Page 20 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

I have arrived safely at Darcy House. Fitzwilliam remains gravely ill, though the pneumonia has begun to subside.

The physicians speak of cautious optimism, but Lady Catherine speaks only of arrangements and legalities.

She has taken up residence here and directs all aspects of his care with an iron hand .

I told him of William’s birth yesterday, during a brief period when he seemed somewhat alert.

I cannot say with certainty that he understood, but I fancy his expression changed at the mention of a son.

Lady Catherine was, of course, furious with me for mentioning such “absurd fabrications” in the sickroom, but I shall not be silenced on this matter.

The locket with a tuft of William’s hair sits on Fitzwilliam’s bedside table. I tell him daily that his son flourishes and grows strong, awaiting his recovery. Whether he hears or comprehends, I cannot say, but I believe it is right that he should know.

Give William my love. I miss you both terribly.

Your devoted sister,

Georgiana

Elizabeth pressed the letter to her heart, imagining Darcy listening to news of his son, perhaps fighting harder to return to them. It was a slender hope, but she clung to it nonetheless.

Autumn painted the Yorkshire countryside in brilliant hues of gold and crimson.

William grew plumper, his expressions more defined—the Darcy frown appearing with increasing frequency, particularly when his meals were delayed or his nappy uncomfortable.

Elizabeth found herself laughing at these small signs of his heritage, storing away each resemblance to share with Fitzwilliam should they ever be reunited.

She had started a journal for her husband so he would not miss any of William’s moments.

September 1812

William grows strong each day. His serious blue gaze tracks my every movement around the room, and he grips my fingers with surprising strength. I fancy he has inherited your tenacious nature along with your serious fortitude.

October brought Georgiana’s second letter.

My dear Elizabeth,

There has been a development that I scarcely dare call promising, and yet it has given us all renewed hope.

Fitzwilliam has awakened from his prolonged unconsciousness.

He is not himself—indeed, he speaks little and seems confused about his circumstances—but the physicians assure us that this is not uncommon after such extensive injury.

He recognizes me, I believe, though he has yet to speak my name.

He watches the movements in his room with a puzzled expression that breaks my heart.

The great mind that once managed vast estates and recalled the minutest details of business transactions now struggles to follow simple conversations.

Lady Catherine speaks of moving him to Pemberley once he is strong enough to travel.

She claims the familiar surroundings might aid his recovery, though I suspect her true motivation is to remove him from London gossip.

There have been whispers, it seems, of more than one woman claiming to be his wife.

Lady Catherine does what she can to silence them.

I have shown him the small sketch of William that Mary sent. He studied it for a long while but gave no indication of recognition. When I mentioned Hertfordshire, hoping to prompt some memory of you, he turned away as if the word itself caused pain.

I share these truths not to distress you, but because I believe you would wish to know the reality of his condition. The physicians say recovery from such injuries can take many forms—some patients regain all faculties while others remain permanently altered. We can only wait and pray .

With deepest affection,

Georgiana

This letter Elizabeth read alone, by candlelight, after William had been settled for the night.

The words blurred through her tears, hope and dread warring within her breast. Fitzwilliam lived—was awake, even—yet the man Georgiana described seemed a shadow of the proud, decisive gentleman who had claimed her heart at the Red Lion.

Would he ever remember their brief time together? Would he ever know his son except as a stranger’s child thrust unexpectedly into his life?

Elizabeth found herself in the unusual position of having no witty observation to mask her pain, no clever remark to deflect her fear. She allowed herself this one night of raw grief before donning her armor of determined optimism come morning.

October 12, 1812

William smiled today! William smiled today!

Not wind, as Mrs. Honywood suggested, but a real smile when I sang to him.

He has your way of listening to music, Fitzwilliam, as if every note carries profound meaning, but he laughs joyously when I tickle him.

I suspect he has your dry wit mixed with Lydia’s hysterics.

Graham walked in with a load of firewood as Elizabeth set her pen down. “He’s a happy baby, and takes after you, Mrs. Darcy. His eyes are especially perceptive, although the rest of him is all Darcy, as I recall from Cambridge days.”

“He does smile more readily than his father,” Elizabeth acknowledged. “Though Fitzwilliam’s smile, when it appeared, was quite devastating in its effect. ”

Graham nodded, his expression carefully neutral whenever Darcy was mentioned. “Miss Georgiana writes regularly, I see.”

“She does.” Elizabeth sighed, shifting William to her shoulder. “Though her news is… inconsistent. Some days she reports improvement, others decline. It seems Fitzwilliam’s recovery follows no predictable path.”

“The mind is a mysterious thing,” Graham said quietly. “My father’s cousin suffered a fall from horseback when I was a boy. He lived another ten years but was never the same man. Recognized no one, spoke only in fragments of sentences that made sense to him alone.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly against the image his words conjured. “I cannot bear to think of Fitzwilliam so altered.”

“Forgive me,” Graham said quickly. “I should not have spoken of such things.”

“No, I value your honesty,” Elizabeth assured him. “Too many speak to me in carefully measured platitudes, as if I might shatter at the slightest provocation. I would rather face difficult truths than be coddled with comforting lies.”

Graham set the firewood at the hearth and studied her with admiration. “You have remarkable strength, Elizabeth.”

“Not strength,” she corrected gently. “Necessity. William needs me whole and present, not fractured by fears of what might be.”

As if recognizing his name, the baby gurgled and waved a tiny fist. Graham smiled and offered his finger, which William promptly seized with surprising force.

“Strong grip,” Graham noted with approval. “He’ll make a fine horseman one day.”

“Like his father,” Elizabeth said softly.

Graham’s smile dimmed almost imperceptibly before returning. “Yes, of course. Like his father.”

October 28th: Our son has begun to follow my movements with his eyes, turning his head to track my voice across the room.

Graham carved him a small wooden horse, which William examines with the gravity of a judge reviewing evidence.

He cannot yet reach for it purposefully, but his attention is utterly focused—another trait he clearly inherits from his father.

November 1812

The first snow brought another letter from Georgiana, this one more dispiriting than the last.

Fitzwilliam has been moved back to London, where the physicians hope the bustling surroundings might stimulate his recovery.

He walks now, though slowly, and can feed himself simple meals.

But Elizabeth, I fear you would not recognize him.

The vital, commanding man you knew seems trapped behind his eyes.

He follows instructions but shows no initiative, no spark of the intelligence that once dazzled us all.

Elizabeth wept over that letter, her tears falling onto William’s soft hair as she nursed him. Her son gazed up at her with solemn gray-blue eyes that were starting to darken, as if he understood her grief.

November 30th: William has discovered his hands!

He spends long minutes studying his own fingers and swatting everything in sight.

He has begun to make small sounds—not quite crying, not quite cooing, but something uniquely his own.

I imagine these are his first attempts at conversation.

I shall endeavor to teach him proper conversation for the dance floor, sir.

Christmas arrived, bringing with it unexpected gifts.

From Lady Eleanor came an elegant christening gown of finest linen, embroidered with the Darcy crest—a silent acknowledgment of William’s heritage that moved Elizabeth to tears.

Georgiana sent a leather-bound volume of children’s tales with an inscription that read: For William Fitzwilliam Darcy, from his loving aunt.

Even the Honywoods, who had maintained a certain reserve regarding Elizabeth’s claims, presented William with a small leather-bound Bible bearing the initials W. F. D.

December 25th: William can now reach for objects with purpose, though his aim requires improvement.

He spent Christmas dinner staring intently at the plum pudding, his little arms waving as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

When I held him closer to the table, he managed to pat the serving spoon with great satisfaction.

I swear he inherited your methodical approach to new experiences, my dear husband.

He studies everything as if committing it to memory for future reference.

Graham gave Elizabeth a beautiful leather-bound journal, its pages waiting to be filled with more memories for Darcy. His gift came with a card that read simply, For all the love letters you’ll write to the future.