Page 22 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

July brought the first letter from Georgiana since springtime with unexpected news.

Dearest Elizabeth,

I write with tidings that I scarcely know how to convey.

Fitzwilliam has made remarkable progress these past weeks.

His speech, though still somewhat halting, has improved considerably.

He dresses himself now, takes short walks in the garden, and has even begun reviewing some simple estate matters under my supervision.

But it is not these improvements that prompt my hasty letter. Yesterday, as we sat in the library, he looked up suddenly and asked, “Did I marry?” Just those three words, spoken with such bewilderment that I nearly wept on the spot.

Before I could answer, Lady Catherine swept in and dismissed the question as nonsense, a lingering confusion from his injury. Fitzwilliam said nothing more on the subject, but I observed him later, turning his bare right hand as if something were missing from it.

The physicians now believe the country air would indeed benefit his recovery.

Lady Catherine insists on Pemberley, but I have suggested Bellfield Grange instead.

The argument continues, but I have reason to hope that we may prevail.

Lady Eleanor supports my position, and even Lady Catherine cannot entirely dismiss her.

I dare not say more, lest I kindle hopes that might yet be dashed. But I could not keep this development from you.

Your devoted sister,

Georgiana

Elizabeth read the letter twice, her hands trembling so violently that Mary noticed from across the room where she was supervising William’s play.

“Lizzy? What is it? Is Mr. Darcy worse?”

“No,” Elizabeth whispered. “He asked about marriage. He’s beginning to remember.”

Mary’s expression softened with rare emotion. “Oh, Lizzy.”

“And Georgiana thinks they might come to Bellfield Grange,” Elizabeth continued, her voice gaining strength. “He might come here, Mary. He might see William.”

“That would be…” Mary hesitated, clearly torn between encouraging her sister’s hopes and protecting her from potential disappointment. “That would be a significant development.”

Elizabeth laughed, the sound startling William, who looked up from his toys with a curious expression. “A significant development? Mary, it would be everything. To have Fitzwilliam here, to see him with William, to have a chance to help him remember?—”

“If he comes,” Mary cautioned. “And if his memory can be restored. Those remain substantial ‘ifs,’ Lizzy.”

“I know,” Elizabeth admitted, sobering slightly. “But after so many months of uncertainty, even the possibility feels like a gift.”

August 1813

William celebrated his first birthday with a small party in the garden.

Graham had fashioned him a rocking horse from oak, its craftsmanship rivaling anything found in London’s finest nurseries.

William approached the gift with his characteristic solemnity, running his small hands over the smooth wood before attempting to climb aboard.

He charmed everyone, resplendent in a new outfit sent by Lady Eleanor, as he took several wobbly steps between Graham and Mary before collapsing in a fit of delighted giggles.

“He’ll be running before we know it,” Graham predicted, scooping the child up and settling him on his shoulders—a position that had become William’s favorite vantage point for surveying his domain.

“Heaven help us all when that day comes,” Elizabeth replied, watching her son’s gleeful expression as he tangled his hands in Graham’s hair. “He’s already too clever by half at finding mischief.”

“Like his mother,” Mary observed with a small smile.

“I was never mischievous,” Elizabeth protested. “Merely curious.”

“As you say,” Mary replied dryly.

August 24, 1813: One year old today, my darling boy.

You charmed everyone with your serious concentration on your birthday cake, which you dissected with scientific precision before deigning to taste it.

Graham’s gift delights you—though you cannot yet climb aboard unassisted, you pat the wooden horse with reverent appreciation.

Your first word remains “da-da-da,” though you now produce it with greater variety of expression.

I choose to believe you are calling for your father.

As summer waned, Elizabeth found herself fighting increasing despair.

She had eagerly waited for a notice from either Georgiana or Lady Eleanor that Darcy would visit Bellfield Grange, however her sister-in-law did not wish to despair her with bad news, and perhaps silence was better than the alternate.

September 10, 1813: William took his first independent steps today—ten tottering paces from the settee to Graham’s waiting arms. I should be overjoyed at this milestone, and I am, but oh, Fitzwilliam, how I wish those first steps had been toward you instead.

Graham’s face lit with such pride and joy that I thought he might weep.

He has earned this moment through months of patient encouragement, yet I cannot help feeling that I have somehow failed you by allowing another man to witness what should have been yours to see.

With that constant pang in her heart, Elizabeth found joy where she could, discussing books and ideas with Mary, baking with Mrs. Honywood, and of course, watching her son tottering around the house, exploring everything he found.

“Come along, young master,” Graham called, his face bright with affection. “Show us those fine steps.”

William toddled forward with intense concentration, his chubby hands extended for balance. When he reached Graham’s waiting arms, both man and child dissolved into delighted laughter.

Elizabeth smiled at their play, her heart warm despite the familiar ache. Graham had become the father figure William needed, the steady presence that?—

The sound of hoofbeats interrupted her thoughts. It was a messenger bearing an express. Graham paid the messenger and brought the letter to Elizabeth. Excitement sheened on his forehead.

The letter was from Lady Eleanor.

My dear Elizabeth,

Circumstances have developed more rapidly than anticipated.

Fitzwilliam’s physicians now strongly recommend a change of scenery to aid his continued recovery.

After considerable debate, it has been decided that Bellfield Grange offers the ideal combination of fresh air, quiet surroundings, and distance from London’s prying eyes.

We shall arrive the last week of September, barring any delays. Georgiana and I will accompany Fitzwilliam, along with his valet. Lady Catherine remains vehemently opposed to this plan but has been overruled by the combined authority of the medical professionals and myself.

I must caution you that while Fitzwilliam has shown remarkable physical improvement, his memory remains fragmented.

He occasionally asks about a wife but seems confused by his own question.

He has no recollection of Hertfordshire or the events at the Red Lion Inn.

The physicians advise against any sudden revelations that might overwhelm his recovering mind.

Furthermore, Fitzwilliam has been accosted on the streets by unknown women claiming to be his wife.

Such encounters have only confused and distressed him further.

In these situations, the best practice is for Fitzwilliam to regain his own memories so that he is sure they are truly his.

We shall discuss how best to proceed upon our arrival. Until then, take heart in knowing that this significant step would not be possible were it not for Fitzwilliam’s improved condition.

With warmest regards,

Eleanor Blackmore

Elizabeth read the letter aloud to Mary and the Honywoods, her voice steadying as she absorbed the implications. Fitzwilliam was coming to Bellfield Grange. In just over a fortnight, he would be here—breathing the same air, walking the same paths, perhaps even meeting his son for the first time.

“This is wonderful news,” Mary said cautiously. “Though Lady Eleanor’s warning about his memory is concerning.”

“He is improved enough to travel,” Elizabeth pointed out. “That alone is cause for celebration.”

Graham had remained silent, his expression unreadable as he continued to hold William on his shoulders. Now he spoke, his voice carefully neutral.

“Will you tell him immediately? About the marriage, I mean, and about William?”

Elizabeth considered the question, understanding its importance to Graham as well as to herself.

“I don’t know. Lady Eleanor suggests caution, and the physicians must know best how to manage his recovery.

I shall be guided by their advice, though it pains me to contemplate any deception, even one born of medical necessity. ”

Graham nodded, his eyes reflecting a complexity of emotions he did not voice. “Well then,” he said after a moment, summoning a smile for William’s benefit, “it seems the young master will be meeting his father soon. We should ensure he presents himself to best advantage.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said softly, recognizing the personal cost of Graham’s gracious response. “For everything.”