Page 19 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER TEN
FURROWED FIRSTS
Elizabeth cradled her son against her chest. He was such a serious little creature, his face pinched red and his tiny fists curled tight.
And she couldn’t believe she could love anyone more.
He was a miniature echo of his father, his brow carrying that same serious furrow she’d grown to love.
Her fingers gently smoothed her son’s tiny brows, and the babe’s eyes fluttered open briefly before closing again in contented sleep.
The newborn blue would surely darken to Darcy’s rich brown. His head was already crowned with his father’s dark hair, soft and silky.
“He has the Darcy look about him,” Georgiana whispered from her position at Elizabeth’s bedside. “See how his chin already shows that stubborn set?”
“I was thinking the same,” Elizabeth replied.
Her emotions were choked with wonder and grief in equal measure.
Six hours had passed since William had entered the world after a labor that had tested every ounce of her endurance.
Six hours of studying his perfect features, searching for traces of Fitzwilliam in every line and angle.
Mary leaned closer, softly stroking the babe’s head. “He is beautiful, Lizzy. Truly beautiful. I wish Jane were here. Oh, and Kitty and Lydia would have such a laugh at the miniature Darcy.”
“My brother was so much older than me,” Georgiana said. “It’s hard to imagine him as small and vulnerable.”
“May I?” She extended her arms, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Of course.” Elizabeth carefully transferred her son to his aunt’s embrace. Both Georgiana’s and Mary’s faces gleamed with tenderness as they cooed over the little one.
“Hello, little nephew.” Georgiana’s voice caught. “Meet your Aunt Gina.”
“And your Aunt Mary,” Mary added, no doubt eager to hold the baby next. “I shall read the Psalms over you until your father comes home.”
“And I shall teach you not to be so serious.” Georgiana giggled. “You must have some of Elizabeth’s good humor inside you, too.”
The sight of Darcy’s sister holding his son while he lay unconscious miles away brought a lump to Elizabeth’s throat.
Dearest God, Elizabeth prayed silently, let Fitzwilliam live to see this child. Let him recover enough to know that our love created this miracle. Do not let death claim him before he can hold his son.
Mrs. Honywood peeked her head into the room. She was the grandmother Elizabeth and Mary never had.
“I believe your dear Mr. Pullen is quite wearing out the floorboards out there,” Mrs. Honywood said. “He has refused all suggestions of rest or refreshment.”
Elizabeth gulped, taking back her son from his aunts. “I suppose he might be permitted to see the child.”
“With your permission, of course, Mrs. Darcy.” Mrs. Honywood exchanged a knowing glance with Mary—one of well-meaning concern.
Everyone other than she and Georgiana feared Darcy might not recover, and that if he did, the marriage would be denied.
Their pitying looks suggested they believed her clinging to Darcy as desperation born of the compromise at the Red Lion Inn.
They accepted that the babe was Darcy’s son, but they no doubt believe it wiser for her to take Mr. Pullen’s offer.
“I shall fetch Mr. Pullen,” Mary said, rising from her chair. “Though I imagine he will be quite tongue-tied in the presence of an infant.”
When Mary had gone, Elizabeth looked up at Georgiana, whose tear-streaked face betrayed the conflicting emotions of the day—joy for the new life and terror for her brother’s fading one.
“You will be leaving soon,” Elizabeth said, not a question but a recognition of necessity.
Georgiana nodded, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. “Lady Eleanor’s letter said I must come immediately if I wish to… to see him before…”
She could not complete the thought, and Elizabeth reached for her hand.
“You must tell him,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Tell him he has a son. Tell him William Fitzwilliam Darcy was born on the twenty-fourth of August. Even if he cannot respond, perhaps he will hear you.”
“I will,” Georgiana promised. “And I shall defend your claim to any who question it.”
The door opened, admitting Graham Pullen, his broad-shouldered frame seeming too large for the intimate space of the birthing room. He stood awkwardly at the threshold, hat in hand, his kind face alight with wonder.
“Mrs. Darcy,” he said, his Yorkshire accent more pronounced with emotion. “Miss Mary said you wished to see me.”
“I thought you might like to meet William,” Elizabeth said, adjusting the blanket to reveal more of the infant’s face.
“He is a fine lad,” he said softly. “Strong, by the look of him.”
“Would you like to hold him?” Elizabeth asked impulsively.
Alarm flashed across Graham’s features. “Oh, I couldn’t—I haven’t the first idea how to?—”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Honywood interjected. “Every person should hold a babe at least once. Sit there, in that chair, and mind his head.”
Before Graham could marshal further objections, the baby was transferred to his arms. The man froze, clearly terrified of making a wrong movement, his weathered hands enormous against the tiny form they now cradled.
“There now,” Mrs. Honywood approved. “You’ll do well enough.”
Graham stared down at William with an expression of such tender awe that Elizabeth felt tears spring to her eyes. The baby stirred, opening his blue eyes to study this new face with grave attention.
“He has quite the stare,” Graham observed, his voice thick with emotion. “Reminds me of someone I knew at Cambridge. Fellow who could reduce grown men to stammering fools with a single look.”
Elizabeth’s heart clenched. “Yes, he has his father’s way of seeing straight through nonsense.”
“I shall pray for your husband’s recovery,” Graham said quietly. “And I shall pray for this little one to grow strong in his father’s image.”
The simple sincerity of his words broke something in Elizabeth. Tears she had been holding at bay spilled freely down her cheeks.
“Thank you.”
Graham carefully returned William to her arms, his movements more confident now. “You have a fine son, Mrs. Darcy. A son any father would be proud to claim.”
In those words, Elizabeth heard his acceptance—not just of her child, but of her marriage, whether he fully believed in its legitimacy or not. It was a gift she had not expected and valued all the more for its rarity .
“Georgiana leaves tomorrow for London,” Elizabeth said. “To be with her brother.”
Graham nodded gravely. “I shall arrange the carriage myself, and select our steadiest pair for the journey.”
“You are too kind,” Georgiana said.
“Not at all, Miss Darcy,” Graham replied. “It is what your brother would wish, were he able to express it.”
After Graham had gone, Mrs. Honywood approached with a cup of strengthening broth. “You should rest now. The young gentleman here will be wanting to nurse soon enough, and you’ll need your strength.”
But Elizabeth could not rest. How could she sleep when Darcy might be drawing his last breath? When their son might grow up never knowing his father’s voice or feeling his embrace?
But she sipped the broth as Mrs. Honywood cuddled her son. She would have to be strong. She was a mother now, and this perfect piece of Darcy was all she had right now, ensuring she would never be truly alone even if the worst came to pass.
“I have something for him,” Georgiana said suddenly, reaching into her pocket. She withdrew a small silver rattle, exquisitely crafted with the Darcy crest. “It was Fitzwilliam’s when he was a baby. Lady Eleanor gave it to me before I left London, in case… in case we should need it.”
“It’s beautiful,” Elizabeth said.
“It belongs to the Darcy heir,” Georgiana said firmly.
Elizabeth accepted the rattle, tears threatening again. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For believing me when so few do.”
“My brother would never have written of marriage if it were not real,” Georgiana said. “He takes such matters far too seriously for that.”
“I shall hold onto that.” Elizabeth let her sister kiss her before departing. “Godspeed on your journey.”
Georgiana departed the following morning, her face pale but determined as Graham handed her into the carriage. Elizabeth, still weak from childbirth, watched from her bedroom window, William asleep in her arms.
“She will speak for us,” she told her son. “And perhaps your father will hear her.”
Days melted into weeks, the rhythm of Elizabeth’s life now dictated by William’s needs. She was surprised to discover how naturally she adapted to motherhood, finding in it a purpose that filled the hollow spaces grief had carved within her.
Mary proved to be a capable aunt, eager to care for the infant with the same meticulous attention she had once applied to her improving books and piano exercises.
Mrs. Honywood provided the practical wisdom, often regaling Elizabeth with stories of Lady Eleanor as an infant along with her own daughter who was born the same year.
Apparently, Darcy’s grandmother had shunted Lady Eleanor to a pair of guardians according to an old superstition regarding twin births, and Lady Eleanor had grown up at the grange along with the five Honywood children.
William was given the old oak cradle that had seen generations of Honywoods.
Graham, steady and dependable, was present exactly when needed: bringing extra firewood on chilly nights, ensuring the pantry remained well-stocked, even reading aloud from agricultural journals while Elizabeth nursed, his deep voice soothing both mother and child.
Georgiana’s first letter arrived three weeks after William’s birth.
Dearest Elizabeth,