Page 24 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER TWELVE

A STRANGER’S GLIMPSE

The jostling of the carriage on the Yorkshire roads pained Fitzwilliam Darcy more than he would admit.

There was the persistent ache behind his temple, the stiffness of his back, and various healed bones that weren’t quite straight.

He stared at the landscape rolling past, rolling green hills dotted with white sheep like scattered clouds fallen to earth, another irritating reminder of all he had lost.

Almost two years of his life had vanished like a misty raincloud, and he’d awakened to this nightmare diminished in a manner that grieved him.

The way people tiptoed around him, speaking in hush voices, exchanging meaningful glances, and the maddening sense that crucial information was being withheld for his supposed benefit.

“Are you comfortable, Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “We could stop if you need to rest.”

“I am perfectly well,” he replied, more sharply than intended. Her face fell, and he immediately regretted his tone. “Forgive me. The journey is… taxing.”

“We should arrive within the quarter hour,” Aunt Eleanor observed, her tone carrying the particular brightness reserved for invalids and children. “I am certain the country air will prove beneficial to your recovery.”

Darcy inclined his head politely, though inwardly he bristled at the implication that he required special consideration. His mind, they assured him, was sharp as ever—merely missing certain fragments that might or might not return in time.

It was those missing fragments that plagued him most. Not the lost memories themselves, for one could hardly mourn what one could not recall, but the way others reacted to their absence.

The pitying looks, the careful omissions, the obvious relief when he failed to ask uncomfortable questions.

Most disturbing of all were the persistent rumors that had reached his ears in London—wild tales of secret marriages and compromised women that bore no resemblance to any life he could imagine living.

“You always loved Bellfield Grange,” Georgiana said. “The rolling hills dotted with sheep, the streams filled with fish… harvest time, so picturesque, Brother.”

“A sheep farm,” Darcy said flatly. “How… invigorating.”

“You enjoyed your visits there,” Lady Eleanor replied evenly. “The simplicity of the place appealed to you.”

Had it? Darcy could not recall ever expressing such a sentiment. The Darcy he remembered valued refinement, elegance, and the ordered grandeur of Pemberley. Not the rustic isolation of a sheep farm, however prosperous it might be.

But then, the Darcy he remembered would never have engaged in a hasty marriage at a coaching inn, if the whispers he had overheard were to be believed.

The very notion was absurd. He, who valued propriety above all, who had spent his life upholding the Darcy name, would never act with such reckless disregard for family honor and social standing.

Yet everyone around him behaved as if he were some impulsive stranger capable of any folly.

“The physicians believe the quiet here will benefit your recovery,” Georgiana ventured, clearly trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“The physicians believe many things,” Darcy replied coldly. “Including that I am too fragile to manage my own estate, despite having done so since Father died.”

“Pemberley is… extensive,” Lady Eleanor said diplomatically. “The responsibilities would tax even someone in perfect health.”

The reminder of his failure stung. His first attempt to review estate matters at Pemberley had ended in disaster—ledgers that made no sense, tenants whose names he could not recall, improvements begun under his direction that he had no memory of ordering.

He had retreated to his chambers, overwhelmed and humiliated, only to be discovered hours later by his valet, staring blankly at the walls.

The physicians had declared him “overstimulated” and prescribed this exile to Yorkshire.

“The farm has prospered under Mr. Pullen’s management,” Aunt Eleanor said, apparently deciding to engage his business mind.

“The quality of wool has increased significantly through his selective breeding program. He’s engaged a pair of brilliant minds to improve both pasture quality and sheep health.

The ledgers show a fifteen percent increase in profits since last season. ”

“I had not thought Pullen required additional assistance,” Darcy commented, remembering his capable steward. “Pullen has always been the sort to consult me on such matters.”

Lady Eleanor’s hands tightened almost imperceptibly in her lap. “Mr. Pullen has been most conscientious in seeking appropriate guidance during your… absence, Fitzwilliam. He has proven most… accommodating to our unusual circumstances.”

There it was again—that careful phrasing that suggested layers of meaning he was not privy to. Darcy made no comment, having learned that direct inquiries often yielded only more evasions wrapped in gentle concern for his health .

“There it is,” Georgiana said, pointing ahead as the carriage crested a hill.

Bellfield Grange came into view—a substantial stone farmhouse surrounded by outbuildings, barns, and rolling pastures dotted with sheep. It was handsome in a rustic way, Darcy conceded reluctantly, though nothing like the elegant architecture of Pemberley.

Darcy noted the property’s condition. The stone buildings were well-maintained, the fencing sound, and the sheep visible in distant paddocks appeared healthy and numerous.

And, as if alerted to his inspection, Graham Pullen himself strode into view, carrying a small boy on his shoulders.

His wife carried a basket of apples, and to Darcy’s inexplicable shock, the woman dropped it and tore into a run. Had she left a pot boiling?

Darcy couldn’t help admiring her health and the way she leaped gracefully over the stiles and hedgerows.

But he caught himself. Perhaps his eye had become roving after his head injury.

More likely, he was unable to focus and hence it appeared to women that he was studying them when he was retreating into the safety of his mind.

“They’re there,” Georgiana bounced on the squabs excitedly as the carriage pulled to a stop. “I cannot believe how big William has gotten.”

“Allow me.” Darcy picked up his cane and hobbled off the carriage as the gentleman to hand the ladies down.

Even though his legs tingled with numbness, he leaned on the cane and assisted first his aunt and then his sister who leaped off with grace as she rushed toward the woman who’s eyes remained fixed on him.

Her cheeks were pink and windblown. Her hair had fallen from its pins. She wore no bonnet, and her hems were torn and muddy. If he were Graham, he would…

But no, this was not his place. He would greet his steward and be introduced, as proper.

“Elizabeth, sister,” Georgiana shouted in a most unladylike manner as the two women joined hands.

Darcy turned away to pay his respects to their hosts, the Honywoods who had raised his Aunt Eleanor when her parents sent her away due to a superstition about twins. He’d decided that if he were ever blessed with twins, he would pray over both and keep them together in the same cradle.

But he would never enjoy that blessing. He was a shell of the man he was, plagued by rumors of compromise and dozens of unrecognized heirs. Indeed, how could one man sweep the countryside in a matter of months, all conveniently within the three months of lost memory?

Graham was fortunate. A wife and child. Life had continued for everyone while Darcy had lain unconscious. People had married, had children, moved forward while he remained trapped in fragments of the past.

“Da-da, car!” The child’s voice drew his attention.

How curious. The boy was as dark as Graham was fair, and that discriminating scowl? So unlike his steward’s openly kind disposition.

It was the woman, however, who discomposed him. She approached him, with Georgiana, staring most unseemly at him as if expecting recognition. Her fine eyes held an intensity that was entirely inappropriate for their stations.

Impudent chit.

He turned away, sparing her a “good day,” embarrassed for his steward. Life in Yorkshire evidently bred a certain informality that would never be tolerated at Pemberley.

Georgiana’s eager greeting of the woman puzzled him further.

His sister had never been one to form attachments easily, yet she embraced this disheveled country girl with genuine affection.

Had his prolonged absence resulted in such a complete abandonment of proper distinctions?

He would need to address this with Georgiana privately.

Compassion for one’s dependents was commendable, but excessive familiarity only created confusion and impropriety.

“Mr. Darcy.” Pullen approached with a respectful bow, the child still balanced on his shoulders. “Welcome to Bellfield Grange, sir. We are honored by your presence.”

“Pullen,” Darcy acknowledged with a nod. “I understand you have managed the property capably in my absence.”

“I have endeavored to do so, sir,” Pullen replied, his Yorkshire accent more pronounced than Darcy remembered from their university days. “The flocks have prospered, and this year’s wool fetched excellent prices at market.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” Darcy’s gaze moved to the child. “I see congratulations are in order. You have been… productive… in other areas as well.”

Pullen’s face turned to stone. His wife went pale, while Aunt Eleanor and Georgiana exchanged one of their meaningful glances.

“I am not married, sir,” Pullen said carefully. “Young William here belongs to…” He paused, seeming to search for appropriate words. “That is, he is in the care of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”