Page 58 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

Darcy studied his sister’s face, noting the maturity that had developed during his long absence. A question that had lingered in the back of his mind since yesterday’s revelations finally surfaced. “You knew all along, didn’t you? About Elizabeth and William.”

Georgiana nodded, her expression a mixture of guilt and defiance. “I did. From the beginning.”

“And you wished to tell me,” Darcy said quietly, “but were prevented from doing so.”

“Lady Eleanor thought it best,” Georgiana admitted, her gaze dropping to the table. “Dr. Harrison insisted that forced recollections might impede your recovery, that your memories must return naturally or not at all.”

“And I still believed it best,” his aunt remarked. “You would have violently rejected her standing and caused her more pain. You saw how my sister dispatched the fortune hunters invading your sickroom in London.”

“I see.” Darcy absorbed this information. “You two sought to lead me gently to my demise, not once trusting in my regard for Elizabeth, Miss Bennet, almost like requiring me to solve a mystery while missing half my mind.”

“I nearly told you a hundred times,” Georgiana confessed, her voice breaking slightly. “Especially when I saw how you looked at William, how naturally he went to you. It seemed so cruel to keep the truth from you both.”

Darcy reached across the table to take his sister’s hand. “Is there anything else I should know, Georgiana? Any other truths being kept from me ‘for my own good’?”

A flicker of hesitation crossed her features. “I believe… that is, I think Elizabeth would be better able to answer that question.” She squeezed his hand before releasing it. “You should ask her directly, if you return.”

“When, not if,” Darcy noted with a faint smile. “Your confidence in my safe return is heartening.”

“Be careful, Fitzwilliam. I shall miss you terribly, and worry about you constantly.” Georgiana approached his side of the table and, in an uncharacteristic display of affection, bent to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I promise to take all necessary precautions,” he assured her, touched by her concern. “And to write frequently with news of my progress.”

“See that you do.” Georgiana stepped back, visibly composing herself. “William will want to know that his father thinks of him, even from a distance.”

Lady Eleanor, who had been observing this exchange with evident approval, rose gracefully. “I shall inform Elizabeth of your early departure, although I make no promises of what she would do with it.”

After she had departed, Darcy found himself under the uncomfortably direct scrutiny of his sister. “You are displeased with my decision,” he observed.

“I am concerned by it,” Georgiana corrected. “Elizabeth has waited nearly two years for your return, Fitzwilliam. To have you leave again so soon after discovering the truth seems… unnecessarily cruel.”

“It is not my intention to cause further pain,” Darcy said, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. “But William’s future?—”

“William needs his father,” Georgiana interrupted with uncharacteristic firmness. A shadow crossed Georgiana’s face, a reminder of painful memories Darcy wished he could erase entirely. “Be careful in London. That person… the one we do not name… I fear what he might do if confronted.”

“I urge you not to think of him at all,” he said more gently. “His past actions toward our family will not be repeated.”

A knock at the door announced Graham’s return. “The carriage is ready, sir, whenever you wish to depart.”

“Thank you.” Darcy rose, adjusting his cravat with fingers that were not quite steady. “Has Lady Eleanor returned?”

“Not yet, sir.” Graham’s expression betrayed nothing, though Darcy fancied he detected a hint of sympathy in the steward’s eyes. “Vernon is waiting by the main entrance to see you off.”

A sinking feeling settled in Darcy’s stomach. Elizabeth had declined to bring William to bid him farewell. Perhaps she feared upsetting the child, or perhaps—more likely—she wished to emphasize the distance she had placed between them. Either way, he would depart without seeing his son.

“I shall be out directly,” he said, striving for a tone of neutral composure.

Georgiana embraced him fiercely, her usual reserve giving way to genuine emotion. “Promise you will write,” she insisted. “Every day, if possible. William should not be left wondering about his father’s whereabouts again.”

“I promise,” Darcy agreed, returning her embrace with equal fervor. “Take care of them in my absence, Georgiana. William will need his aunt’s attention while I am away.”

“And Elizabeth will need a friend,” Georgiana added pointedly. “One who understands the complexities of the situation.”

With a final squeeze of his hands, Georgiana released him and stepped back, her eyes suspiciously bright. “Safe journey, Brother. Return to us soon.”

The walk to the main entrance felt longer than it should have, each step carrying Darcy further from the nursery wing. The missed opportunity to bid his son farewell weighed heavily upon him.

Only Vernon, the elderly butler, waited by the door to see him off.

“Is Mrs. … that is… is Miss Bennet about?” Darcy inquired, the confusion in titles betraying his inner turmoil.

“I believe she is in the nursery, sir,” Vernon replied with perfect composure. “Shall I send for her?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I shall go to her…”

The words died on his lips as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Elizabeth descended with her usual grace, William balanced on her hip.

She had dressed in a deep brown wool that complemented her coloring admirably, though the somber hue seemed to reflect the emotional winter that had settled between them.

“Mr. Darcy,” she acknowledged with a slight inclination of her head. “I trust you slept well?”

The polite, but cold inquiry wrenched his gut.

Less than a week ago, she had called him Fitzwilliam and looked at him like he was her world.

She’d allowed him to kiss her, to squire her over the dance floor, to hope.

Now she addressed him with the same distant courtesy she might employ with a tradesman whose services were no longer required.

“Tolerably,” he replied, though the truth was that sleep had proven as elusive as Elizabeth’s forgiveness. “I hope we did not disturb your rest with our early preparations.”

“Not at all. William and I are customarily early risers.” She adjusted the child’s position against her hip. “I wanted to… that is, I thought it appropriate to see you off.”

The hesitation in her voice—the first crack in her composed facade since their confrontation—sent hope fluttering through his chest before reason crushed it with merciless efficiency.

She was present out of duty, not affection.

No matter how she regarded him, she would see that her son would fare as well as he could.

“You are very kind,” he said, the inadequacy of the phrase making him wince internally. How did one express gratitude for such painful courtesy? How did one acknowledge the grace of a woman who maintained perfect manners while her husband departed to clean up the wreckage of his failures?

William, who had been examining his mother’s hair with the focused attention he brought to all interesting phenomena, suddenly noticed Darcy’s presence.

“Da-see!” he exclaimed, extending his arms in the imperious demand for attention that never failed to pierce his heart. “Up! Up!”

Elizabeth seemed to hesitate, and Darcy imagined that she might refuse him, maintaining the distance she needed by keeping William safely in her arms.

Instead, she stepped forward and carefully transferred the boy to his embrace. Her scent of lavender and soap bringing back what? Memories or imagination? He couldn’t discern.

The familiar weight of his son in his arms nearly undid what remained of Darcy’s composure. William settled against his shoulder with the trusting contentment of a child who had never known rejection, his small hands tangling in Darcy’s cravat with proprietary satisfaction.

“Good morning, young man.” His voice was rougher than he intended. “You are awake remarkably early today.”

“Go?” William inquired with the directness that characterized his approach to all important questions. “Da-see go?”

The innocent query struck Darcy silent. How did one explain to a fifteen-month-old child that his father was departing to hunt down a dangerous criminal who had stolen the documents that would secure the boy’s future?

How did one convey that this mission was necessary to repair the damage caused by failures William was too young to understand?

“Da Da go?” His son clung to him as if not wanting to let go. It felt like a blade between Darcy’s ribs, a painful reminder of all he had missed and all he might yet lose. “Da Da, me go?”

“Not today, William,” he said gently. “I must travel alone this time.”

“No,” William protested, his lower lip beginning to tremble in a manner that suggested an imminent display of displeasure. “No! No! No!”

Elizabeth murmured something soothing to the boy, though her eyes remained fixed on Darcy with an expression of distance but also something else. “William does not yet understand the concept of separation.”

The implication was clear—the child, unlike his mother, had not yet learned that people leave and do not always return. Darcy felt the criticism keenly, though he could not dispute its justice.

Darcy pressed his lips to the boy’s forehead, breathing in the sweet scent of childhood that seemed to carry within it all the hopes and fears of parenthood.

This child—his child—deserved better than the uncertainty that had marked his young life.

He deserved his birthright, his place in the world, and most importantly, parents who could provide him with the love and security every child needed to thrive.

The sound of Graham clearing his throat from the doorway indicated that their departure could be delayed no longer. With profound reluctance, Darcy transferred William back to Elizabeth’s arms, noting how she immediately adjusted her hold to provide the comfort and security the boy needed.

“Be good for your mother,” Darcy instructed gravely, as if William were old enough to understand such complex moral concepts.

“I shall endeavor to manage him in your absence,” Elizabeth said with the first hint of warmth he had detected in her voice since his disastrous offer for her hand.

“Elizabeth,” her Christian name slipping from between his lips. “I wish to apologize again for?— ”

“There is no need,” she interrupted gently but firmly, clearly unwilling to engage in any discussion that might lead to emotional territory neither of them was prepared to navigate.

He bowed formally, accepting the dismissal with as much dignity as he could muster. “Thank you for your consideration in seeing me off. I shall write to inform you of our progress.”

“That would be… appropriate,” she agreed.

Darcy turned toward the door, each step feeling like a small death. He had reached the threshold when Elizabeth’s voice stopped him.

“Mr. Darcy. A moment, if you please.” She shifted William to her other hip despite his continued protests. “I have something for you to take on your journey.”

He turned back to find her retrieving a leather-bound volume from the small table near the entrance.

“I thought… that is, you might find this of interest during your journey,” she said, her voice wavering as if unsure of his acceptance.

Darcy accepted the volume with trembling hands, immediately recognizing the quality of the binding and the care with which it had been maintained. A small inscription at the bottom read, W. F. D.

“William Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Elizabeth explained. “It is a record of his first year—developments, milestones, notable events. I thought perhaps you might wish to become acquainted with the son you do not remember.”

The unexpected kindness of this gesture—offered in the midst of her justifiable anger—left Darcy grasping for a response.

That she would have kept such a journal at all, much less share it with him now, revealed a generosity of spirit that made his own behavior seem even more shameful by comparison.

“I… thank you,” he managed, the words entirely inadequate to express his gratitude. “This is most… that is, I am deeply…”

“It was written for you,” Elizabeth said. “Of William’s first year. I began it shortly after his birth, thinking that someday… that perhaps…” She paused, clearly struggling to maintain her composure. “I th ought his father should know of such things, even if circumstances prevented his presence.”

The quiet dignity with which she delivered this explanation—the acknowledgment that she had always intended him to know his son, had preserved every milestone and achievement in the hope of eventual reunion—nearly brought Darcy to his knees.

Here was proof of the faith she had maintained even when he could not remember her existence, evidence of the love that had sustained her through months of uncertainty and exile.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice breaking on her name.

“It is merely a practical consideration,” she said quickly, stepping back to increase the distance between them. “Whether you remembered us or not, William deserved to have his father know him.”

But Darcy could see the truth in her eyes. She was giving him a piece of her heart wrapped in leather and ink, disguised as mere information but precious beyond any material consideration.

“I shall treasure it,” he promised, carefully placing the journal inside his coat. “As I do you.”

Her expression softened, eyes taking him in, much like they did… in the rain. Darcy blinked, wondering if she had always looked at him like that, like she, too, regarded him with… deep sentiment.

She reached for him, thought better of it and composed her features. “See that you return it safely. Along with yourself.”

This small concession—the acknowledgment that his safe return held some significance to her—gave Darcy a flicker of hope he scarcely dared nurture. “You have my word. I promise.”

She turned away, her eyes watery, while William babbled happily over her shoulder, too young to understand that his Da would be going on a long journey to claim his birthright and hopefully reclaim the love of his mother.