Chapter Nine
A day later
Laughter drifted up from the garden, drawing Darcy to the drawing room window where he could observe the scene below.
Miss Bennet knelt on a patch of cloth spread upon the soft grass, her pale blue muslin gown spread around her like flower petals, while Ambrose attempted to teach her some intricate game involving wooden blocks and a great deal of dramatic storytelling.
Georgiana sat nearby with her needlework forgotten as she watched the proceedings with obvious delight.
“No, no, Lizzy!” Ambrose declared with the authority of a five-year-old expert. “The dragon must roar properly, or the knight won’t know to be brave. Listen—” He demonstrated with such enthusiasm that his voice cracked, sending all three into fresh peals of amusement.
Miss Francesca stood at her customary distance, her posture rigid in its usual manner. Yet even she could not entirely suppress the softening around her stern mouth as she noticed her charge’s excitement.
Darcy leaned against the window frame, surprised by the warmth that spread through his chest.
When had such unguarded joy become commonplace in his presence? Ambrose had always been a cheerful child, quick to smile and delight in simple pleasures, yet there was something different now in the quality of his laughter.
The boy’s happiness had often seemed carefully modulated under Miss Francesca’s watchful eye, his natural exuberance tempered by endless reminders of what constituted proper behaviour for a young gentleman.
It was the same way Darcy himself had been raised, but perhaps the same methods could not be applied to every child.
Now Ambrose’s mirth rang out freely, unrestrained by concerns that his joy might be deemed too boisterous or unseemly. Miss Bennet had somehow permitted him to be wholly himself, regardless of the governess’s continued presence and occasional disapproval.
Miss Bennet was, without question, the most vexing woman of his acquaintance.
She challenged Darcy’s opinions with alarming frequency, possessed an independence of mind that bordered on impertinence, and showed not the slightest deference to his superior station.
Yet watching her now—her bonnet askew, her skirts speckled with grass, her entire being focused on bringing joy to a lonely child—he could not deny her singular appeal.
Intelligence sparkled in her dark eyes when she debated literary merit or social justice.
Wit sharpened her responses when confronted with pompous assertions.
Most remarkably, undisguised tenderness softened her entire countenance whenever Ambrose approached.
She possessed that rarest of qualities: the ability to see past society’s prescribed roles to the individual within.
The gentleman who eventually secured her affections would indeed be fortunate.
She would not be a wife content with morning visits and evening entertainments.
She would challenge, inspire, occasionally infuriate—and love with a fierce protectiveness that would make her children the most blessed creatures in England.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of a footman bearing correspondence. The silver salver held several items, but one envelope commanded immediate attention by virtue of its ominous black wax seal. Darcy’s stomach clenched as he recognised his solicitor’s emergency marking.
“Sir,” the servant said, “this arrived by express rider. Mr Oswald indicated it required your immediate attention.”
Darcy dismissed the man with a curt nod, though his hands remained steady as he broke the seal. Years of managing estate crises had taught him to maintain outward composure regardless of inner turmoil.
Mr Darcy,
I write to inform you of a most distressing development. Mr George Wickham has retained the services of a solicitor. They may soon petition the courts to recognise Mr Wickham’s paternal rights regarding Master Ambrose.
The documentation they claim to possess appears substantial, though I have not yet been permitted to examine it personally. They assert that Mr Wickham was legally wed to one Miss Eloise Phillips before her child’s birth, making him the rightful father under common law.
I must advise you that if their claims prove true, the courts will almost certainly award custody to Mr Wickham regardless of other considerations. A father’s rights supersede all other claims, save in cases of proven criminal behaviour or complete incapacity.
I shall, of course, challenge their assertions with every resource at my disposal. However, I feel obligated to prepare you for the possibility of an unfavourable outcome.
Your servant,
James Oswald, Esq.
The letter fell from Darcy’s nerveless fingers as rage flooded his senses. That dissolute man would not be satisfied with the financial ruin he had attempted to bring upon the Darcy name. Now he meant to destroy an innocent child’s happiness for no better reason than petty revenge.
Wickham knew—must know—that he possessed neither the means nor the inclination to properly care for a young boy. His military salary barely covered his gambling debts and dissolute habits. What future could he offer Ambrose beyond neglect and eventual abandonment when the novelty wore thin?
The calculation behind this move was as obvious as it was despicable.
Wickham cared nothing for the child himself; Ambrose was merely a weapon to be wielded against the man he blamed for his failures.
The boy’s welfare, his happiness, his very safety—all were expendable in service of Wickham’s spite.
A second letter bore his aunt’s familiar crimson seal. Darcy almost set it aside, having little appetite for Lady Catherine’s pronouncements, but years of ingrained duty compelled him to break the wax.
Nephew,
Word has reached me of your continued harbouring of that unfortunate child. I write not to repeat my previous objections, which you have seen fit to ignore, but to point out the inevitable consequences of your misguided charity.
A bachelor establishment is no place to raise a child, particularly one of questionable parentage.
The boy requires proper guidance, discipline, and most importantly, legitimate family connections.
By clinging to this inappropriate arrangement, you deny him the chance of proper placement with a respectable family.
Moreover, your association with this affair grows increasingly damaging to the Darcy name. Society talks, Fitzwilliam. They whisper of mysterious children and your peculiar devotion to domestic arrangements better left to married men.
I urge you, nay, I demand that you cease this folly at once.
Relinquish the child to the appropriate authorities and turn your attention to securing your own legacy through marriage to my daughter Anne.
Such an alliance would silence all gossip while ensuring the continuation of our noble bloodlines.
Your aunt,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Darcy crushed the letter in his fist, his jaw clenched against the bitter words that rose in his throat.
How typical of his aunt to view human affection as misplaced sentiment and a child’s welfare as secondary to social appearances.
This was one of many letters she had written to him over the years, since she learned that Ambrose was under his care.
That she would advocate revoking his guardianship of the boy revealed the true coldness of her supposedly superior breeding.
The sound of approaching footsteps made him smooth his features into bland composure. Bingley appeared in the doorway, his usually cheerful countenance marked by concern.
“Darcy? I saw the express rider depart and thought… forgive me, but you appear rather grim. Has something occurred?”
Without a word, Darcy handed his friend the solicitor’s letter. Bingley’s face grew progressively more troubled as he read, his lips moving silently over the most damning passages.
“Good God,” he breathed finally. “Wickham truly means to take Ambrose through the courts?”
“So it appears. My solicitor believes his case may have merit, particularly if he can produce legitimate marriage documentation.”
“But surely the man’s character must weigh against him? His debts, his dissolute habits—”
“Mean nothing against the legal right of a father.” Darcy’s laugh held no humour. “British law cares little for moral fitness when paternal claims are involved.”
Bingley sank into the nearest chair, his naturally optimistic nature clearly struggling with such harsh realities. “There must be something to be done. Some way to protect the boy from such a fate.”
“My solicitor suggests…” Darcy hesitated, the words suddenly difficult to voice. “He believes my case would be strengthened considerably if I could demonstrate greater stability in my household arrangements.”
“Stability?”
“A wife, Bingley. A proper family structure that would counter Wickham’s claims of an unsuitable bachelor establishment.”
Bingley’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You have resisted matrimony for some years now. What has changed your thinking?”
The question struck deeper than his friend could know. Darcy turned back towards the window, his jaw working as he considered how much to reveal. “Perhaps I have been overly cautious in matters of the heart.”
“Cautious?”
“When one has lost both parents before reaching thirty, the prospect of forming new attachments carries a certain trepidation.” The admission came almost reluctantly. “It becomes easier to maintain distance than risk enduring such loss again.”
The silence that followed was an understanding one. Bingley had known him long enough to comprehend the weight of such a confession.
“Yet now,” Darcy continued, his gaze finding Ambrose’s small figure below, “I realise that avoiding attachment has not spared me from caring deeply. If anything, it has made me more vulnerable, not less. I cannot protect Ambrose through emotional distance—indeed, such reserve may be precisely what threatens our future together.”
The legal implications were stark and undeniable.
A married man with an established household would present a far more compelling argument to the courts than a bachelor, however wealthy or well-connected.
The law favoured traditional family arrangements, viewing them as inherently more suitable for child-rearing than even the most well-intentioned guardian acting alone.
Moreover, a wife would provide something Darcy could not offer on his own—a maternal presence that even the most prejudiced magistrate would have to acknowledge as beneficial to Ambrose’s development.
The courts might dismiss his devotion as mere bachelor sentiment, but they could hardly argue against the civilising influence of a proper wife and mother.
“Ah. And have you perhaps considered any particular lady for such a role?”
The question hung between them, loaded with implications Darcy was not yet prepared to examine. His gaze drifted towards the window where Miss Bennet’s voice could still be heard, now leading Ambrose and Georgiana in what sounded suspiciously like an impromptu singing lesson.
“I have considered,” he said carefully, “that a marriage of convenience might serve multiple purposes. The right woman could provide Ambrose with the maternal influence he craves while strengthening my legal position against Wickham’s claims.”
“A marriage of convenience.” Bingley’s tone suggested he found the phrase amusing. “And this hypothetical wife—would she need to possess any particular qualities? Beyond the obvious legal advantages, I mean.”
Darcy was quiet for a long moment, listening to Miss Bennet’s clear soprano guiding the little boy through what might have been a nursery rhyme. When he spoke again, his words came slowly, as though he were discovering their truth as he voiced them.
“She would need to care for Ambrose’s welfare. Not merely tolerate his presence, but actively seek his happiness and development. She would need intelligence enough to be a true companion, strength enough to weather the social scrutiny such a battle would inevitably bring.”
“Quite specific requirements,” Bingley noted.
“And,” Darcy continued, “she would need to possess the courage to stand against those who would sacrifice a child’s welfare for the sake of legal technicalities or social propriety.”
The singing below had given way to Ambrose’s delighted exclamations as Miss Bennet apparently agreed to some new adventure. Darcy could picture her face—animated with shared enthusiasm, unconsciously beautiful in her complete focus on the boy’s happiness.
“It sounds,” Bingley said quietly, “as though you have someone quite specific in mind.”
Darcy turned from the window to meet his friend’s knowing gaze.
The truth sat between them, unspoken but understood.
Elizabeth Bennet possessed every quality he had described and more.
She had already proven her devotion to Ambrose’s welfare, her willingness to challenge authority when principles were at stake, her capacity for fierce protectiveness when those she loved were threatened.
But could he ask such a thing of her? Could he propose a marriage based on legal necessity rather than mutual affection, knowing she deserved so much more than a union of convenience?
“The situation is complicated,” he said finally.
“The best situations usually are.” Bingley rose, clapping his friend on the shoulder with characteristic optimism. “But I have observed that when the stakes are highest, people often discover reserves of courage they never knew they possessed.”
As his friend departed, Darcy remained at the window, watching Elizabeth point out different blooms in a flower bed while Ambrose listened with rapt attention.
The trust in the boy’s posture as he leaned against her, the maternal tenderness of her guiding touch—it painted a picture of devotion that made his chest tighten with longing.
Could he dare hope that duty and inclination might, for once, align? That the woman who had already claimed his admiration might also prove to be Ambrose’s salvation?
The possibility hung before him like a prayer he hardly dared voice, even to himself.