Page 49 of Missing

William, who had been observing Roger as he spoke to his father, was suddenly struck by a memory and, almost involuntarily, uttered it aloud.

"Fitzwilliam, do you remember when you climbed the apple tree and lay in wait for Roger, so that you might pelt him with apples?

He was so incensed that he climbed up after you, forced you down, and made you eat the three apples you had thrown at him? " William spoke with evident agitation.

The Colonel was stunned into silence. "And how do you know of that?"

"Because I was upon the other branch of the tree, and Roger did not see me," William replied nervously.

"Who are you, Dalton?"

"I do not know… I—"

"Fitzwilliam Darcy?" Richard asked. "Of course, Dalton… you are—"

"Fitzwilliam, I cannot answer your questions. I have but a few recollections of my early childhood. My memories come and go, and I do not know how to explain them. Please, give me time and do not repeat what I have told you to anyone."

"But… this is something so extraordinary, I cannot keep it to myself!"

"I do not wish to be pressed into explaining what I myself do not comprehend. If you cannot give me time, I would never speak of it again to any man."

Richard, seeing the tension on William's face, understood how difficult this must be for him. Though full of questions, he resolved not to press further.

"I understand. But may we meet tomorrow at the club?"

"I shall be there in the afternoon. For now, let us rejoin the ladies and speak of anything but this."

"I doubt I can say much after such a revelation," Richard replied.

At length, the gentlemen returned to the drawing room, where Elizabeth and Georgiana were entertaining the company by playing the piano and singing. Richard, however, could scarcely take his eyes off William, for he was now convinced that Dalton was indeed his cousin.

The resemblance to his uncle was too remarkable to be a mere chance. But he was burning to know what had become of him during the two-and-twenty years of his disappearance, and why he had grown up as the son of another family.

◆◆◆

Violet was in the carriage on her way to Darcy House, convinced she was doing the right thing.

She could not deny her son the chance to meet his birth family, even if it meant losing him forever.

Yet, before speaking to her dear boy, Violet needed to be certain that Mr Darcy would accept William.

After learning how reckless he had been with Georgiana, she was no longer sure he would be willing to receive into his heart a son whom he had believed dead for more than twenty years.

Mr Darcy was shut in his study, reflecting upon his godson and everything that had passed between them since the lad was little.

George Wickham had always been cheerful yet vain, much like his mother.

Mr Darcy had never liked Edith Wickham; from their very first meeting, she had conducted herself with impropriety, and he had even suspected her of attempting to flirt with him.

Yet his opinion of her changed in an instant when he learnt of her selfless act of bravery.

For that reason, he had always believed that his godson, in time, might reveal—just as his mother had done—that beneath the appearance of a frivolous scoundrel there lay a better man.

But with great sorrow, he had at last acknowledged that this would never be the case, and that so long as he continued to protect him and excuse his transgressions, Wickham would persist in harming others.

Mr Darcy had already instructed his solicitor to bring that bitter chapter of his life to a close.

Of course, he would keep his promise never to abandon his godson, but he had no wish to see him again.

To that end, he had settled upon him a modest monthly allowance, knowing that if he gave him an annual sum, it would be squandered in a matter of weeks.

In addition, he had directed in his will that a fund be established, the interest of which Wickham would receive twice yearly.

Richard had invited him to dine at his parents' house that evening, but he was not in the humour for society.

The whole business with Wickham had weighed heavily upon him, and his health had suffered.

He was conscious that Georgiana needed him more than ever, and so he must preserve what remained of his increasingly fragile strength.

When Mr Gibson heard the knock at the door, he assumed it was an acquaintance or family member, for it was not the hour for social calls. Yet when he opened it, he was surprised to see a very well-dressed lady.

"Good afternoon. I am Violet Dalton, and I need to speak to Mr George Darcy," she said in a trembling voice.

The butler was on the point of telling her that his master did not receive unexpected callers, especially not at such an hour.

Yet seeing the lady so agitated, he supposed she must be the mother or a relation of Mrs Elizabeth Dalton, Miss Darcy's intimate friend, and that she had come on some urgent family matter.

"Mrs Dalton, let me enquire whether Mr Darcy can receive you," said Mr Gibson. He invited Violet into the hall and went towards his master's study.

Violet was struck by the elegance of the house. It was a splendid mansion in the most exclusive quarter of London. While her reason urged her to flee, her heart pressed her to remain and fulfil her purpose; her son deserved to know who he was.

Mr Darcy, meanwhile, was writing a letter to Mrs Reynolds to inform her that he and Georgiana would return to Pemberley at the end of the month, and to instruct her that George Wickham was no longer welcome, and must be turned away should he appear.

"Sir, forgive the interruption, but Mrs Dalton wishes to speak with you."

"Mrs Dalton? But Georgiana is not here—she told me her friend was also invited to the Matlocks' dinner."

"No, sir, it is not Mrs Elizabeth Dalton, but Violet Dalton. I believe she must be the mother of Miss Darcy's friend."

"I see," said Mr Darcy. Supposing Violet had come to speak about Wickham, a subject he had no wish to revisit, he shook his head. "Gibson, tell her I am very busy, but that I shall send her a note to fix a time when I can see her."

The butler returned to Violet and conveyed his master's message. "I am sorry, Mrs Dalton, but Mr Darcy is very busy. He said he will inform you when he may receive you."

Violet drew from her small bag a handkerchief and placed it in the butler's hands. "Please, sir, give this to your master. If, after seeing it, he still refuses to speak with me, I shall leave and never trouble him again."

Mr Gibson, uncertain what to do, carried the handkerchief back to the study. "Mr Darcy, forgive me, but Mrs Dalton asked me to give you this."

"And what is it?" asked Mr Darcy, impatient at the interruption.

"If you wish, I can return it to her, along with your message," Gibson said, holding the handkerchief still.

"No, give it to me," Mr Darcy replied.

Though reluctant, he could not deny he was intrigued.

When he received it, he realised at once that there was something folded within.

As he opened it and saw what it was, he was so astonished that he fell back into his chair, struggling to breathe.

It was the medal his son had worn the day he drowned in the river. How could that woman have it?

"Gibson, bring Mrs Dalton to me at once."

The butler complied, returning to fetch Violet. He asked her to follow and led her to the study. He opened the door, admitted her, and withdrew.

Violet drew a deep breath. "Thank you for receiving me, Mr Darcy."

"I want you to explain why you are in possession of this medal that belonged to my son," said Mr Darcy, his voice thick with emotion.

"That is precisely why I am here, Mr Darcy. I wish to tell you the story of a five-year-old boy I found on a riverbank more than twenty-two years ago. I have come to tell you about my son , William Dalton."

Mr Darcy could only look at her in speechless astonishment.