Chapter Twenty-Two
“He will not accept this quietly,” Elizabeth said as she settled Ambrose more comfortably in the morning room, her voice barely above a whisper despite their son’s apparent absorption in the wooden soldiers she had retrieved from storage.
“Wickham’s pride will never allow him to simply let us keep what he considers his legal property. ”
Darcy stood by the window, his posture rigid with the tension that had marked his bearing since Ambrose’s return. “No doubt he is already discovering the boy’s absence and making enquiries. We must prepare ourselves for his inevitable arrival.”
The knowledge that their happiness hung by the most tenuous of threads cast shadows over what should have been a moment of pure joy.
Every creak of the house, every sound from the drive made them both start with apprehension, expecting at any moment to see Wickham’s familiar figure demanding the return of his supposed son.
“I brought these from our picnic,” Elizabeth said softly, offering Ambrose one of the scones she had so carefully prepared that morning—a lifetime ago, it seemed now. “Would you like to try one whilst we wait for Cook to prepare your proper meal?”
The boy’s thin face lit up with the first genuine smile she had seen since his return. “You made these yourself, Mama?
“Yes, indeed,” she confirmed, her heart brimming with tenderness.
She watched with fierce maternal satisfaction as he bit into the still-warm pastry, noting how he savoured each morsel with the care of a child who had learned not to take such simple pleasures for granted.
His appetite, at least, seemed unimpaired by his ordeal, though she could see how the sharp angles of his face spoke of too many missed meals.
“Mrs Younge made certain I had food most days,” Ambrose said quietly, as if reading her thoughts. “She would bring me bread and milk when the others forgot. But nothing tasted as good as the meals here, Mama.”
From across the room, she caught Darcy’s eye and saw her own emotions reflected there—gratitude towards Mrs Younge for whatever protection she had managed to provide, fury at those who had forgotten to feed a child, and overwhelming relief that their boy was safe in their arms once more.
“Mrs Younge showed great kindness,” Elizabeth said. “We are very grateful to her for watching over you.”
As if summoned by their conversation, Mrs Younge appeared in the doorway with the hesitant air of someone uncertain of her reception. “Forgive the intrusion. I wondered… might I have a word regarding Master Ambrose’s situation?”
“Certainly,” Darcy replied, though his tone carried wariness. “Please, sit. We are eager to hear whatever counsel you might offer.”
The older woman perched on the edge of a chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“I have been considering our legal position. Mr Wickham’s conduct in Yorkshire provides clear evidence of neglect and unfitness as a guardian.
Surely such testimony, properly presented to the courts, might serve to overturn the previous ruling? ”
“You would be willing to testify against Wickham?” Elizabeth asked, surprised by the offer despite the woman’s recent actions.
“I have already compromised my principles too far by remaining silent about his treatment of the child. If my testimony could help secure Master Ambrose’s welfare permanently, I would consider it a small step towards redemption.”
Darcy moved away from the window with sudden purpose. “Morrison, please send word to my solicitor immediately. Mr Oswald must come to Pemberley at once—tell him it is a matter of utmost urgency regarding custody proceedings.”
As the message was dispatched, Elizabeth felt a flutter of hope despite their precarious circumstances.
With Mrs Younge’s eyewitness testimony and the evidence of Ambrose’s physical condition upon his return, surely even the most conservative magistrate would recognise Wickham’s unfitness as a parent.
***
Mr Oswald arrived within three hours, his composed demeanour showing signs of the haste with which he had travelled. After hearing their account of recent events, however, his expression grew increasingly grave.
“I fear the legal situation remains complex,” he said with obvious reluctance.
“While evidence of neglect is certainly damaging to Mr Wickham’s character, the fundamental issue of paternal rights has not changed.
A father’s claim to his legitimate child is considered nearly absolute under current law. ”
“Nearly?” Darcy seized upon the qualification with precision.
“There are rare instances where extreme unfitness has resulted in alternative arrangements, but such cases typically involve criminal behaviour rather than mere neglect. The Court of Chancery are extremely reluctant to override biological parentage based solely on evidence of inadequate care.”
Elizabeth felt her hope begin to crumble. “Then what you are saying is that even with Mrs Young’s testimony, even with proof of Wickham’s cruelty, we cannot prevent him from reclaiming Ambrose?”
“I cannot offer false encouragement, Mrs Darcy. The law favours paternal rights almost without exception. Our best hope would be to negotiate some form of shared custody arrangement, perhaps with Pemberley serving as the child’s primary residence whilst Mr Wickham retains legal guardianship.”
The suggestion struck Elizabeth as almost worse than complete separation. To have Wickham hovering perpetually over their family life, with the power to disrupt their happiness at any moment, would be a form of torment beyond bearing.
Before anyone could respond to the solicitor’s grim assessment, Morrison appeared once more in the doorway, his face pale with obvious distress.
“Sir, urgent word has arrived from Lambton. Mr Wickham has just arrived at the inn, he is making enquiries about transportation to Pemberley. The innkeeper has delayed him, since word of who he is spread and they know who he is. However, the messenger believes he will make his way here anyhow in due course.”
The room fell into stunned silence as the implications sank in. Their brief respite was ending, and the confrontation they all dreaded was about to begin.
“How long?” Darcy asked with deadly calm.
“Even if he were to walk he would be here within an hour, unless he gets lost on the way.”
Elizabeth instinctively drew Ambrose closer, noting how the boy’s face had grown pale at the mention of Wickham’s approach.
“You need not see him if you do not wish to,” she whispered, sickened by lack of certainty behind her own words.
Wickham had the full backing of the law, which meant that he could take Ambrose back whenever he wanted.
To have the boy taken from them a second time… the very notion was too much to bear.
“I want to stay with you and Papa,” Ambrose murmured, his hand clutching her skirt with desperate intensity.
Just as despair threatened to overwhelm them entirely, Morrison returned yet again, though this time his expression carried a note of hope rather than doom.
“Mr Hartwell has arrived, sir. He says he bears intelligence of the utmost importance regarding your legal situation.”
The thief-taker entered with the confident stride of a man bearing significant news. His weathered face showed signs of hard riding, but his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a hunter who had finally cornered his prey.
“Mr Darcy, I bring news that will change everything,” he announced without preamble. Moving close to Darcy’s chair, he leaned in and whispered something that made Elizabeth’s husband go very still, his eyes widening with what appeared to be stunned amazement.
“Are you certain of this intelligence?” Darcy asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
“As certain as sworn testimony and official documents can make it, sir. I have all the proof you require.”
Before Elizabeth could request an explanation of this cryptic exchange, Morrison’s voice carried from the entrance hall, announcing the arrival they had all been dreading.
“Sir, Mr Wickham has arrived and demands immediate audience with you regarding the return of his son.”
Elizabeth felt her heart stop as Ambrose pressed closer to her side, his small frame trembling with fear. This was the moment of reckoning they had all known must come.
But instead of the defeat she expected to see on her husband’s face, Darcy’s expression had transformed into something approaching grim satisfaction.
“Very well,” he said with calm authority. “Have Mr Wickham meet me in my study. Mr Hartwell will join us as well. I believe he has something quite illuminating to share with our unexpected guest.”