Page 26 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BETWEEN PRIDE AND PATIENCE
Elizabeth awoke to William’s cheerful babbling from his crib beside her bed. The September morning light streamed through the curtains she had neglected to close properly the night before, illuminating her son’s face as he stood gripping the railing, bouncing with impatience for her attention.
“Good morning, my little gentleman,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice despite the leaden weight in her chest. “Have you been conversing with the birds again?”
William grinned, displaying his small collection of teeth. “Mama up!” he commanded, his imperious tone so reminiscent of his father that Elizabeth’s heart contracted painfully.
His father. The man who had looked through her yesterday as if she were part of the furniture—or worse, an unwelcome intrusion into his properly ordered world.
The man who now inhabited Fitzwilliam Darcy’s body but shared none of the tenderness, none of the regard that had bound them together during that fateful storm.
She chided herself for the foolish hope she had nurtured these past months—that somehow, despite Lady Eleanor’s warnings about his memory loss, Darcy would see her across the garden and instantly recognize his wife.
How ridiculous she had been, running headlong across the heather like a heroine in a gothic, expecting him to sweep her into his arms with sudden recognition dawning in his eyes.
“Patience, sir,” she replied, swinging her feet to the floor. “Your mother requires a moment to collect herself before facing the day’s battles.”
And battles they would be, she had no doubt.
If yesterday’s brief encounter had demonstrated anything, it was that Darcy’s injury had stripped away whatever softening of character had led him to love her in the first place.
What remained was the proud, dismissive man she had first met at the Meryton assembly—except now armed with even stronger prejudice against her, given the evidence of her “fallen” state in the form of William.
Once dressed and having supervised William’s morning ablutions, Elizabeth made her way downstairs, her son balanced on her hip.
She had spent half the night debating how to proceed.
The simplest course would be to avoid Darcy entirely—Bellfield Grange was large enough to make this possible, and he would likely spend his days reviewing estate matters with Graham.
But avoidance solved nothing. If Darcy were to recover his memory, it would not be through sheltering him from the truth of his life before the injury.
Mary was already in the breakfast room with a book propped against the teapot.
“You look tired,” Mary observed as Elizabeth settled William in his high chair.
“I slept poorly,” Elizabeth admitted, spooning porridge into a bowl. “It seems being forgotten by one’s own husband is rather detrimental to peaceful rest.”
Mary glanced toward the door, then lowered her voice. “Lady Eleanor wishes to speak with us after breakfast. I believe she intends to discuss how we should proceed regarding Mr. Darcy’s… misapprehensions. ”
“His misapprehensions,” Elizabeth repeated, settling William in the high chair Graham had crafted for him. “What a delicate way of describing his evident belief that I am some fallen woman imposed upon his charity.”
“He cannot help his condition, Lizzy.”
“No, but he can help his manners,” Elizabeth countered, though she immediately regretted her sharpness. “Forgive me. I know his injury explains much. But to look at William—his own son—with such cool indifference…”
The morning room door opened, admitting Lady Eleanor and Georgiana. Of Darcy himself there was no sign.
“My brother has already breakfasted and gone to survey the estate with Mr. Pullen,” Georgiana explained, correctly interpreting Elizabeth’s glance toward the door.
Elizabeth nodded, focusing on William, who was now happily smearing porridge across his face. At least her son remained unaware of the tension that had settled over the household.
Lady Eleanor took the seat beside Elizabeth. “I hoped we might discuss yesterday’s… awkwardness. The physicians warned that Fitzwilliam might form incorrect assumptions based on his fragmented memories, but I confess I was unprepared for the particular conclusions he seems to have drawn.”
“That I am the housekeeper? Or that I am a woman of questionable virtue?” Elizabeth inquired, her tone light despite the bitterness beneath. “I admit I’m curious which role he has assigned me in his reconstruction of reality.”
“Lizzy,” Mary chided quietly.
She caught herself, realizing with a start that she was once again making the same mistake that had plagued her relationship with Darcy from the beginning—assuming the worst of his character based on limited evidence. Had she learned nothing from her past misjudgments?
“I apologize,” she said more softly. “I should not presume to know what passes in his mind. It is… difficult not to feel th e sting of his indifference, but I shall endeavor to be patient.” She met Lady Eleanor’s gaze.
“You have my word that I will not trouble him or press him for recognition he cannot give. I would not risk his recovery for my own pride.”
Lady Eleanor reached across the table to squeeze Elizabeth’s hand.
“My dear, I understand your restraint, but I would not have you tiptoe around him either. Fitzwilliam has never responded well to coddling, even in his current state. The physicians believe that familiar routines and natural interactions are more beneficial than excessive caution. Treat him as you would normally—with respect, of course, but not with fear.”
Elizabeth considered this. “Very well,” she said after a moment. “I shall neither hide from him nor force revelations upon him. But I will not diminish myself or allow William to be treated as anything less than what he is—the rightful heir of Pemberley.”
“That seems a sensible approach,” Lady Eleanor approved. “Now, regarding practical matters—Fitzwilliam has expressed interest in reviewing the library collection this morning. It might be wise to?—”
“I had planned to find a book for William’s nap time,” Elizabeth interrupted. “He has developed a particular fondness for the illustrated volume of children’s tales.”
“Perhaps you could go after luncheon?” Georgiana suggested tentatively.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Are we to rearrange our entire existence to avoid disturbing Mr. Darcy’s peace? I think not. William and I have been residents of Bellfield Grange for over a year. If Mr. Darcy wishes solitude, perhaps he might consider the study instead.”
Georgiana looked startled by this declaration, but Lady Eleanor’s lips twitched with what might have been amusement. “As you wish, my dear. I merely sought to prevent unnecessary unpleasantness.”
“Unpleasantness seems inevitable at present,” Elizabeth replied, though her tone held no resentment—only a weary acceptance of the trials ahead. “But we shall face it with as much grace as we can manage. For all our sakes. ”
Despite her wounded pride and bruised heart, she would proceed with the dignity befitting the woman Fitzwilliam Darcy had once chosen to love.
After a morning of activity, including a walk in the garden and playtime with wooden blocks, William began to show signs of fatigue before his midday nap.
Even though Elizabeth had promised Lady Catherine and Georgiana that she would not deliberately provoke Mr. Darcy, a part of her kicked at the pricks of the indignity he’d subjected her to.
Darcy was once again the proud, insufferable man she’d first rejected.
That he’d cared about her at the Red Lion Inn had been a product of his honor and unwillingness to allow a gentlewoman to be ruined.
She’d always be grateful for his assistance, but to be summarily dismissed, especially along with her son?
No, she had to find a way to perhaps encourage those memories to retrieve themselves.
Hiding and avoiding him would not do.
“Come, William,” she said, lifting her drowsy son into her arms. “Let us see if we can find the tale of the knights and dragons. Though I daresay we have a dragon of our own in residence now.”
The walk to the library felt longer than usual, Elizabeth’s steps slowing as she approached the heavy oak door. She’d rather hoped he would be as disturbed as she was at the prospect of a confrontation.
The library at Bellfield Grange was a handsome room, though modest compared to Pemberley’s grand collection as described by Georgiana.
Tall windows admitted golden autumn light that illuminated the oak shelves and comfortable reading chairs.
And there, seated at the large desk with ledgers spread before him, was Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Elizabeth’s heart leaped at the sight of him looking so much like the man she remembered. His expression was softer, but still guarded, any momentary confusion quickly masked by polite indifference.
“Miss Bennet,” he acknowledged with a slight nod. Instead of returning to his ledger, his gaze moved over her, brow furrowed with disapproval.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth steeled herself underneath his glare. “William and I have come in search of reading material for his nap time.”
“Indeed.” His gaze flickered to William with what appeared to be pain. He blinked and pressed on his temple, smoothing the furrow between his brow. “Pardon me. I seem to have lost my…”
“We shall not disturb you long, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth moved toward the shelves where Lady Eleanor had shown her the collection of children’s volumes, acutely aware of Darcy’s continued observation.
His silence stretched uncomfortably as she searched for something suitable, her cheeks warming under his scrutiny.
“At Pemberley,” Darcy observed, “the servants maintain their own modest library. I was not aware the custom here was to allow household staff access to the family collection.”