Page 60 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

Our son achieved his first roll today, from his stomach to his back, though he seemed rather surprised to find himself in this new position.

He lay there for several minutes, arms and legs flailing like an overturned beetle, wearing an expression of profound indignation.

I believe he inherited your dislike of being caught off-guard by unexpected circumstances .

Darcy suppressed a chuckle at the image of William disgruntled by his inability to control his circumstances. He could picture the child’s furrowed brow. He touched the curves of Elizabeth’s script as if he could at this moment connect with her fingers.

“She knows me,” he murmured, the realization both comforting and terrifying. “Or knew me, before…”

“She did,” Graham confirmed. “Better than most, I think.”

Each entry revealed not only William’s development but Elizabeth’s character—her patience, her humor, and her fierce devotion to their son.

She had faced the uncertainty of Darcy’s condition with remarkable strength, neither surrendering to despair nor allowing bitterness to contaminate her record of their child’s life.

And yet, the lines weren’t solely devoted to William’s growth.

Elizabeth recorded other impressions, of interesting things she observed, of events and snippets of conversation with Mary, Graham, and even the Honywoods.

There was an entry of making jam, where William had smeared his favorite flavor, gooseberry, all over his hair.

Holding the young master still to unglue his hair was a particular challenge I never expected of motherhood.

And then, most tantalizing of all were her recorded feelings, her worries about his health, her dreams of reunion, her personal observations.

Georgiana writes that you are awake and speaking short sentences. You never did like to speak, and perhaps we are still strangers to you. But if you do not speak to strangers, how shall we become friends?

So like Lizzy to tease him on his reticence.

And so merciful of her not to mention his rudeness, a trait that Mary said made him a most despicable man and hated by all of Hertfordshire.

Darcy simply did not suffer fools, and when Elizabeth was in his presence, he saw no point in conversing with anyone else.

He continued reading, too avidly to carry a conversation with Graham .

March 14, 1813

William has begun to babble in earnest, producing streams of “da-da-da” and “ba-ba-ba” that he delivers with utmost seriousness. I cannot help but notice that his first consonant sound is “da”—perhaps he is calling for you, my dearest love.

The simple endearment— my dearest love —pierced Darcy more effectively than any accusation.

These words had been written when he lay in London, consciousness returned but memory still fractured.

While he had been relearning the basics of his identity, Elizabeth had been capturing these moments, preserving them for the man she still believed would someday return to claim his role.

Darcy couldn’t help reading that entry over again. Perhaps she, too, had been calling for him, her dearest love. How many tears had she shed? How many nights had she lain alone? Her hand over her belly as the baby quickened, remembering him and yearning to share those moments with him?

My dearest love.

Darcy blinked back tears as the entries continued, chronicling William’s progress from helpless infant to active, curious child.

His first tooth. His attempts at crawling.

His delight in the Honywood’s sheepdogs.

A life unfolding day by day, carefully documented by a mother determined that her child’s father would someday know him.

May 28, 1813

Our son has discovered the joy of dirt and appears convinced it is a delicacy.

I spend half my day removing various inedible items from his mouth—leaves, pebbles, bits of wool that escape from the sorting shed.

You would laugh at his stubborn insistence on exploring every corner of his world through taste, consequences be damned.

He has your determination, my dear, though perhaps not yet your judgment .

Darcy found himself smiling at this description, picturing William’s determined exploration of his surroundings with perfect clarity.

The child he had come to know at Bellfield—curious, willful, surprisingly communicative—had emerged from these early experiences, shaped by Elizabeth’s patient guidance and the stability she had created for him.

June 15, 1813

William pulled himself to standing today using the legs of his crib for support!

He stood there swaying slightly, staring out the window as if waiting for someone to arrive.

The determination in his small face was so reminiscent of your own stubborn resolve that my heart broke a little, watching him.

Does he somehow sense his father’s absence?

This entry caused Darcy’s breath to catch painfully in his throat.

By this point, he had been awake, moving about Darcy House in London, attempting to piece together his fractured memory.

Had some part of him been reaching for this connection as well?

Had he felt the absence of Elizabeth and William without understanding its source?

He continued reading, each entry revealing another facet of the life that had unfolded without him.

William’s first steps. His growing vocabulary.

His attachment to Aunt Mary, sitting at the piano forte banging on the keys while she played.

His imitation of the sheepdogs barking. Moments Darcy would never experience firsthand, preserved in these pages through Elizabeth’s devoted documentation.

The final entry was dated one month before his arrival at Bellfield Grange.

August 24, 1813 - William’s First Birthday

Our son is one year old today. He charmed everyone at his small celebration, approaching each gift with his characteristic solemnity before breaking into delighted smiles.

Graham presented him with a rocking horse of oak, beautifully crafted and perfectly sized for a child of his age.

William studied it carefully, running his hands over the smooth wood before attempting to climb aboard.

He took several wobbly steps between Graham and Mary this afternoon, then collapsed in a fit of giggles that had us all laughing with him.

“He’ll be running before we know it,” Graham predicted, and I confess the thought fills me with equal parts excitement and dread.

Our son grows more independent each day, developing his own distinct personality while still showing clear signs of his Darcy heritage.

One year has passed since I first held him in my arms, studying his perfect features for traces of you.

One year of joy and uncertainty, of watching our child grow while waiting for news of your recovery.

Lady Eleanor writes that your memory remains fragmented, your recollection of Hertfordshire and the events at the Red Lion still absent.

Yet I continue to hope and pray that someday you will know your son—not just through these pages, but in person, as the remarkable little boy he has become.

William deserves to know his father, and you, my dear, deserve to know the exceptional child we created together.

Whenever I despair of our… [cross outs], I will always thank the Good Lord that William was given to me to remind me of…

Darcy closed the journal, unable to continue reading through the blur of tears that threatened his composure. Elizabeth had maintained this chronicle, faithfully documenting William’s development for a husband who might never recover enough to appreciate it.

She had kept her faith in him, believed he would one day recognize her.

Not just recognize her, but love her the way he apparently had that night at the Red Lion Inn.

He wanted to be that man, the Fitzwilliam Darcy who had regarded her as precious, who had made the most momentous decision of his life when he opened his heart to her.

Who’d apparently promised to love and cherish her, to protect her, to honor her… and then, he’d failed her.

Darcy squeezed his eyes shut, feigning sleep to keep the tears from leaking. He lowered the brim of his hat, hugging the journal—Elizabeth’s words, the words that would sustain him, the words that would give him hope that she would still call him, my dearest love.