Page 59 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

MY DEAREST LOVE

“Mr. Darcy,” Graham appeared at Darcy’s elbow while he stared back at the farmhouse, hoping to catch a glimpse of his wife and son from the nursery window. “The carriage is ready, sir. We should depart soon if we hope to reach the first posting inn before nightfall.”

Darcy nodded, unable to trust his voice to remain steady.

As he entered the carriage, he couldn’t help glancing back.

Was it his imagination or did the curtain flicker partway?

Clutching the precious journal against his heart, he raised a hand, feeling entirely foolish for entertaining the fantasy that she watched his departure.

Graham took the seat opposite him, a configuration that would have been unthinkable mere weeks ago.

The traditional barriers between master and steward had been eroded by circumstance and shared purpose, leaving a relationship Darcy could not quite define but found oddly comforting in its directness.

As the carriage pulled away from Bellfield Grange, Darcy found his hand moving to the journal tucked within his coat. A tangible connection to William, to the months he had lost, to the life Elizabeth had built without him .

“She kept a record,” he said aloud, though the observation was directed more to himself than to Graham. “All this time, not knowing if I would ever recover my memory, she kept a record of William’s life for me.”

Graham’s expression grew wistful. “Mrs. Darcy is a remarkable woman. Her devotion to your son—to ensuring he would know his father and his heritage—has never wavered.”

The simple statement carried a weight Graham likely did not intend.

Her devotion to your son. The steward’s feelings for Elizabeth were evident to anyone with eyes to see, yet here he was, accompanying Darcy to London rather than remaining at Bellfield where he might have consoled Elizabeth in Darcy’s absence.

“You care for them both,” Darcy observed. “Yet you choose to assist me rather than remain with them.”

“Miss Mary will be a capable steward for the grange,” he replied. “William is your son and heir. His future security depends upon recovering those documents. My personal feelings are irrelevant compared to that necessity.”

The frank acknowledgment of those “personal feelings” might once have provoked Darcy to jealousy or outrage. Now, he found he could only respect the man’s honesty—and his willingness to set aside his own desires for William’s welfare.

“I am in your debt,” Darcy said quietly.

Graham shook his head. “You owe me nothing, sir. My loyalty is to Bellfield and its people—which now includes your son and wife.”

The carriage had passed through the gates of Bellfield Grange, the lane stretching before them toward the long road to London.

Darcy found his gaze drawn back toward the house, now disappearing amongst the trees.

Somewhere within those walls, Elizabeth was going about her day, perhaps soothing William’s distress at his departure, perhaps already returning to the routine that had sustained her through the long months of uncertainty.

Would she think of him? Would she wonder about his progress? Or had her heart closed completely against him, her coldness at their parting a preview of the relationship that awaited him upon his return?

The journal pressed against his chest, a physical reminder of what he had lost—and what he might yet reclaim. With careful hands, he withdrew it from his coat, turning it over to examine the simple binding.

“She kept this from William’s birth,” Graham offered, noting Darcy’s interest. “I would sometimes find her writing in it late at night, after the household had retired. She was most particular that certain events be recorded precisely as they occurred.”

The image of Elizabeth bent over these pages by candlelight, documenting their son’s development for a husband who might never return to claim his role, created a tightness in Darcy’s chest that he could barely comprehend.

He opened the journal to its first page. Elizabeth’s elegant handwriting filled the cream-colored paper, the date at the top confirming this entry had been written shortly after William’s birth.

August 24, 1812, Bellfield Grange, Yorkshire

Our son arrived today after a labor that tested every ounce of my endurance.

He has your dark hair, your serious expression, even that little furrow between his brows when something displeases him.

Georgiana says he has “the Darcy look about him,” and I cannot disagree.

Six hours have passed since he entered the world, and I have spent every one studying his perfect features, searching for traces of you in every line and angle.

Darcy’s throat constricted as he read these words, the simple description more affecting than any elaborate sentiment could have been. “Our son.” Not “my son” or “the child,” but “our son”—a deliberate acknowledgment of his role even in absence.

He turned the page, his eyes falling on another entry .

September 10, 1812

William grows stronger each day. His serious blue gaze tracks my every movement around the room, and he grips my fingers with surprising strength. I fancy he has inherited your tenacious nature along with your serious fortitude.

The casual reference to his “tenacious nature” struck Darcy as curiously perceptive.

According to Mary, who spent the past few days briefing him and Graham about the family, Hertfordshire, and all the details he still could not recall, Elizabeth had wearied of trying to converse with him, and yet, he had persisted in standing up to her for a set at the Netherfield Ball.

Her sister believed she would not have granted it, having turned him down twice, but it was his “tenacious nature” that obligated her to accept.

And now, she had observed traits in their son that reflected his character, had recognized the connection between father and child even when that father lay unconscious in a sickbed miles away.

He continued reading, absorbing each entry with growing wonder and grief. Elizabeth had documented every detail. Small triumphs that Darcy had missed, preserved in these pages for him to experience secondhand.

October 12, 1812

William smiled today! William smiled today!

Not wind, as Mrs. Honywood suggested, but a real smile when I sang to him.

He has your way of listening to music, Fitzwilliam, as if every note carries profound meaning, but he laughs joyously when I tickle him.

I suspect he has your dry wit mixed with Lydia’s hysterics.

She’d compared her son, their son, to him.

She’d thought about him and the serious way he listened to music, his analysis of the point and counterpoint, the tonal structure and symmetry.

And yet, she’d contrasted him to Lydia. Their son was a perfect mixture.

Darcy’s heart warmed at her use of his Christian name, a familiarity she felt free to express in the privacy of these pages.

October 28, 1812

Our son has begun to follow my movements with his eyes, turning his head to track my voice across the room.

Graham carved him a small wooden horse, which William examines with the gravity of a judge reviewing evidence.

He cannot yet reach for it purposefully, but his attention is utterly focused—another trait he clearly inherits from his father.

Graham. The reference to the steward’s gift caused Darcy to glance up briefly at the man seated opposite him. He had been present for these moments, had watched William grow from newborn to toddler while Darcy himself remained oblivious to his very existence.

A less secure man might have resented this involvement, might have viewed Graham’s presence in Elizabeth and William’s life as an intrusion. Yet Darcy found he could only feel gratitude that his son had known male attention and guidance during those crucial early months.

He returned to the journal, the passing countryside forgotten as he immersed himself in the life he had missed. Elizabeth’s entries were sometimes brief, sometimes detailed, but always infused with a warmth that belied her current coldness toward him.

November 30, 1812

William has discovered his hands! He spends long minutes studying his own fingers and swatting everything in sight.

He has begun to make small sounds—not quite crying, not quite cooing, but something uniquely his own.

I imagine these are his first attempts at conversation.

I shall endeavor to teach him proper conversation for the dance floor, sir.

The teasing reference in that last line—so like the Elizabeth he had come to know at Bellfield—brought a painful smile to Darcy’s lips. Even in his absence, she had maintained this connection between them, had spoken to him through these pages as if he might respond at any moment.

Indeed, he wasn’t sure if he had dreamt it or recollected it, but the image of a pert country miss teasing him about his lack of conversational skills while turning on the dance floor gave him special delight.

Darcy read the Christmas entry, rueing that he had been absent. Oh, the gifts he would have given his son, his wife. Graham had given Elizabeth another journal, waiting for her to fill them with her wit. His heart sank at her note to him about William’s christening.

My dear Fitzwilliam, I wanted so much to register him as William Fitzwilliam Darcy, but without a legal claim, I listed him as a Bennet. Mary and Graham are his godparents. In my heart, he will always be a Darcy, your son.

The carriage swayed as it navigated a particularly rough section of road, but Darcy barely noticed, his attention entirely captured by the chronicle of his son’s first year.

Page after page revealed William’s growing personality—his determination, his curiosity, his occasional imperious demands that reminded Elizabeth and now Darcy of his aristocratic heritage.

January 20, 1813