Chapter Seventeen
“Papa, why must we go to London when everything nice is at Pemberley?” Ambrose’s plaintive question echoed in the carriage as familiar countryside gave way to increasingly crowded roads leading toward the capital.
His small face pressed against the window, watching the landscape transform from rolling hills to cramped buildings and smoking chimneys. The boy’s instinctive reluctance to leave their peaceful sanctuary only heightened the tension that had gripped both adults since they departed Derbyshire.
“Business sometimes requires our presence in town,” Darcy replied with careful impartiality. “We shall not remain longer than necessary.”
The Darcy townhouse in Grosvenor Square commanded respect even among London’s most fashionable addresses.
Its elegant Georgian facade spoke of generations of wealth and refinement, whilst the perfectly maintained entrance suggested a household run with military precision.
Yet as their carriage drew to a halt before the imposing front door, such grandeur provided little comfort to the family within.
“It’s very grand, isn’t it?” Ambrose observed with the matter-of-fact acceptance children displayed toward adult mysteries. “Though I still prefer Pemberley. The peacocks will miss me.”
His innocent comment struck straight to the heart of their predicament. Within days, he might be torn from everything familiar and thrust into an uncertain world with a father who remained essentially a stranger. The thought made Elizabeth’s stomach clench with protective fury.
The townhouse’s interior proved as magnificent as its exterior promised. Marble floors gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, whilst priceless artwork adorned walls covered in silk damask.
“Your chambers have been prepared, Mrs Darcy,” the London housekeeper informed them with crisp efficiency. “Master Ambrose’s nursery adjoins your apartments, as Mr Darcy requested.”
The subtle acknowledgement that they might need to comfort a distressed child at a moment’s notice was not lost on her. Every aspect of their London arrangements had been designed around the looming crisis, from the proximity of their rooms to the early scheduling of appointments with solicitors.
That evening, she and Darcy worked together to settle Ambrose for the night, their cooperation masked by cheerful conversation about a future planned excursion to Astley’s Amphitheatre.
The boy’s excitement over seeing the famous equestrian performances helped distract from the tension that radiated from both adults.
“Will you tell me a story, Mama?” he requested as she tucked the blankets around his small form. “One about brave knights who always win their battles?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” She smoothed his dark hair, noting how it curled in a manner that oddly reminded her of Darcy. “Once upon a time, there was a knight who protected a young prince from a terrible dragon…”
As her voice wove the familiar tale of good triumphing over evil, she caught sight of Darcy standing in the doorway.
His expression held such tender pain that she had to look away before her composure cracked entirely.
They were spinning pretty stories whilst real dragons circled ever closer to their door.
Hours later, sleep proved as elusive as she had feared. Every creak of the unfamiliar house made her start, whilst her mind conjured increasingly vivid scenarios of tomorrow’s hearing going disastrously wrong. When exhaustion finally claimed her, the dreams that came were worse than wakefulness.
In her nightmare, she stood helpless in a courtroom whilst Wickham led a weeping Ambrose away.
The boy’s desperate cries for his mama echoed in her ears as she struggled against invisible bonds that prevented her from reaching him.
She called his name until her throat was raw, but he grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared entirely into darkness.
She woke with a strangled sob, her nightgown damp with perspiration and her heart racing as though she had been physically fighting for the child’s life. The guest chamber felt alien and oppressive, its unfamiliar shadows offering no comfort.
Unable to bear the confinement of her room a moment longer, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and ventured into the corridor. Perhaps a cup of tea and some time to compose herself would banish the lingering terror of her dreams.
The drawing room glowed with the warm light of a dying fire, and she was surprised to discover Darcy ensconced in a leather armchair with a book in his lap. He looked up as she hesitated in the doorway, his own sleeplessness evident in the weary lines around his eyes.
“I did not expect to encounter another wakeful soul at this hour,” she murmured, not wishing to disturb the house’s slumber.
“Sleep has proven remarkably elusive,” he replied, setting aside his book. “I trust you are not unwell?”
“No, merely restless.” She moved toward the fireplace, drawn by its comforting warmth. “I confess my dreams have been rather troubled of late.”
He rose immediately, his concern evident. “Come, sit by the fire. You look quite pale.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undid her carefully maintained composure. She sank gratefully into the chair he indicated, pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as tremors that had nothing to do with cold coursed through her frame.
“Would you care to speak of what troubles your rest?” he asked gently, settling in the chair opposite hers. “Sometimes sharing such burdens lessens their power over us.”
“I dreamed that we lost him,” she whispered, the words scraping raw in her throat. “That the court ruled against us and I had to watch Wickham take him away whilst I could do nothing to stop it.”
The anguish in her admission seemed to break something loose within him. Without hesitation, he moved to kneel beside her chair, taking her trembling hands in his steady ones.
“Listen to me,” he said with quiet intensity. “Whatever the outcome is, we shall face it together. I will not allow that man to harm Ambrose, no matter what any court may decree.”
“But if the law—”
“The law is not infallible, nor is it the final arbiter of what is right. I have resources, connections, and alternatives that Wickham cannot imagine. We will keep trying, no matter what the judgement is.”
The fierce protectiveness in his declaration comforted her greatly. His words revealed the depth of his commitment to keeping their family intact, yet they also underscored how precarious their situation had become.
His unwavering devotion to their small family finally allowed her taut nerves to begin relaxing.
As they sat together before the dying embers, she felt her eyelids growing heavy despite her earlier distress.
The horror of her nightmare gradually faded, replaced by the comforting reality of Darcy’s presence beside her.
She dozed fitfully in her chair until gentle hands lifted her with careful strength. Half-conscious, she nestled against his shoulder as he carried her back to her chamber, feeling safer in his arms than she had since their arrival in London.
***
Five days later
“Mrs Darcy, I must regrettably inform you that ladies are not permitted within the courtroom during proceedings,” Mr Thornfield explained with apologetic firmness as they stood before the imposing entrance to the Court of Chancery.
The barrister’s weathered face carried the gravity of a man who had argued countless cases within these ancient walls, yet Elizabeth detected sympathy in his manner.
Her stomach clenched with disappointment, though she had half-expected such a restriction. “I see. Then I shall wait here whilst you and my husband present our case.”
“The proceedings may extend for several hours, madam. Perhaps you might prefer to return to your lodgings and await word there?”
“Absolutely not,” Elizabeth replied with swift determination. “I could not bear to sit idle whilst Ambrose’s future hangs in the balance. I shall remain here, however long it may take.”
Darcy’s hand settled briefly on her shoulder, his touch conveying both understanding and regret at having to leave her behind during such a crucial moment. “Are you quite certain, dear? Mr Thornfield speaks truly—the proceedings could prove lengthy and tedious.”
“I am certain. Go, both of you, and fight for our son with everything you possess.”
As the heavy oak doors closed behind the two men, Elizabeth was left alone in the echoing corridor with nothing but her fears for company.
The ancient building seemed to press down upon her with its weight of centuries, its stone walls having witnessed countless family tragedies played out in the name of justice.
She began to pace the worn marble floors, her footsteps creating a rhythmic counterpoint to the distant sounds of legal proceedings filtering through various doorways.
Occasionally, other petitioners or their representatives hurried past on their own urgent business, but none spared attention for the anxiously waiting woman whose entire world might be forever altered by the decision being rendered within that forbidding chamber.
The morning crawled by with agonising slowness.
Elizabeth’s imagination conjured increasingly dire scenarios as the hours stretched endlessly before her.
Was Wickham’s forged certificate proving more convincing than they had hoped?
Had their barrister failed to present their evidence effectively?
Were the Chancellor and his advisors even now concluding that a child belonged with his supposed biological father regardless of the circumstances?