Chapter Thirteen
“The morning air carries such promise in this season, does it not?” Mr Darcy’s observation broke the companionable silence that had settled between them as they walked along Pemberley’s gravelled paths.
Dew still clung to the grass, catching the early sunlight like scattered jewels, while the gardens exhaled their mingled fragrances of roses and jasmine into the crisp autumn air.
Elizabeth adjusted her light shawl against the coolness, appreciating how the exercise had already begun to ease the stiffness that came from sleeping in an unfamiliar bed. “Indeed. At Longbourn, I often walked before breakfast, though our gardens are considerably more modest than these.”
“You are an early riser, then. I confess I am pleased to discover we share that inclination. There is something restorative about witnessing the day’s beginning before the world grows busy with its concerns.”
“I find that walking clears my mind. Some of my happiest memories involve exploring the countryside around Meryton, discovering hidden paths, and observing the changing seasons.”
Their conversation flowed with surprising naturalness as they continued their circuit of the grounds.
Mr Darcy proved a knowledgeable guide, pointing out architectural features and sharing anecdotes about the estate’s history.
She learned that he had spent his childhood summers exploring every corner of the Pemberley grounds and had a fondness for biological studies.
“The rose garden was my mother’s particular pride,” he said as they paused beside an ornamental lake where swans glided across the mirror-smooth surface.
“She spent hours planning the arrangements, ensuring that something would be in bloom from spring through autumn. I have maintained her design exactly as she left it.”
“What a lovely tribute to her memory,” Elizabeth replied softly. “The care shows in every detail. She must have possessed both artistic sensibility and deep knowledge of horticulture.”
“She did indeed possess such knowledge. I suspect you would have found much in common with her.” His voice carried a note of wistfulness that touched Elizabeth’s heart.
“I suspect I have much to learn from your guidance in many areas,” he continued, his tone growing more serious.
“Indeed, I must commend you on the remarkable courage you have shown in accepting the role of mother to Ambrose. It was a surprise to witness you assume such responsibilities with so little preparation. My expectations were exceeded.”
The compliment, though well-intentioned, struck Elizabeth as somewhat condescending in its careful phrasing. His words suggested that he had thought her truly incapable of taking care of the child until proven otherwise.
“I appreciate your concern,” she replied with gentle dignity, “though I confess I have never considered caring for Ambrose to be particularly challenging. He is such a delightful child that affection comes quite naturally.”
His expression shifted, revealing his recognition that he had perhaps spoken awkwardly. “That was not… I did not mean to imply… Forgive me, Miss Bennet. I seem to possess an unfortunate talent for expressing myself poorly when I most wish to convey appreciation.”
She studied his face, noting the regret in his dark eyes, and felt her mild disappointment soften into understanding. “Perhaps we both require time to learn each other’s manner of speaking. I did not take offence, I assure you.”
Before he could respond, the sound of running footsteps interrupted their exchange.
“Mr Darcy! Lizzy!” Ambrose’s joyful cry preceded his appearance around a bend in the path, his small legs pumping furiously as he raced towards them with Miss Francesca following at a more sedate pace behind.
“Master Ambrose!” the governess called with evident exasperation. “You must not run ahead so carelessly!”
The boy paid no heed to her admonishment, his attention focused entirely on reaching his beloved guardians. In his enthusiasm, however, his foot caught on an uneven stone, sending him tumbling forward with a cry of alarm.
Both Elizabeth and Darcy moved instinctively, dropping to their knees simultaneously to catch the falling child. Their hands met as they reached to steady him, fingers intertwining briefly before they lifted Ambrose together, ensuring he remained upright despite his stumble.
“There now,” Elizabeth soothed, brushing dirt from his jacket while Mr Darcy checked for any signs of injury. “No harm done, dear. But you must listen to Miss Francesca about running on uneven ground.”
Ambrose giggled at his narrow escape, seemingly delighted by the adventure rather than chastened by it. “I wanted to catch up with you! Miss Francesca walks too slowly, and I saw you by the water.”
“We were not going anywhere urgent,” Mr Darcy assured him, with a particular gentleness he reserved for the child. “There was no need for such haste.”
Elizabeth became acutely aware that her hand still rested beneath Mr Darcy’s where they both supported Ambrose’s small shoulders.
The warmth of his touch sent an unexpected flutter through her chest, while the sight of their joined efforts to care for the boy created an intimacy she had not anticipated.
“The subject of Ambrose,” he said quietly, his gaze meeting hers over the child’s head, “is one matter on which we seem to find ourselves in complete accord. His welfare comes first, always.”
“Always,” Elizabeth said in agreement. They both cared deeply for the little boy and that was enough reason for them to set their differences aside.
She glanced down at Ambrose with sudden inspiration.
“Speaking of which, there is something I have been considering. Now that we are properly married and truly a family, perhaps it would be appropriate for Ambrose to address us as any child would his parents.”
Ambrose’s eyes widened with excitement. “You mean I could call you Mama?”
“If you wish it,” Elizabeth said gently. “And you may call Mr Darcy Papa as well.”
Mr Darcy nodded in agreement. “Elizabeth is quite right—we are a proper family now, and families have proper names for one another.”
“Oh yes!” Ambrose exclaimed, bouncing with delight. “Mama and Papa! I have wanted this for so long!”
Elizabeth caught Darcy’s eye over the boy’s head, noting his approval of her suggestion.
Beyond the obvious pleasure it would bring Ambrose, such formal acknowledgment of their family structure could only strengthen their position in legal matters.
Surely, courts would find it harder to separate a child from parents he addressed with such natural affection.
Their moment of understanding was interrupted by Miss Francesca’s arrival, the governess slightly breathless from her pursuit but maintaining her dignified bearing despite the exertion.
“I do apologise, sir, madam,” she said with a curtsy. “Master Ambrose was most eager to join your walk, but I thought it best not to disturb your private conversation.”
“Quite right,” he replied, though he made no move to send the child away. “Perhaps Ambrose might walk with us for a short while before returning to his lessons?”
The boy’s face lit up with delight at this unexpected reprieve, while Miss Francesca inclined her head in acceptance of her employer’s wishes.
Their return to the house proved more leisurely, with Ambrose chattering about the various sights they encountered and asking endless questions about the swans, the gardeners’ work, and the history of every statue and folly they passed.
As they approached the house, a footman emerged with evident urgency, carrying a silver salver bearing correspondence. “A letter has arrived for you, sir,” he announced. “The messenger indicated it required immediate attention.”
Mr Darcy’s expression grew grave as he recognised the hand that had penned his direction. He broke the seal with swift efficiency, his jaw tightening as he read the contents.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked, alarmed by the sudden change in his demeanour.
Without a word, he handed her the letter. The contents proved as disturbing as his reaction had suggested:
Darcy,
Your hasty marriage fools no one who knows your character. It is clear you have recognised your own inadequacy as a guardian and sought to remedy it through desperate means. Yet no amount of feminine influence can disguise the truth: you are unfit to raise my son.
The boy deserves better than a cold, proud guardian who can never be more than a substitute for what he truly needs—his real father. Your recent bride may provide temporary comfort, but she cannot replace the bond between a father and son.
The child craves the connection that only I can provide, yet you selfishly deny him that birthright. No amount of wealth or grand houses can compensate for keeping a boy from his natural parent.
I will have justice, and I will have my son.
George Wickham
Elizabeth’s hands trembled slightly as she folded the offensive missive. “The audacity of the man,” she breathed, her indignation on behalf of both Mr Darcy and Ambrose evident in her voice. “How dare he make such accusations when he abandoned all responsibility years ago?”
“His words matter little,” Mr Darcy said with forced calm, though she could see the tension in his bearing. “What concerns me is his growing boldness. This suggests he believes his legal position has strengthened.”
Miss Francesca, who had been listening with obvious distress, cleared her throat delicately. “Perhaps Master Ambrose should return to his lessons now?”
Elizabeth looked down at the boy, who had been following their conversation with the instinctive anxiety children feel when adults grow troubled. “Yes, that would be best. Come, sweetheart, show me where you practice your letters before you go to Miss Francesca.”
After seeing Ambrose settled with his governess, Elizabeth returned to find Mr Darcy pacing the library with restless energy. “What will you do?” she asked without preamble.