Chapter Seventeen #2
She tried to distract herself by observing the architectural details of the building—the elaborate carved mouldings, the portraits of stern-faced judges from bygone eras, the Latin inscriptions whose meanings she could only partially decipher.
Yet nothing could truly divert her attention from the knowledge that somewhere beyond those closed doors, strangers were deciding whether she would be allowed to keep the child who had become as precious to her as her own life.
When the courthouse clock struck noon, Elizabeth felt as though she had been waiting for days rather than mere hours. Her hands trembled as she smoothed her skirts for perhaps the hundredth time, whilst her mind churned with prayers and pleas that she dared not voice aloud.
The sound of doors opening made her heart leap with anticipation, but it proved to be only another case concluding, with parties she did not recognise emerging in various states of satisfaction or despair.
She resumed her pacing with renewed anxiety, wondering how much longer she could endure such suspense.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she heard the familiar deep tones of her husband’s voice echoing from within the chamber where their fate was being decided.
The words were indistinct, but something in his tone made her stomach clench with foreboding.
When silence fell once more, she pressed closer to the door, straining to catch any hint of what verdict might be forthcoming.
The scraping of chairs and rustling of papers suggested proceedings were concluding at last. Elizabeth stepped back from the door, her heart hammering against her ribs as she awaited whatever news would emerge from those deliberations.
When the doors finally opened, Darcy appeared first, followed closely by Mr Thornfield whose expression told her everything she needed to know before a single word was spoken. Her husband’s face was drawn with defeat, his usual composure cracked to reveal the devastation beneath.
“Fitzwilliam?” she whispered, though she already knew the answer from his stricken expression.
“We lost,” he said quietly, moving to her side with leaden steps. “The Chancellor ruled in Wickham’s favour.”
The words made her knees buckle with the force of their impact. Only Darcy’s steadying hand on her elbow prevented her from collapsing entirely.
“But how?” she gasped. “The evidence of his unfitness, the questions about the certificate’s authenticity—surely those matters carried weight with the court?”
Mr Thornfield cleared his throat diplomatically.
“I fear the law in such matters is quite clear, Mrs Darcy. Regardless of character or circumstances, a legitimate father’s rights supersede those of any guardian, however devoted.
The Chancellor acknowledged your husband’s admirable care of the child but stated that legal paternity must take precedence over emotional bonds. ”
“What of the marriage certificate?” Elizabeth asked desperately. “Our investigators raised serious questions about its validity.”
“Wickham’s barrister presented documentation that satisfied the court’s requirements,” Darcy replied with bitter precision.
“Whatever suspicions we may harbour about forgery, we could not provide absolute proof of fraud. In the absence of such evidence, the court accepted the certificate as legitimate.”
Elizabeth felt the world tilt dangerously around her. “And Ambrose? What did they say about his welfare? Surely the Chancellor must have considered what is best for the child?”
“The court ruled that a boy belongs with his natural father, regardless of other considerations,” Mr Thornfield explained with obvious reluctance. “His Lordship expressed confidence that Mr Wickham would rise to meet his paternal responsibilities now that he has been granted proper custody.”
The naive optimism of such a ruling made Elizabeth want to scream with frustration. How could learned men be so blind to Wickham’s true nature? How could they trust a child’s welfare to someone whose only interest lay in causing pain to his enemies?
“When must we…” she began, then found she could not finish the question.
“Ambrose is to be transferred to his father’s custody within forty-eight hours,” Darcy said, his voice hollow with defeat. “We are permitted to gather his belongings and say our farewells, but after that…”
He could not complete the sentence either. The reality of losing their beloved child was too devastating to put into words.
As they walked slowly back to their carriage, Elizabeth felt as though she were moving through a nightmare from which she could not wake. Somewhere in their London lodgings, Ambrose was playing with his toys or perhaps napping peacefully, unaware that his world was about to be shattered once again.
How would they explain to him that the man who had terrified him now held legal authority over his fate? How could they comfort a child while their own hearts were breaking with the knowledge of what they were powerless to prevent?
The future stretched before them dark with anguish, and Elizabeth wondered if she would ever again know happiness without the constant ache of missing the child they had failed to protect.