Chapter Twenty
Three weeks later
“Cook informs me you have commandeered her kitchen this morning,” Darcy observed with gentle amusement as he encountered Elizabeth emerging from the servants’ quarters, her cheeks flushed and her hands dusted with flour.
She started slightly at his unexpected appearance, then lifted her chin with a hint of her old spirit. “I wished to prepare something with my own hands rather than simply accepting the efforts of others. I hope you do not consider it beneath my station as mistress of Pemberley.”
“On the contrary, I consider it rather charming. What culinary masterpiece have you created?”
“Scones,” she replied, suddenly looking uncertain. “Though I confess they may not meet the standards you are accustomed to. At Longbourn, our cook was less accomplished than Mrs Patterson, and I often assisted with the baking when circumstances required.”
The simple admission touched something deep in Darcy’s chest. Here was his wife, mistress of one of England’s grandest estates, choosing to spend her morning in flour and heat rather than in elegant leisure. The gesture spoke of a desire to nurture that went beyond mere obligation.
“I have arranged a small repast in the rose garden,” he said, offering his arm. “Perhaps your scones might serve as the centrepiece of our al fresco dining?”
Her face brightened with pleasure. “You planned a picnic? How thoughtful of you.”
“The weather seemed too fine to waste indoors, and I confess I hoped for an opportunity to speak with you away from the house’s melancholy associations.”
They walked together through the formal gardens toward the spot where Darcy had instructed the servants to arrange blankets and cushions beneath his mother’s favourite climbing rose.
The setting was intimate yet proper, screened from the house by carefully maintained shrubbery whilst remaining within easy sight of any passing gardener.
Elizabeth settled gracefully onto the provided cushions, arranging her skirts with unconscious elegance. The simple morning dress she wore—a pale green muslin that complemented her complexion—seemed far more beautiful to him than the elaborate gowns favoured by London’s fashionable ladies.
“Your scones smell delightful,” he said as she unpacked the basket she had carried from the kitchen. “It has been years since I tasted anything prepared by hands other than those of hired professionals.”
“I fear you may be disappointed. My technique lacks the refinement that comes from proper training.” She busied herself arranging the pastries on the provided plates, her movements betraying a nervousness he wished to dispel.
“I doubt that very much. Food prepared with care always possesses qualities that mere technical skill cannot replicate.”
As they shared the simple meal—Elizabeth’s scones accompanied by fresh butter and jam from Pemberley’s own larder—their conversation gradually grew more natural.
The informality of their setting seemed to encourage honesty, stripping away the careful politeness that had characterised their interactions since Ambrose’s departure.
“I must confess something that has long troubled me,” Darcy said, setting down his cup of tea. “When we first met at the Meryton assembly, I behaved abominably. My pride and natural reserve combined in the worst possible way, leading me to dismiss you and your friend with insufferable arrogance.”
Elizabeth paused in spreading jam on her scone, her brown eyes studying his face with new attention. “You were certainly not at your most agreeable that evening. Though I suspect I was equally at fault for the poor impression we made upon each other.”
“How so?”
“I was too quick to take offence, too ready to nurture wounded pride rather than seek understanding. When Wickham presented his version of your character, I embraced his lies because they confirmed what I wished to believe about you.”
The admission hung between them like a bridge waiting to be crossed. Darcy felt something ease in his chest, a tension he had carried since their earliest acquaintance.
“We were both guilty of judging too hastily,” he said quietly. “I saw your family’s lack of fortune and assumed it reflected a corresponding lack of worth. You saw my reserve and concluded it sprang from contempt rather than uncertainty.”
“Uncertainty?” Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose with surprise. “That was not how you appeared to me. You seemed supremely confident in your superiority to everyone present.”
“Far from it. I have never possessed the easy social graces that come naturally to men like Bingley. In unfamiliar company, I retreat behind formality rather than risk exposing my inadequacies.” Darcy’s mouth curved in self-deprecating humour.
“My cousin Richard takes great delight in reminding me of my social shortcomings. He claims I could make the most charming compliment sound like a criticism through sheer force of delivery.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam sounds like a most diverting companion. I should enjoy meeting someone capable of teasing you so effectively.”
“You would like him immensely, I believe. His military service has given him an easy confidence with all manner of people, whilst his natural wit makes him welcome in any company. During our time at Eton, he possessed an uncanny ability to befriend even the most difficult masters whilst I struggled to exchange basic pleasantries.”
Elizabeth laughed, the first sound of mirth he had heard from her since London. “I can scarcely imagine you as an awkward schoolboy. You seem so completely in command of every situation.”
“Command born of necessity rather than natural inclination, I assure you. Richard used to say I approached social interaction like a military campaign—all strategy and no spontaneity.” Darcy’s expression grew fond with memory.
“He once convinced me to join a group of boys sneaking out to the village tavern. I spent the entire evening calculating the probability of discovery and the likely punishments, whilst he charmed the publican into providing us with the finest meal we had tasted all term.”
“And were you caught?”
“Inevitably. My planning proved useless when faced with an unexpected patrol by one of the junior masters. Richard talked our way out of serious punishment through pure charm, whilst I could only stand there looking guilty.”
Elizabeth’s delighted laughter filled the garden air like music. “I begin to see why you value his friendship so highly. He sounds like the perfect counterbalance to your more serious nature.”
“Indeed. Though I suspect you would prove equally effective at drawing me out of my natural reserve.” The words slipped out before he could consider their implications, carrying a note of intimacy that made Elizabeth’s cheeks flush prettily.
“My family often accused me of being too outspoken for a lady,” she said, deflecting his compliment with characteristic directness. “My mother despaired of my tendency to voice opinions rather than maintain decorative silence.”
“Tell me more about your family,” Darcy encouraged. “From your letters, they seem to provide considerable support during our current difficulties.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened with affection.
“They are wonderfully chaotic and utterly devoted to one another. To outsiders, we might appear dysfunctional—Papa retreating to his library whilst Mama frets over our unmarried state, my younger sisters creating minor scandals with their exuberance, Mary lecturing us all on moral improvement. Yet beneath the surface chaos lies unshakeable loyalty.”
“How have they responded to news of our… situation with Ambrose?”
“With characteristic rallying around family in crisis. Mama immediately began planning ways to ‘expose that dreadful Wickham creature’ to society’s censure, whilst Papa offered to contribute to any legal expenses we might incur.
Even my youngest sisters have written expressing their outrage at the injustice. ”
Her voice grew thick with emotion as she continued. “Jane’s letters have been particularly comforting. She possesses such wisdom about enduring hardship whilst maintaining hope. She reminds me that love persists even when physical presence does not.”
The mention of Ambrose cast a shadow over their previously light conversation. Elizabeth’s face crumpled slightly as the weight of their loss pressed upon her renewed spirits.
“Some days I wake expecting to hear his voice calling for us,” she whispered. “The silence where his laughter should be feels like a physical ache.”
Without hesitation, Darcy moved closer on their shared blanket, gathering her into his arms with gentle strength. “I know, my dear one. The emptiness follows me through every room of the house.”
She turned her face up to his, tears glistening on her lashes like captured starlight. “How do we bear it, Fitzwilliam? How do we continue when half our hearts have been torn away?”
Instead of answering with words, he lowered his head until his lips met hers in a kiss that spoke of shared sorrow, mutual comfort, and something deeper that had grown between them through their ordeal.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his waistcoat as she returned his kiss with a sweetness that made his heart race. The scent of roses surrounded them, mingling with the faint lavender water she favoured, creating a cocoon of intimacy that shut out the world beyond their garden sanctuary.
When they finally parted, both were breathing unsteadily. Elizabeth remained within the circle of his arms, her head resting against his shoulder as they watched the afternoon sun filter through the roses above them.
“We bear it together,” he said finally, answering her earlier question. “And we hold fast to the belief that this separation is temporary. Our son will come home to us.”
“Promise me,” she whispered against his neck.
“I promise,” he replied without hesitation, though they both knew he was making a vow he might not have the power to fulfil. Yet in that moment, surrounded by the scent of roses and the warmth of shared hope, such promises felt not like falsehoods but like prayers that demanded to be answered.
The sound of approaching footsteps made them draw apart reluctantly. Morrison appeared through the garden archway, his expression carrying the particular gravity reserved for matters of significant import.
“Forgive the intrusion, sir, but Mrs Younge has arrived unexpectedly with Master Ambrose. She appears most distressed and requests immediate audience with you both, claiming matters of utmost urgency.”
The words struck Elizabeth like a thunderbolt, sending her thoughts reeling in a dozen directions at once.
Ambrose—here, at Pemberley, when he should be hundreds of miles away in Yorkshire.
Her heart lurched between wild hope and crushing fear as she struggled to comprehend what this unexpected development might mean.
“Mrs Younge?” she gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “But why would she… How did she come to have Ambrose with her?”
A thousand terrible possibilities flooded her mind.
Had Wickham abandoned the child entirely?
Had something dreadful occurred that necessitated such desperate action?
Yet beneath her confusion and alarm ran a current of overwhelming relief.
Whatever had transpired, their beloved boy was here, within these walls, safe from whatever horrors had driven Mrs Younge to such extraordinary measures.
“She would say only that the situation in Yorkshire had become intolerable, madam, and that she could no longer stand by whilst the child suffered. She awaits you in the entrance hall with Master Ambrose.”
Elizabeth’s legs trembled as she rose from their picnic blanket, her entire body shaking with the force of emotions she could barely contain.
Joy warred with terror as she contemplated what intolerable might mean for a young child.
If Mrs Younge—who had once been complicit in Wickham’s schemes—had been moved to intervene, how desperate must Ambrose’s circumstances have become?
“Come,” Darcy said urgently, his strong hand steadying her as they hurried toward the house. “Let us discover what has transpired to bring our son home to us.”
Our son. The words sang through her heart even as her mind raced with questions. Whatever the explanation, whatever the cost, Ambrose was here—and she would move heaven and earth before allowing him to be taken from them again.