Page 61 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE QUIET SISTER
Elizabeth placed the last of the late Bramley apples into her basket, wincing as her fingers brushed against the rough edges of the wicker.
Three days had passed since Darcy’s departure, three days of maintaining her dignity while William asked repeatedly for “Da-see” with increasing confusion and distress.
Each time, she offered the same explanation—that Mr. Darcy had gone to London on business but would return soon—words that seemed to satisfy William even as they rang hollow to her heart.
The November morning air carried the sharp bite of approaching winter. The late varieties—hardy Northern Spy and Roxbury Russet—still clung to their branches with stubborn determination, their ruby and gold skins promising excellent keeping quality through the cold months ahead.
Mary looked up from the portable writing desk balanced on an overturned crate, where she had been recording the morning’s wool weights.
“The yields are better than expected,” Mary announced with satisfaction. “Mr. Pullen’s methods are quite sound. Though I confess I had not anticipated how complex sheep farm management could be.”
“Graham is nothing if not thorough,” Elizabeth agreed, setting down her basket and reaching for one of the lower branches. “I suspect his records could serve as a textbook for estate management, were anyone inclined to publish such a thing.”
“He seems a remarkably capable gentleman,” Mary observed with studied casualness, though Elizabeth caught the slight flush that accompanied the comment. “I find his approach to land stewardship quite effective.”
Elizabeth paused in her apple picking, her sister’s tone registering with the sort of alertness that years of living with four sisters had honed to perfection. “Indeed? You have been spending considerable time reviewing his methods.”
“Someone must understand the systems in place,” Mary replied with defensive primness. “Particularly with both Mr. Darcy and Graham absent. The sheep require consistent oversight, and the tenant farmers need guidance regarding winter preparations.”
“How very conscientious of you,” Elizabeth murmured, though her attention had been captured by something far more intriguing than agricultural methodology.
When had Mary begun referring to their absent steward with such obvious regard?
And when had she developed such detailed knowledge of farm operations that she could step seamlessly into Graham’s role?
“You speak as if you have given considerable thought to such matters.” Elizabeth abandoned her pursuit of apples in favor of studying her sister’s composed expression.
“But you need not fret, even if Mr. Darcy fails to return, Mr. Pullen surely will. The man has a devotion to Bellfield Grange surpassed only by…”
Elizabeth cast around for a particularly witty phrase.
“Only by his devotion to you, my sister?” Mary chewed on the tip of her quill before placing it squarely over the ledger book.
Elizabeth felt heat rise to her cheeks at the accuracy of Mary’s observation. “I would not characterize Graham’s regard in such personal terms.”
“Would you not?” Mary’s tone remained mild, but her gaze had grown uncomfortably direct. “Then perhaps you might explain why you encouraged such regard when it suited your convenience, only to withdraw it entirely upon Mr. Darcy’s return?”
“I never encouraged—” Elizabeth began, then stopped as she recognized the futility of denial. She had indeed allowed Graham’s devotion, had accepted his care and attention to William, had permitted him to hope.
“Of course you did,” Mary continued with characteristic directness. “And why should you not? A woman in your circumstances required protection and support. But did you consider the effect on others when you so abruptly redirected your son’s affections toward his… toward Mr. Darcy?”
“Mary,” Elizabeth began, then stopped, unsettled by the implications of her sister’s words.
“And now, William has been asking for ‘Da-see’ every morning since Mr. Darcy’s departure,” Mary continued. “His confusion is quite apparent. He stands at the window after breakfast, clearly expecting the man who has become central to his small world to appear.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened at the image her sister painted. She had been aware of William’s increased fretfulness, his tendency to search the rooms where Darcy had typically spent his time, but she had attempted to shield herself from the full impact of her son’s distress.
“Children are remarkably adaptable,” she said with forced lightness. “He will adjust to the change in routine.”
“Will he?” Mary’s question carried no accusation. “He seemed quite attached to Mr. Darcy. As did Mr. Darcy to him.”
“Yes, well,” Elizabeth began, then found herself unable to complete the thought without revealing more emotion than she was prepared to acknowledge. “Mr. Darcy will surely return. ”
“Perhaps in person, but will he feel welcome?”
“Of course, William will welcome him.” Elizabeth reached on tiptoes for the last delectable apple and tucked it into her already heavily laden basket.
“But not by you, his beloved wife.”
“I’m hardly beloved when he…” Elizabeth fastidiously brushed tiny twigs and leaves from her woolen garments.
Mary waited with the patient silence she had perfected during years of being the least heard among five sisters. When Elizabeth remained quiet, she suggested, “It must be difficult to witness William’s confusion without being able to provide explanations he could understand.”
“William is too young to comprehend the complexities of adult relationships,” Elizabeth said, glad to be talking about her son instead of his infuriating father. “He will forget, in time.”
“As Mr. Darcy forgot?” Mary asked with deceptive mildness.
Mary was like a hound worrying a badger hole. “That is entirely different. Darcy’s loss of memory was caused by injury, not time or circumstance.”
“Indeed. And how frustrating it must have been for him to sense connections he could not understand, to feel drawn to people whose significance remained hidden from him.” Mary resumed her record-keeping with infuriating calmness. “Rather like William’s current situation, though in reverse.”
Elizabeth cheeks burned as her sister’s parallel struck home. “William’s situation is temporary. Once his father returns—” She stopped abruptly, recognizing the trap she had walked into.
“Once his father returns,” Mary repeated thoughtfully. “Yet you have given Mr. Darcy little reason to believe his return would be welcomed.”
“I have given him every reason to understand the legal necessity of resolving William’s legitimacy,” Elizabeth replied with more sharpness than she intended. “That should provide sufficient motivation for his efforts.”
“Legal necessity,” Mary mused, her pen moving steadily across the page. “How very… practical. I am certain Mr. Darcy found such motivation deeply inspiring.”
Elizabeth set down her basket with more force than necessary. “What precisely are you attempting to say? I suggest we return to the house first. My arms are not equal to supporting both these apples and the weight of moral instruction.”
“Your wit remains as sharp as ever. Though I wonder if it serves you as well as you believe.”
The comment, delivered without heat or judgment, nevertheless caused Elizabeth to glance at her sister with surprise.
Mary had changed during their time at Bellfield—her observations had grown more nuanced, her delivery less pedantic.
She spoke less often but with greater impact, a development Elizabeth had noted without fully examining its implications.
“Are you suggesting I should cultivate dullness instead?” Elizabeth asked, attempting to maintain her lightness of tone despite a curious discomfort. “I fear I’m rather too old for such fundamental changes to my character.”
“Not dullness,” Mary corrected as she picked up one handle of the basket between them. “Perhaps… reflection before reaction.”
Elizabeth picked up the other basket handle, sharing the weight between them. “I reflect a great deal, Mary. Some might say too much.”
“On others’ words and actions, certainly,” Mary agreed. “But how often on your own?”
The directness of the question—so unlike the Mary of Longbourn with her borrowed platitudes and detached moralizing—caught Elizabeth entirely off guard.
She fumbled for a response. “I am not in the habit of extensive self-examination, but perhaps you may direct me with a well-placed homily or exercise in spiritual flagellation?”
Elizabeth detected a roll of Mary’s perceptive eyes as they passed through the orchard gate .
“A useful avenue would be to examine why you determined that Mr. Darcy suffer as much as possible for failures that were largely beyond his control.”
“Beyond his control?” Elizabeth’s steps faltered, and she turned to gape at her sister, the one she’d often found to be dull but now seemed determined to needle her by taking Darcy’s perspective.
“He offered me charity, Mary. He proposed to make his own legitimate son his ward out of generous condescension. He treated me like a fallen woman grateful for his magnanimous intervention.”
“Yes,” Mary agreed, facing her directly. “He did all of those things. While suffering from significant memory loss and believing the exact appearances you allowed him to see.”
“He should have known better,” Elizabeth said fiercely. “He should have recognized his own son, should have trusted that I would not have… that I could not have…” She trailed off, unable to voice the accusations that had wounded her so deeply.