Chapter Eighteen
“We must gather his things,” Elizabeth’s voice emerged as barely more than a whisper. Yet, the words fell between them like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples of anguish through the silence that had descended over their carriage during the journey back from court.
Darcy said nothing, his jaw set in a rigid line that spoke of emotions held in check through sheer force of will.
His hand remained clasped around hers with desperate intensity, as though he could somehow anchor their crumbling world through that simple contact.
The familiar streets of London blurred past the windows, but Elizabeth saw none of it.
Her vision was clouded by tears she refused to let fall until they were safely within the privacy of their own walls.
The townhouse that had seemed so grand upon their arrival now felt like a mausoleum as they climbed the front steps.
The townhouse that had seemed so grand upon their arrival now felt like a mausoleum as they climbed the front steps.
Tobias opened the door with his usual dignity, his experienced eyes immediately reading the defeat written across their faces.
“Sir, madam,” he said with careful formality, though Elizabeth caught the flash of concern that flickered across his features before professional composure reasserted itself.
“The court has ruled against us, Tobias,” Darcy said, removing his hat with movements that seemed to require tremendous effort. “Ambrose is to be transferred to his father’s custody within two days.”
The butler’s composure faltered almost imperceptibly—a slight tightening around his eyes, the briefest pause in his practised movements. “I am deeply sorry to hear that, sir. The entire household has been hoping for better news.”
They stood in the entrance hall for a moment, the weight of their loss pressing down upon them like a physical burden. Tobias waited with patient sympathy, understanding that such devastating news required time to fully comprehend.
“Sir,” he said finally, his voice gentler than usual, “when you are ready… would you prefer that I have the staff assist with gathering Master Ambrose’s belongings? His…clothes and personal effects will need to be properly packed for the journey.”
The careful delicacy with which he phrased the question nearly undid what remained of Elizabeth’s composure.
Even Tobias, she realised, could not bring himself to speak plainly of reducing a child’s entire life—all his treasured possessions and familiar comforts—to luggage suitable for transport to an uncertain future.
“Yes,” Darcy managed, his voice hoarse. “And please ask Mrs Loxley to assist Mrs Darcy with the packing.”
Elizabeth shook her head with sudden vehemence, rejecting the idea of the London housekeeper helping her out. “No. I shall do it myself. He… he should have familiar hands touching his things one last time.”
The walk to Ambrose’s room felt endless, each step a torment that brought them closer to the moment when they would have to explain the inexplicable to an innocent child.
The room still bore traces of the morning’s activities—toy soldiers arranged in battle formation on the carpet, a half-finished drawing of Pemberley’s peacocks on his small desk, a beloved book of fairy tales left open to a story about brave knights and happy endings.
Elizabeth sank onto the narrow bed, pressing her face into the pillow that still held the faint scent of lavender water and childhood dreams. The tears she had been holding back finally broke free, great wracking sobs that seemed to tear something vital from her chest.
“How do we explain this to him?” she gasped between tears. “How do we make him understand that the law values blood over love, that strangers in wigs can decree his fate without ever knowing his heart?”
Darcy’s arms came around her, solid and warm despite the tremors she could feel running through his frame. “We tell him the truth—that sometimes the world makes decisions we cannot understand or accept, but that our love for him remains unchanged.”
“He will think we are abandoning him. He will think we do not want him anymore.”
“No.” The fierceness in his voice surprised them both. “We tell him we are fighting for him. That this separation is temporary, not permanent. That he must be brave whilst we find a way to bring him home.”
The sound of small feet in the corridor announced Ambrose’s return from his afternoon walk with the governess. Elizabeth hastily wiped her eyes, but she knew the redness would betray her distress to those sharp young eyes that missed so little.
“Mama! Papa!” His joyful cry as he burst through the door was like a dagger to both their hearts.
“Miss Francesca took me to feed the ducks in the square, and there was a little dog that wanted to chase them, and—” He stopped abruptly, his smile fading as he took in their expressions and the open trunk on his bed.
“Why are my things being packed?” he asked, his voice growing small and uncertain. “Are we going home to Pemberley?”
Elizabeth knelt to his level, her hands trembling as she reached for him. “Sweetheart, we need to talk to you about something very important.”
Ambrose stepped closer, his trust in them absolute despite the fear beginning to creep into his dark eyes. “What is it, Mama? You look sad.”
“Do you remember the man who came to Pemberley? The one who said he was your father?”
The boy’s face scrunched in confusion. “The bad man? But you said he went away.”
“He did go away, but now he has come back. And the chancellor… the chancellor has decided that you must go with him for a while.”
“No!” The word exploded from Ambrose with a force that made both adults flinch. “I don’t want to go with him! I want to stay with you and Papa! Please, Mama, don’t let them take me!”
He flung himself into Elizabeth’s arms with such desperation that she nearly toppled backwards. His small body shook with sobs that seemed too large for his slight frame, whilst his fingers clutched at her dress as though he could somehow anchor himself to safety through the strength of his grip.
“I’m sorry, my darling,” she whispered against his hair, her own tears falling freely now. “I’m so very sorry. But you must remember that Papa and I love you more than anything in this world. That will never change, no matter where you are or who you’re with.”
“Then why can’t I stay??”
Darcy dropped to his knees beside them, his large hands gentle as they stroked Ambrose’s curls.
“We are fighting for you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “We will never stop fighting for you. But sometimes, even when we fight our hardest, we must accept temporary defeats in order to win the final victory.”
Ambrose pulled back to look at them both, his face streaked with tears. “Will you come visit me?”
Elizabeth exchanged a helpless glance with Darcy. They had no idea what Wickham’s plans entailed, where he might take the boy, or whether he would permit any contact with his former guardians.
“We will try,” she said. “We will do everything in our power to see you again as soon as possible.”
“Promise?”
The simple word hung between them like a bridge they were terrified to cross. To promise might be to lie, yet how could they send this child into an uncertain future without offering some hope to cling to?
“I promise we will never stop trying,” Elizabeth said finally. “And I promise that we will love you always, no matter what happens.”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted their anguished farewells. Tobias’s voice carried through the panels with reluctant formality.
“Mr Wickham has arrived, sir. He is waiting in the entrance hall.”
The words fell like a death sentence. Time, which had seemed suspended in this bubble of private grief, suddenly rushed forward with merciless efficiency. There were no more delays, no more precious moments to steal—only the inexorable march toward separation.
Ambrose seemed to sense the finality of the moment. His tears ceased as though he had drawn upon some inner reserve of courage that humbled the adults surrounding him.
“Will you help me pack my soldiers?” he asked quietly. “I don’t want to forget how we arranged them for the battle of Waterloo.”
The request nearly shattered what remained of Elizabeth’s composure. Here was a child trying to maintain normalcy in the face of catastrophe, clinging to small rituals that connected him to happier times.
They worked together in silence, wrapping each precious toy, each familiar book, each small garment that held the essence of his brief childhood at Pemberley.
Darcy placed the toy soldiers in their wooden box with the reverence of a general laying weapons to rest, whilst Elizabeth folded tiny shirts and stockings with hands that shook despite her efforts at steadiness.
When the trunk was finally closed and locked, Ambrose stood between them with the dignity of a small soldier preparing for battle. His face was pale but composed, his chin lifted in unconscious mimicry of Darcy’s own proud bearing.
Another knock, more insistent this time. They could delay no longer.
The descent to the entrance hall felt like walking to the gallows.
Wickham waited with exaggerated patience, his expression arranged in a mask of paternal concern that fooled no one present.
Yet Elizabeth noticed the satisfied gleam in his eyes as he took in their obvious anguish—the look of a man savouring his victory over old enemies.
“Ah, there’s my boy!” he exclaimed with false heartiness. “Come along now, Ambrose. We have a long journey ahead of us, and I’m eager to begin making up for all our lost time together.”
Ambrose shrank back against Elizabeth’s skirts, his earlier courage wavering in the face of this stranger who claimed such intimate rights over his person.
“Where are we going?” he asked in a small voice.
“To Yorkshire, my lad. I have lodgings there, and friends who are eager to meet you. You’ll find country life quite agreeable after all this London stuffiness.”
Elizabeth knelt beside Ambrose one final time, her hands framing his beloved face as she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Remember what we told you,” she whispered. “Remember that we love you, and be brave.”
Darcy’s farewell was harder to watch—this proud man reduced to kneeling before a child, his voice breaking as he pulled the boy into a fierce embrace.
“You are my son in every way that matters,” he said roughly. “Nothing and no one can change that. Be good, be strong, and remember that you have a home waiting for you whenever you can return to it.”
Ambrose clung to him for a moment longer before stepping back with heartbreaking resolve. “I’ll remember, Papa. I’ll remember everything.”
Wickham’s patience finally wore thin. “Come now, this farce has gone on quite long enough. The boy needs to adjust to his new circumstances, and prolonging these farewells serves no useful purpose.”
With false gentleness that made Elizabeth’s skin crawl, he placed a possessive hand on Ambrose’s shoulder and began steering him toward the door. The boy went willingly enough, but his eyes remained fixed on Elizabeth and Darcy with an intensity that suggested he was trying to memorise their faces.
At the threshold, he broke free of Wickham’s grasp and ran back to them one last time.
“I love you, Mama. I love you, Papa.”
The words hung in the air like a benediction as Wickham reclaimed him with firmer insistence. The front door closed behind them with a finality that echoed through the suddenly cavernous townhouse like a funeral bell.
Elizabeth collapsed against Darcy’s chest, her composure finally shattered completely.
He held her as she sobbed, his own tears falling silent and unchecked into her hair.
The emptiness around them seemed to mock their grief—rooms that had briefly rung with childish laughter now returned to their cold grandeur, toy soldiers packed away, fairy tale books closed.
***
In the awful silence that followed, Darcy made a vow that burned in his chest like a sacred flame.
Whatever it cost, whatever laws he had to break, whatever enemies he had to make—he would bring Ambrose home.
The boy belonged with them, and no court in England would keep his family separated permanently.
He had wealth, connections, and a determination forged in the fires of loss. Wickham had won this battle through legal trickery, but the war was far from over.
As Elizabeth’s sobs gradually subsided into exhausted silence, Darcy began planning their next move with the cold precision of a general preparing for a siege. Justice had failed them—very well, then he would seek victory through other means.
Their son was out there somewhere, probably crying himself to sleep in an unfamiliar bed, wondering why the people who claimed to love him had let him be taken away.
That wrong would be righted, whatever the cost.