Page 17 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER NINE
AN HEIR AT THE DOOR
Elizabeth pressed her hand against the small of her aching back.
Her massively swollen belly made leaning over the wool sorting table difficult, but she had no desire of being idle while housed at the Fitzwilliam sisters’ sheep farm.
So, here she was, in her ninth month of pregnancy, sorting wool in the humid August heat.
The careful work of grading and bundling the fleeces would determine much of Bellfield Grange’s income for the coming year.
“Careful with that step, Mrs. Darcy,” Graham Pullen, the grange’s capable steward said, appearing at her elbow with the punctuality of a well-wound clock. “The morning dew has made everything slippery.”
Elizabeth accepted his steadying hand with a grateful smile.
Graham had appointed himself her personal guardian these past months, appearing whenever she needed to navigate a stile, reach a high shelf, or simply required someone to carry whatever burden she had foolishly attempted to manage herself.
His attentions were so consistent they had become as much a part of her daily routine as morning prayers .
“Thank you, Mr. Pullen,” she said, allowing him to help her down from the raised platform where she had been examining the finest fleeces. “Though I suspect you have more pressing duties than ensuring I don’t tumble into the sheep pens.”
“No duty more pressing than your welfare.” Graham’s kind brown eyes lingered on her face. “At least take the chair. Standing so long can’t be good for—” he hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly to her rounded belly before returning to her face with a flush of color across his cheekbones.
“For the impending heir of Pemberley?” Elizabeth supplied with a wry smile. “Or the impending scandal, depending on which version of my story one chooses to believe.”
“For you,” Graham said simply. “And the child.”
Elizabeth sighed and relented, allowing Graham to place a wooden chair by the sorting table.
He had been unfailingly solicitous since her arrival last winter—the farm steward who had gradually become her most steadfast ally.
Unlike the Honywoods, who treated her with kindness but careful neutrality, or Lady Eleanor, whose infrequent visits were marked by equal measures of support and caution, Graham Pullen had shown her nothing but unquestioning acceptance.
He was unfailingly kind, competent, and was indispensable to both the Honywoods, who resided in a small dowager cottage, and the operation of the sheep farm. He was also, though he had never declared it directly, completely besotted with her.
Elizabeth did her best not to encourage his feelings, but she could not deny that his assistance was needed, especially now that her belly felt too bloated to be a part of her body.
The way his eyes followed her movements, how he appeared the moment she needed assistance, the flowers that mysteriously appeared on her windowsill each Sunday morning, and the careful way he walked her to the small church—all spoke of deeper feelings that neither of them acknowledged.
“The count from the summer shearing exceeds last year’s by nearly a quarter,” Graham said, pulling another fleece from the pile. “The Honywoods were right about those new breeding rams from the north.”
“Is that why you’ve been smiling at the account books each evening?” Elizabeth teased, glad for the change of subject. “And here I thought you were simply enjoying my sister Mary’s mathematical prowess.”
Graham’s cheeks colored again. “Miss Mary has been most helpful with the ledgers.”
“She finds great satisfaction in balanced columns and precise calculations,” Elizabeth said. “Far more than in the accomplishments my mother insisted would make her marriageable.”
“Your sister has many fine qualities,” Graham observed, his hands moving deftly through the wool. “As do you, Mrs. Darcy.”
The name—her name, her rightful name—hung in the air between them.
Most of the household staff called her Miss Bennet, following Lady Eleanor’s directive.
Only Graham and Mary consistently acknowledged her marriage.
With Mary, it was sisterly loyalty, but with Graham, he showed himself honorable.
He was, as Eleanor mentioned, a distant friend of Darcy’s from his Cambridge days, although his family was from the wool trade.
“Your loyalty is appreciated, Mr. Pullen,” Elizabeth said softly. “Especially when proof of my claims remains frustratingly elusive.”
“I need no proof beyond your word,” Graham replied, his voice equally quiet. “And the child you carry.”
Elizabeth’s hand drifted to her belly, where Darcy’s child moved restlessly. Graham’s eyes darkened, flickering at her movement before his jaw tightened and he averted his gaze.
“Lizzy!” Mary’s voice carried from outside the sorting shed. “Lizzy, where are you?”
Elizabeth turned toward the door as Mary burst in, clutching a letter sealed with black wax. Her sister’s normally composed features were tight.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked, rising from her chair and moving toward Mary as quickly as her ungainly form would allow. Graham appeared at her elbow, ready to catch her should she stumble.
“An express from Lady Eleanor,” Mary said, holding out the letter with trembling fingers.
Elizabeth broke the seal with clumsy hands, her eyes flying across the elegant script. The words blurred, then sharpened with terrible clarity.
Pneumonia has set in… fevers and seizures… physicians fear he may never wake… Lady Catherine pressing to move him to Pemberley… to die with dignity among family…
“No, no, he can’t…” The letter slipped from Elizabeth’s fingers. Graham caught it before it reached the floor, but she barely noticed. “He cannot die. He still has a child… he has… me.”
“Lizzy—” Mary began, her voice gentle with sympathy.
“I must go to London.” Elizabeth swayed on her feet, Graham’s steadying hand at her elbow. “Immediately. Today.”
“That’s impossible,” Mary said firmly. “You’re due to deliver any day now.”
“I don’t care,” Elizabeth retorted, a flash of her old fire returning. “I’ll walk to London if necessary.”
Graham read through the letter, his expression grave. “Mrs. Darcy, your sister is right. Traveling now would endanger both you and the child.”
“And what good would it do?” Mary added, her practical nature asserting itself. “Lady Catherine has made it perfectly clear that you would not be admitted. You would risk your health and the baby’s only to be turned away at the door.”
“I am his wife!” Elizabeth’s voice rose with desperation.
“Without proof, you are nothing to them,” Mary said with her usual bluntness. “You are the dirty little secret they wish would disappear.”
Elizabeth flinched at her words. They were true, of course.
For months, she had clung to hope—that Darcy would wake, that evidence of their marriage would surface, that Lady Eleanor’s cautious support would eventually lead to recognition.
But with each passing week, that hope had grown thinner, stretched to transparency.
“I cannot let him die without seeing him again,” Elizabeth protested. “Perhaps if I were there. If I could speak to him, give him hope, he would weather this illness.”
Graham’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. “Mrs. Darcy, your sister speaks sense. The roads between here and London are rough, and the journey in your present state would be inadvisable at best.”
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Darcy,” he added. “Though I wish it were otherwise.”
“And scandal would only damage the Darcy family name further,” came Georgiana’s voice from the doorway. The girl—no, the young woman now—stood framed in the entrance, her dark eyes so like her brother’s that Elizabeth sometimes had to look away.
“Miss Darcy,” Graham acknowledged Georgiana with a bow. “I did not realize you had returned from your ride.”
“Just now,” Georgiana said, stepping into the shed. At sixteen, she had grown into her height during their months together at Bellfield. “I heard voices. Is there news of my brother?”
Mary summarized the letter’s contents while Elizabeth sank back into her chair, one hand pressed to her forehead. The world swam around her. Her husband might slip away without ever knowing he was to be a father. She’d held onto the hope and the reports from Lady Eleanor.
“I should go to him,” Georgiana said when Mary finished. “If he truly is…” Her voice broke, unable to complete the thought.
Of course, Miss Darcy, as his sister, was allowed to travel to Pemberley.
“Please, Georgy, give my regards to your brother. Mention my name, perhaps he would remember.”
“Yes, dear sister.” Georgiana clasped her hand and returned to the house, no doubt to pack .
Silence fell over the small group, broken only by the distant bleating of sheep and the soft whisper of wool as Graham absently continued sorting. Elizabeth felt his gaze upon her but could not meet his eyes. She knew what she would find there—pity, concern, and something more dangerous: devotion.
“Perhaps,” Graham finally said, setting aside the wool with deliberate care, “we might speak privately, Mrs. Darcy?”
Elizabeth looked up, surprised by the formal request. “Of course, Mr. Pullen.”
Mary took the letter from Mr. Pullen. “Perhaps I shall share the sad contents with the Honywoods. Lizzy, please don’t overtax yourself.”
“I shall be back at the house to help Georgiana pack,” Elizabeth assured her sister. “Mary, thank you for your counsel. I see that my duty is to keep Darcy’s heir in good health.”
The child within her seemed to sense her distress, shifting restlessly against her ribs. She placed both hands on her belly, trying to calm both herself and the baby.
Once Mary had gone, Graham stood awkwardly before her, his tall frame silhouetted against the sunlight streaming through the open door.