Page 44 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CORN DOLLIES AND CONSEQUENCE
Darcy surveyed the breakfast table with a sense of displacement that had become all too familiar in recent weeks. Lady Eleanor’s announcement had caught him entirely off guard.
“I must depart for London this morning,” she had declared, buttering her toast with the same casual air she might employ when discussing the weather. “A matter regarding some investments requires my attention.”
“London?” Darcy had repeated, aware he sounded rather dull-witted. “But the harvest festival preparations?—”
“Will proceed admirably under your guidance,” Lady Eleanor had finished for him. “The festival will do you good, Fitzwilliam. Remind you of what truly matters beyond London society and its suffocating conventions.”
And that had been that. His aunt’s carriage was already being packed, her lady’s maid fluttering about with last-minute items, while Darcy found himself unexpectedly appointed master of ceremonies for a rural tradition he scarcely remembered.
Her departure felt like a test—though of what, exactly, he could not determine .
Most unsettling of all, it left him alone to navigate the increasingly problematic matter of his attraction to Elizabeth Bennet.
The woman appeared in the breakfast room doorway, her son balanced on her hip. William’s dark eyes—those unnervingly familiar eyes that sparked recognition he could neither explain nor ignore—fixed immediately on Darcy with delighted recognition.
“Da-Da-Da!” the child announced, pounding his small fist against his mother’s shoulder.
Elizabeth’s face flushed scarlet, her composure cracking. “William, no. It’s Darcy, remember? Darcy.”
Darcy felt something tighten in his chest at the exchange. The child’s attempt to call him “Da-Da” should have meant nothing, yet it stirred longings he had no right to entertain.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her voice carefully modulated despite the lingering color in her cheeks. “I hope we are not intruding on your breakfast. I heard Lady Eleanor’s carriage departing and thought perhaps…”
“Not at all,” Darcy replied, rising automatically as training demanded.
The conventional courtesy felt inadequate given the way his pulse had quickened at the sight of her.
Her morning dress was a simple sky-blue muslin, yet it complemented her coloring in a way that struck him as almost calculated to attract masculine attention. “Please, join me.”
She settled William into his modified chair—a process that involved considerable negotiation regarding the placement of his cup and the acceptable distance between his spoon and his plate.
Darcy found himself watching this domestic routine with fascination that bordered on impropriety, noting the gentle patience with which she guided her son’s small hands.
What manner of gentleman took such absorbing interest in another man’s child? What manner of fool allowed himself to be charmed by a woman whose circumstances placed her entirely beyond the bounds of respectable connection ?
William, having been provided with a piece of bread and some apple slices, regarded Darcy with undisguised fascination.
“Da-da, da-see,” the boy declared, pointing a jam-sticky finger at him.
“Darcy,” Elizabeth said. “It’s Dar-see.”
Darcy nearly choked on his tea. “I beg your pardon?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks colored as she wiped her son’s hands with a napkin. “He’s trying to say your name, Mr. Darcy. We’ve been practicing, haven’t we, William? Mr. Dar-see.”
“Da-see!” the child agreed happily, clearly pleased with himself.
“A creditable attempt,” Darcy managed, ignoring the curious pang of disappointment that had accompanied Elizabeth’s explanation.
“He’s quite determined to master everyone’s names,” Elizabeth continued. “Though his pronunciation leaves something to be desired. Poor Mary remains ‘May’ and Georgiana has been relegated to ‘Ana.’”
“Children do have their own peculiar logic when it comes to language,” Darcy observed, relieved to find himself on firmer conversational ground. “Georgiana once spent an entire summer referring to me exclusively as ‘Fitz,’ much to my father’s amusement and my mother’s dismay.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened at this small confidence. “I can imagine Lady Anne preferring the dignity of your full name.”
“She did,” Darcy confirmed, surprised by the ease with which the memory surfaced. “Though I believe her objection stemmed more from the fact that ‘Fitz’ was my father’s name for me. She insisted on maintaining the distinction.”
“A reasonable concern,” Elizabeth noted with a small smile. “One wouldn’t want to confuse the Fitzes with the Williamses.”
Their eyes met with meaning, and Darcy found himself strangely reluctant to look away. There was something in Elizabeth’s gaze—a warmth, an intelligence, a quiet humor—that drew him with a force he could neither explain nor resist .
The arrival of Mary and Georgiana spared him from this uncomfortable awareness, introducing a general conversation about Lady Eleanor’s abrupt departure and the upcoming harvest festivities. Darcy retreated into silence, observing the easy camaraderie.
“Will you be joining us for the corn dolly making this afternoon, Brother?” Georgiana asked, interrupting his reverie.
“Corn dolly making?” Darcy repeated blankly.
“For the harvest festival,” Mary explained, her typically serious expression softening. “It is traditional to fashion figures from the last sheaves of grain. They are said to contain the spirit of the harvest.”
“I cannot claim any particular skill in such endeavors,” Darcy demurred.
“Nor can I,” Elizabeth admitted with refreshing candor. “My attempts last year resembled nothing so much as a bundle of sticks having suffered a most unfortunate accident.”
Darcy found himself smiling despite his best intentions. “Then perhaps I might be permitted to observe this year, rather than inflict my own clumsy attempts on the tradition.”
“Nonsense,” Georgiana declared with unusual firmness. “Everyone participates. It’s tradition.”
“And one does not trifle with tradition at Bellfield Grange,” Elizabeth added, her eyes dancing with amusement.
Darcy found himself cornered. “Very well,” he conceded. “Though I warn you all in advance that my artistic abilities are limited to an unfortunately accurate rendering of a horse I once sketched at age twelve.”
“One talent is the perfect foundation for another,” Elizabeth replied. “I have no doubt your horsemanship will translate admirably to corn dollies.”
The absurdity of this statement, delivered with such apparent sincerity, startled a hearty laugh from Darcy. It felt strange—that unfamiliar sensation of amusement bubbling up from somewhere long dormant. When had he last laughed? He could not recall .
“I see the great Mr. Darcy is laughing,” Elizabeth said, smoothing her son’s dark curls. “A rare and noteworthy event.”
“I am not quite so somber as all that,” Darcy protested mildly.
“Aren’t you?” Georgiana challenged with sisterly frankness. “I believe this is the first time I’ve heard you laugh since your return to Bellfield.”
Put that way, Darcy could hardly dispute the observation. He had been preoccupied with his recovery, with his lost memories, with understanding the strange dynamics at Bellfield Grange. Laughter had seemed a frivolity he could ill afford.
Yet now, in the warm morning light of the breakfast room, surrounded by these women who seemed so at ease with one another, he felt something rigid within him begin to soften. Perhaps a little frivolity was not entirely without merit.
“Then I shall endeavor to provide more regular amusement,” he said dryly. “Though I warn you, my repertoire of jokes is limited primarily to Latin puns that were considered outdated even at Cambridge.”
“I shall look forward to them nonetheless,” Elizabeth replied, her eyes still bright with that unexpectedly captivating mirth.
“Da-see!” William called again, holding out his hand to beg for the slice of apple Darcy had on his fork.
“Brother!” Georgiana exclaimed, a smile brightening her face. “William is calling you Darcy. He likes you.”
“I fear your brother has quite won my son’s affections through shameless bribery with sweet apples,” Elizabeth remarked dryly.
The casual mention of William’s affection for him sent an inexplicable surge of satisfaction through Darcy’s veins. When had he last cared so deeply about a child’s good opinion? When had such innocent approval meant more to him than the calculated flattery of London society?
“Surely one apple cannot purchase such devoted attachment,” he replied, fighting to maintain appropriate distance even as every instinct urged him to lean closer to Elizabeth’s warmth .
“You underestimate the way William’s stomach is tied to his affections.”
“Then I shall have to appeal directly to the seat of his regard,” Darcy replied with unexpected playfulness, reaching over to gently tickle William’s small stomach. “I believe this is where all important decisions are made, is it not?”
William erupted into peals of delighted laughter, his tiny body squirming as he gasped between giggles. “Da-see! No, Da-see!” he protested without conviction, clearly enjoying the attention.
“I see I’ve discovered a diplomatic channel of great significance,” Darcy observed.
Elizabeth looked momentarily startled, then pleased. The smile that curved her lips seemed to transform her entire countenance, illuminating her features with a glow that Darcy found himself unable to look away from.
“Brother, I should warn you.” Georgiana, seemingly emboldened by the laughter, spoke up. “Aunt Eleanor mentioned you are now the master of the harvest festival.”
“I see.” Darcy set down his teacup with deliberate precision, acutely aware that his knowledge of Bellfield’s traditions was frustratingly incomplete. “And what role am I expected to play in these proceedings?”