3. The Writing Desk #2
“You see, that is precisely what a man with secrets would say.” She was smiling now, openly, turning the little key over in her fingers.
“But I shall let you keep your dignity, since you have thought to include almonds. I find I cannot quarrel with a man over sugared almonds; it would be against my principles, and very likely against my interest, for I mean to eat all of them, and I should not like you to repent the purchase.”
“I shall certainly not quarrel if you eat them all,” he replied, “as I have never had the slightest use for sugared almonds.”
“Then I shall indeed spare you, sir, for we are excellently matched.” She laughed, and it was the first true laugh he had heard from her since the rainy morning in her father’s study.
“There. You will think me a perfect child. But you cannot give a woman presents and then object when she is pleased by them; it is one or the other, surely.”
He was not entirely certain if she was teasing him, so he raised his wineglass in a silent toast and suggested that she eat and drink.
She happily put aside the gifts, but she partook of little food.
She seemed more subdued than the Elizabeth he had met at Netherfield when she had nursed her sister’s fever.
Then again, her father’s illness was serious, and she was doubtless worried about his condition.
“I also gifted you the writing desk so that you might write often to your family. I am willing to incur the costs of express mail.”
“Please forbear.” She wrinkled a brow. “At Longbourn, expresses are dreaded, as they only bring news that cannot wait, and such tidings would take a toll on my mother’s nerves.”
The meal concluded; the cloth was drawn, and her attention turned once more to the writing desk. This time, she opened the green journal, which he noted brought out the warm hazel tones in her eyes, and ran her appreciative finger over the fine paper.
“Tell me more about your brother’s son. What is his name?
” She dipped the quill and made a note in her journal.
“I suppose I shall make him a history. Today, I married your uncle so I can become your mother. You must believe me quite presumptuous to write your history, as you already had a mother. However, I, Elizabeth Bennet, now Darcy, am here to care for you and record everything you might wish to know.”
Darcy watched her tongue dart over her upper lip as she concentrated, surprised to find her narrating aloud.
It was a habit he had not yet discovered about her.
In truth, he knew little of her beyond her inquisitive spirit, her gentle command with servants, the vulnerable softness that occasionally surfaced beneath her sharp observations, and her stubborn resistance to those who presumed authority—himself very much included in that number.
Precisely the sort of mother a grieving, confused child would need.
“Darcy? Did you not hear me?” she inquired, looking up from her writing.
He blinked, brought back to the present. “Pardon me?”
“Your nephew. What is his full name?”
“Thomas.”
“Thomas Darcy?” She dipped her quill. “And for the front of the book, I shall record his lineage and his people. A child should have his genealogy set down before anything else; it is the one thing he cannot discover for himself if no one troubles to provide it. His father’s name?”
“Mrs. Darcy, a child’s journal does not require a genealogy. You may record his words and any interesting things he gets up to, but I had not intended for you to write such a detailed history.”
Her brow wrinkled, and she almost bit the tip of the quill before placing it delicately upon the table. “What should I tell him about his parents when he asks?”
“He is too young to inquire.” Darcy felt himself frowning. It could not be helped. “We do not need to name the father to a young boy.”
“Very well, then I shall send him to you if he wishes to know.” She made a small mark and considered it gravely. “And his mother? Surely she at least may be named, poor lady, since she is past being injured by it.”
“I would prefer not to speak of her either.” He watched the brightness fade from her by degrees, as light leaves a window at dusk.
She wagged the quill at him. “Mr. Darcy, if I am to be his mother, should I not know whence Thomas comes from? What his mother was like? Her family, who might wish to visit, and other particulars. Who are her people, and when did she marry your brother?”
“Half-brother.” The words spat bitterly.
“I see… and hence the shame of it. I shall not press, but if he is still alive, might his people not wish to know Thomas?”
“They were not married, Elizabeth, and hence Thomas will not profit from either family’s connections. He is, unfortunately, baseborn.”
Elizabeth’s mouth rounded to an oblong oval as her eyes widened and she blinked several times. “Poor little Thomas. Why would they not marry?”
“It was not for want of urging. The marriage was pressed upon them by every person with the standing to press it, and more than once. It was refused.”
“Refused.” She turned the word as one might examine a foreign coin. “He refused her? When there was a child coming?”
“No. She refused marriage.”
Darcy believed he had finally rendered Elizabeth speechless.
In no time or place, especially within their society, did a woman willingly sacrifice her reputation by refusing marriage when a child was expected.
But Thomas’s mother, it seemed, was entirely stubborn and self-willed beyond conventional understanding.
“I simply cannot believe it,” Elizabeth said.
“A woman carrying a child, unwed, offered marriage. Yet she purposely consigned her child—that little boy who does not yet understand—to be shunned at every door in England. A boy who cannot inherit, has no standing, only to be a ward of his uncle. Why? Even if she disliked your brother, why do this to an innocent child?”
“I know not her thinking.” Darcy grimaced. “Only that Thomas will have the best that Pemberley can offer. He will be raised like a gentleman, and we will provide him with a home and family. We will not treat him differently from any children we might have.”
“Naturally, we won’t.” Color rose on Elizabeth’s face, no doubt at the prospect he mentioned—of children.
“But Darcy, I should not have been like his mother. Forgive me, but I cannot make it lie down in my mind. Were the father the meanest creature breathing, baseborn himself, penniless, anything—is it not a thousand times better to be a poor man’s wife than to ruin your own son to spare yourself the bearing of his name?
I would have married a chimney-sweep on the church steps before I let a child of mine be called what the world will call Thomas. ”
“You would,” he muttered, and this was the reason he married her.
He could well imagine other women of his acquaintance refusing to mother Thomas, or declaring that any children of their own must be positioned above him.
He thought of the jewels of the ton, refusing to ally themselves to a family carrying such a shame.
“He will call you Mamma. However, if you insist on his history, you may write that his mother is dead. That she was a gentlewoman, and that we will not speak against her memory. Once he attains his maturity, should he wish, I will give her name to him. She was the daughter of an earl, not a scullery maid or innkeeper’s daughter.
They have excised her from their presence entirely.
You understand why I cannot give you the name. ”
Elizabeth gasped, covering her mouth. “I shall keep this to myself and begin his history on the day I married you and became his mother. Now, shall I describe your demeanor at the wedding altar, perhaps?”
“You may write anything you wish, my dear.” He stumbled over the endearment, and she reddened as she licked her lips and began writing.
Not wishing to peek over her shoulders at whatever mockery she entertained herself with, he drank the remainder of the wine and tried not to stare at her as the fire burned lower in the grate.
He did, however, pick an almond or two from the canister. Her only reaction was a slight upturning of the corner of her mouth, and that was enough for him.