in her curls, and when she laughed at something Jane Bennet said, her entire countenance seemed to glow with warmth.
What manner of mother might she prove to be?
The thought arrived unbidden, and Darcy found himself considering it with surprising seriousness.
She possessed both the intelligence to guide a child’s education and the warmth to nurture his spirit.
She did not merely correct Ambrose’s behaviour; she understood it, responding with patience rather than stern reproof.
But such musings were folly. Miss Bennet was hardly the sort of woman his aunt would approve of, nor did she possess the connections and fortune that would make such an alliance advantageous.
He was master of Pemberley, with duties and expectations that extended far beyond his personal inclinations.
And yet, as he observed her gentle smile when Ambrose approached to show her a flower he had plucked from the arrangement, Darcy could not entirely dismiss the image of her presiding over Pemberley’s breakfast table, or walking through its gardens with a child’s hand clasped in her own.
She was a vivacious woman, unlike anyone he had ever seen, and Darcy could not deny that she possessed qualities far more valuable than a large dowry.
“You seem unusually contemplative today,” Bingley noted. “I trust Ambrose’s recovery has eased your worries?”
“Indeed. Though I confess the experience has given me cause for reflection.”
“Oh? In what regard?”
Darcy hesitated, reluctant to voice doubts that might be interpreted as weakness. “I begin to wonder whether a bachelor household is truly the ideal environment for a growing child.”
Bingley’s eyebrows rose with interest. “You speak as though you’re considering taking a wife.”
“I speak merely of theoretical considerations,” Darcy replied. “A child requires more than material provision and proper education. There are emotional needs that perhaps I have been too quick to dismiss as frivolous sentiment.”
His friend’s knowing smile suggested he was not deceived by such careful phrasing. “And I suppose these theoretical considerations have nothing whatsoever to do with a certain young lady who has demonstrated remarkable devotion to Ambrose’s welfare?”
Before Darcy could formulate a suitable denial, he noticed her sitting alone near the window, Jane Bennet having been drawn into conversation with Miss Hurst. Something in her posture—the slight droop of her shoulders, the way she gazed out at the gardens—suggested melancholy thoughts.
“Excuse me, Bingley,” he murmured, crossing the room with measured steps.
“Miss Bennet,” he said as he approached. “You appear lost in contemplation. I hope the afternoon’s events have not distressed you overmuch.”
She looked up with a start, then offered a guarded smile. “Mr Darcy. I was merely reflecting upon various matters. Nothing that need concern you.”
“Nevertheless, I should like to apologise for my earlier harsh words. You have shown Ambrose nothing but kindness, and I had no right to speak so curtly regarding your observations about his care.”
She studied his countenance with those speculating brown eyes that seemed to see far too much. “You need not apologise for protecting him from unrealistic expectations. I am aware my presence in your lives is temporary.”
Something in her tone—a note of resignation that sat ill with her usual spirited manner—prompted him to settle into the chair beside her. “Perhaps we might speak more civilly on the subject now that tempers have cooled.”
“Certainly, if you wish it.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The sounds of genteel conversation filled the space between them, punctuated by Ambrose’s delighted laughter as Miss Bingley showed him some trinket.
“You asked several questions the other day,” Darcy said finally, his voice low enough that their conversation would not be overheard. “I’ll answer the part about my care of Ambrose. It is not a subject I discuss readily, but you have earned the right to understand his circumstances.”
Her attention sharpened. “Only if you feel comfortable sharing such personal matters.”
“Ambrose came to me when he was barely one year old. His mother had died in childbirth, and there was no one else suitable to care for him.”
“The poor boy. To lose his mother so young.”
“His father was a man I once considered a friend—indeed, practically a brother of sorts. We grew up together on my father’s estate. George Wickham was the son of my father’s steward, a man of excellent character who served our family faithfully for many years.”
At the mention of the name, Miss Bennet’s sharp intake of breath was audible. Her hand flew to her throat, and she repeated the name in a whisper that sounded almost stricken.
“Wickham?”
The alarm in her expression puzzled him. “You recognise the name?”
Before she could respond, a sudden commotion erupted from the direction of the garden doors. Miss Bingley’s voice rose in distress, her usual composure shattered by panic.
“Stop! Come back this instant! You cannot simply—oh, dear heaven!”
The sound was followed by a frightened cry that sent ice through Darcy’s veins, a sound of pure terror that no child should ever make. Ambrose’s voice, high and desperate, calling out in fear.
He was on his feet instantly, Miss Bennet beside him as they rushed towards the source of the disturbance. Through the open doors, they could see a man striding rapidly across the lawn with determined purpose, a small struggling form clutched against his chest.
Ambrose.
“Stop!” Darcy’s command rang out as he sprinted from the house, Bingley and others close behind. The stranger’s head turned at the shout, revealing features that made Darcy’s blood run cold.
George Wickham.
“Mr Darcy, help me!” Ambrose’s cries spurred Darcy to greater speed. The boy was fighting desperately against his captor’s grip, small fists beating uselessly against the man’s coat.
Wickham had nearly reached the line of trees that bordered the property when Bingley, younger and fleeter than his friend, managed to intercept him. The collision sent both men tumbling to the ground, Ambrose rolling free with a cry filled with more terror than pain.
Darcy reached him first, dropping to his knees and gathering the sobbing boy into his arms with hands that shook from reaction and relief.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered fiercely against Ambrose’s hair, feeling the rapid flutter of the child’s heart against his chest. “You’re safe. I’m here.”
Bingley and another gentleman helped restrain the struggling Wickham, keeping the furious man pinned despite his attempts to rise. Miss Bennet arrived moments later, her gown mud-stained from her hasty pursuit across the grounds.
“Oh sweet darling,” she gasped, reaching for the boy who immediately stretched his arms towards her. Darcy transferred the child without hesitation, noting how quickly Ambrose’s sobs diminished once he was nestled against her shoulder.
“Unhand me!” Wickham demanded, though he had ceased struggling against Bingley’s surprisingly firm grip. “I have every right to my son!”
“Your son?” Darcy’s voice was deadly quiet. “You have no claim to this child, Wickham. None whatsoever. You left his mother behind in her condition, abandoned her and him. You have no rights by any law.”
“Don’t I?” Wickham’s smile held a familiar edge of cunning malice. “I think you’ll discover otherwise once my solicitor contacts yours. I was married to Eloise Phillips, Darcy. Married before the boy was born. That makes him mine by law.”
The words shook Darcy. “Impossible. You abandoned both mother and child, despite being told about her condition.”
“Told by whom?” Wickham’s laugh was harsh.
“By you? By your family? I was serving His Majesty overseas when Eloise gave birth. When I returned, I was informed that both mother and child had perished. It was only recently that I learned the truth—that you had taken my son and raised him as your ward while allowing me to believe he was dead.”
Ambrose lifted his head from Bennet’s shoulder, his young features twisted with confusion and fear. “Who is this man, Mr Darcy? Why does he say I’m his son?”
“I am your father, boy! Your real father! This man has been lying to you, keeping us apart—”
“Enough!” Darcy’s command silenced him. “You will not speak to the child. You have no access to anything or anyone under my protection, Wickham.”
“We shall see about that,” Wickham replied, straightening his coat with affected nonchalance. “My solicitor will be in contact within the week. I suggest you prepare yourself, old friend. I mean to have what is mine, one way or another.”
With that ominous promise, he strode away towards the drive where a hired horse waited. The small group stood in stunned silence until the sound of hoofbeats faded into the distance.
Ambrose had begun crying again, clinging to Miss Bennet with desperate intensity. “I don’t want to go with that man, Lizzie. He frightened me. He said Mr Darcy was lying, but Mr Darcy never lies.”
Miss Bennet’s gaze met Darcy’s over the child’s head, and he saw his own anguish reflected in her eyes. How could they explain such adult complications to a five-year-old who had already endured so much upheaval?
“Come,” he said gently, reaching out to stroke Ambrose’s hair. “Let us return to the house. You’re safe now, and that is all that matters.”
The walk back seemed interminable. Miss Bingley met them at the door with profuse apologies for her inattention, but Darcy barely heard her words. His mind was reeling with the implications of Wickham’s claims and the legal nightmare that likely awaited them.
Once they had settled in the drawing room—the other guests having been quietly dismissed—Miss Bennet continued to hold Ambrose while Darcy paced before the fireplace.
The child had grown calmer but remained unusually subdued, occasionally asking whispered questions that Miss Bennet answered with soothing murmurs.
“Tell me truthfully,” Miss Bennet said once Ambrose had dozed against her shoulder, “what manner of man is this Wickham? Can his claims hold legal weight?”
Darcy’s jaw clenched as he considered how much to reveal.
“George Wickham is a scoundrel of the highest order. Charming, persuasive, and utterly without conscience. My father left him a living worth a thousand pounds, which he rejected in favour of an immediate payment of three thousand. Within two years, he had gambled away every penny and returned demanding the living he had previously spurned.”
“And you refused him?”
“Naturally. He had forfeited any right to my father’s beneficence through his own dissolute conduct.”
Her expression grew troubled. “Yet if he was indeed married to Ambrose’s mother…”
“Then God help us all,” Darcy finished grimly, “for that man is utterly unfit to raise a child. When his associate brought the child to me, she mentioned nothing of marriage. She told me there was none other, no family. That is why we took him in. And I do not believe his declaration that he did not know about him. He has always been a liar. His interest in Ambrose stems not from paternal affection but from spite—a desire to wound me through the one person I…” he stopped abruptly, unwilling to complete the thought.
But she seemed to understand regardless. Her arms tightened protectively around the sleeping child as she gazed up at him with newfound comprehension.
“He wishes to hurt you by taking away the person you love most.”
The simple statement hung between them, carrying implications that neither was quite prepared to examine too closely.
At least she had at last let go of her assumption that he did not care for the boy sufficiently.
Had Wickham perhaps told her lies which had led her to think so?
She had known the name when first he spoke it, after all.
Darcy could only nod, his throat too tight for words, as he contemplated the very real possibility of losing the boy who had become the centre of his world.