Chapter Fifteen
“My dear Darcy!” Wickham’s voice carried across the Blue Drawing Room with theatrical warmth as Morrison announced their entrance. “And the lovely Mrs Darcy, how radiant you look this evening. Marriage clearly agrees with you both.”
Elizabeth felt Ambrose tense in her arms at the sound of that familiar, unwelcome voice. The child had awakened during their brief wait in the entrance hall, his sleepy confusion replaced by wariness as he recognised the man who had so recently disrupted their peace.
Mrs Younge stepped forward with an elaborate curtsy that managed to convey both deference and subtle calculation. “Indeed, what a picture of domestic felicity you present. It warms the heart to see dear little Ambrose thriving in such loving care.”
“Your concern is noted,” Mr Darcy replied with arctic politeness, positioning himself in front of his family. “But I confess myself curious about what urgent matter could require such an unexpected visit.”
Wickham’s smile widened, though it never reached his eyes. “Ah, straight to business as always. How refreshingly direct. Though perhaps we might discuss such weighty matters privately? I’m certain Mrs Darcy has other demands upon her time this evening.”
Elizabeth recognised the dismissal for what it was, an attempt to separate her from whatever scheme he had devised. “Perhaps I should see Ambrose to his room,” she said. “The day’s excitement has quite worn him out.”
“An excellent notion,” Mr Darcy agreed. “Miss Francesca will no doubt be waiting to assist with his evening routine.”
As Elizabeth made to leave, Ambrose tightened his grip around her neck. “Mama, can we please go?” he whispered. “I don’t like that man.”
“Hush, sweetheart,” she murmured against his hair. “Mr Darcy will handle everything. You shall be perfectly safe.”
When she reached the doorway, Miss Francesca materialised as if summoned by some invisible signal. “Come along, Master Ambrose,” the governess said. “Time for your bath and evening prayers.”
With her supposed excuse for departure removed, Elizabeth had little choice but to surrender the reluctant child to his governess.
She lingered in the corridor beyond the drawing room, propriety warring with curiosity about whatever proposal Wickham intended to make.
The need to understand the full extent of the threat facing their family overrode her scruples about eavesdropping.
Through the partially open door, she could observe the scene unfolding within.
Wickham had settled himself in the finest chair with the casual presumption of an invited guest, whilst Mrs Younge remained standing next to him, her posture suggesting readiness to either support his arguments or flee if circumstances demanded.
“Now then,” Wickham’s voice carried through the partially open door, his tone shifting to something more businesslike.
“I trust we can speak as gentlemen about this delicate situation. My paternal feelings toward the boy have been awakened and I find myself quite concerned about his future welfare.”
“Your paternal feelings,” Mr Darcy repeated with dangerous quiet, taking a position near the fireplace that allowed him to observe both unwelcome visitors. “How remarkably convenient that they should manifest themselves after five years of complete absence.”
“Ah, but that absence was not by choice, my dear fellow. Had I known the child survived his mother’s tragic passing, I would have claimed him immediately. Natural affection demands no less.”
Elizabeth pressed closer to the door, her pulse quickening at his words. The calculated sincerity in Wickham’s tone was masterful—he sounded like a devoted father forced by circumstance to remain separated from his beloved child.
“However,” Wickham continued, “I am not an unreasonable man. I recognise that the boy has grown attached to this household, and I should hate to cause him unnecessary distress. Perhaps we might reach an accommodation that serves everyone’s interests.”
“What manner of accommodation?” Mr Darcy’s words were clipped, controlled.
“A simple financial arrangement. Say, five hundred pounds as compensation for the years of care you have provided, and I shall relinquish all claim to the child. He may remain here at Pemberley, whilst I pursue other ventures that better suit my temperament.”
The sum mentioned was staggering—enough to maintain a gentleman in comfort for decades. Elizabeth felt her stomach turn with disgust at the naked greed behind Wickham’s supposed paternal concern.
“You seek to sell your own son?” Mr Darcy asked, his voice filled with contempt.
“Harsh words, my friend. I prefer to think of it as ensuring his continued happiness whilst providing for my own modest needs. After all, your reputation depends upon avoiding scandal, does it not? The courts can be so unpredictable in matters of custody, and the gossips remain eager for fresh material.”
The threat beneath his reasonable tone was unmistakable. Elizabeth’s hands clenched into fists as she recognised the true nature of his proposal—extortion disguised as paternal sacrifice.
“And should I refuse your generous offer?”
“Then I fear we must proceed through legal channels, though it pains me to contemplate such a course.” Wickham reached into his coat with deliberate ceremony.
“I have here the registration of my marriage to dear Eloise Phillips, properly recorded in the parish books of St. Michael’s in Yorkshire.
The law is quite clear about paternal rights, as I’m certain your solicitors have already informed you. ”
The rustle of paper accompanied his words as he produced a document with a flourish that suggested theatrical training. Elizabeth strained to see the papers from her concealed position, noting how carefully Wickham held them.
“May I examine this document?”
“Certainly, though I trust you’ll handle it with appropriate care. Parish records are so fragile, are they not?” Wickham extended the papers toward Darcy, but as soon as his host reached for them, he snatched them back with practised swiftness.
“Careful, Darcy! I said you might examine it, not attempt to retain it for detailed study. Surely a gentleman’s word regarding its authenticity should suffice between friends?”
Elizabeth observed the suspicious speed with which the supposed evidence was withdrawn. No man confident in the legitimacy of his documents would behave with such obvious evasiveness.
“Your word has proven worthless before,” Darcy replied with cutting precision. “I see no reason to grant it credence now.”
Mrs Younge’s voice interjected with syrupy concern.
“Oh, Mr Darcy, surely you can appreciate Mr Wickham’s delicate position?
He wishes only what is best for the child, yet he must also consider his own future security.
A man of your generous nature and substantial means could easily spare such a sum. ”
“I could,” Mr Darcy agreed with deliberate mildness. “Yet I choose not to.”
The silence that followed stretched taut with tension. Elizabeth could almost sense Wickham’s facade beginning to crack as he realised his manipulation had failed to achieve its desired effect.
“I see.” When Wickham spoke again, his tone had lost its veneer of geniality. “How disappointingly predictable. The great Fitzwilliam Darcy, too proud to acknowledge when he has been bested, too arrogant to recognise superior claims when they are presented.”
“I acknowledge no claim from a man who abandoned his responsibilities and now seeks to profit from them,” Mr Darcy replied with steely calm. “Nor do I recognise any authority that would compel me to negotiate with extortionists.”
“Extortion?” Wickham’s laugh held an ugly edge. “Such dramatic language. I merely seek what is rightfully mine—my son and reasonable compensation for the years of separation you have caused.”
“You seek money, nothing more. The child’s welfare has never been your concern.”
“And yours has been exemplary, I suppose?” Wickham rose from his chair, his military bearing lending menace to his words. “That cold, calculating manner of yours, that inability to show warmth? The boy craves affection that you are incapable of providing.”
Elizabeth’s admiration for her husband grew as she listened to his measured responses in the face of Wickham’s increasingly vicious attacks.
Here was a man defending not just his legal position but the welfare of a child he truly loved, refusing to be provoked despite deliberate insults to his character.
“You mistake dignity for coldness,” Mr Darcy said quietly, his composure absolute despite the provocation. “And stability for calculation. Ambrose wants for neither affection nor security in this house.”
“Pretty words from a man who married hastily to strengthen his legal position,” Wickham sneered. “Does your convenient bride know how thoroughly she has been used in this charade?”
The insult to herself barely registered beside Elizabeth’s fury at the attack on Mr Darcy. How dare this mercenary wretch question the motives of a man whose every action demonstrated care and responsibility?
“I believe this interview has concluded,” her husband said with finality. “You are no longer welcome at Pemberley, Wickham. I suggest you remember that in future.”
“Surely, Mr Darcy,” Mrs Younge said in a desperate tone, clearly realising their scheme had failed, “a gentleman of your standing and Christian charity can find it in his heart to be generous? Poor Mr Wickham asks for so little…”
The sharp sound of a bell being pulled interrupted her pleading. “Morrison,” Mr Darcy’s voice carried clearly, “please escort these persons from the premises immediately. They are not to be admitted again under any circumstances.”
“You make a grave error, Darcy,” Wickham’s words carried the venom of defeated ambition. “Some choices cannot be maintained forever, no matter how much you try. We shall meet again, I assure you.”
Elizabeth heard the rustle of clothing and footsteps as her unwelcome guests took their leave through a different door. Only when the front door closed with decisive finality did she emerge from her hiding place, her heart racing with a mixture of indignation and admiration.
Mr Darcy stood before the fireplace, one hand braced against the mantelpiece, his shoulders rigid with barely contained tension. He looked up as she approached, his expression a combination of surprise, embarrassment, and something that might have been relief.
“Mrs Darcy. I must apologise for subjecting you to such an unpleasant scene. I had hoped to spare you the details of Wickham’s latest scheme.”
“You need apologise for nothing,” she said, moving to stand beside him. “I heard enough to understand exactly what manner of man we are dealing with. Your response was everything it should have been—dignified, protective, and entirely honourable.”
Something in his posture relaxed at her words, the rigid tension leaving his shoulders. “I confess myself surprised by your reaction. Many would consider my refusal to negotiate rather inflexible.”
“Then many would be fools,” Elizabeth replied with spirit. “You protected Ambrose from a man who sees him merely as a source of profit. Your sense of duty is admirable beyond measure.”
His mouth curved in the first smile she had seen from him since the arrival of their unwanted guests. “If I had known your compliments possessed such restorative power, I might have proposed to you even sooner than I did.”
“My compliments?” she felt warmth bloom in her chest at his teasing tone. “I fear you have been more often on the receiving end of my criticism than my praise. It was most unfortunate timing on your part.”
“Then I can only hope the reverse shall be the case henceforth,” he replied, his eyes holding hers with some tenderness within. “However, I confess myself deeply concerned about Wickham’s parting words. His threats are rarely idle, and that document he produced…”
“You doubt its authenticity?”
“If it were genuine, he would have allowed proper examination rather than snatching it away like a guilty child. No, I suspect whatever marriage he claims is either fabricated entirely or obtained through fraudulent means.”
Elizabeth reached out instinctively, covering his hand with hers where it rested on the mantelpiece. The gesture seemed to startle them both with its intimacy, yet neither withdrew.
“Whatever schemes he devises, we shall face them together,” she said in a confident tone. “Ambrose has a family—a real family that will not be intimidated by the likes of George Wickham.”
They settled into chairs before the fireplace, the silence between them companionable rather than strained. The flames cast dancing shadows across their faces as they each lost themselves in contemplation of the challenges ahead.
Elizabeth studied Darcy’s profile in the flickering light, noting the determined set of his jaw and the protective energy that still marked his posture. Whatever trials awaited them, she knew with absolute certainty that this man would never abandon those under his care.