Page 71 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
WELCOME HOME, MR. DARCY
Across from him, Graham sat stoic. His jaw was tight, and he hadn’t fared any better among the ostlers and barmen in the taproom.
Some remembered George Wickham, most didn’t.
The inn was full of travelers, and highwaymen prowled the roads.
There was nothing remarkable about any of the attacks, and nothing tying Wickham to the crimes.
Yet Darcy’s memory was clear. Wickham had stood over him. Two men had held him down and another man raised an iron bar.
Finish it!
And then voices. Wickham’s smooth tones assuring the witnesses that he was in charge, steward of Pemberley, and then, just before Darcy had blacked out.
I’ll inform his wife of this unfortunate incident.
“Elizabeth. I have failed you,” Darcy whispered.
Graham stirred in the seat opposite him, noting the grim set of his master’s jaw. “Sir, perhaps the homecoming will prove more encouraging than our disappointments.”
“I’m unsure of my welcome,” Darcy replied. “All we’ve accomplished was to purchase every debt Wickham left behind. I cannot take care of the many children in his wake, and neither will I advance him any more credit. He shall pay the last farthing he owes.”
“You seem different since the Red Lion, sir,” Graham remarked, deftly deflecting the conversation from his despair. “More centered, if I may be so bold.”
“Memory changes a man. Particularly when what one remembers is both beautiful and painful.”
Graham’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Sir?”
“I remember everything. Every moment of that December night, every word Elizabeth and I spoke, every promise I made.” Darcy’s fingers moved unconsciously to his waistcoat pocket, where the silver button rested. “Documents cannot create what already exists between us. They can only confirm it.”
Darcy’s pulse quickened as Bellfield Grange emerged through the light rain. Elizabeth was there. William—his son—was there. Whether they would receive him as husband and father remained to be seen.
“If I may, sir,” Graham said as the carriage rolled to a stop, “whatever happens, remember that Mrs. Darcy has waited nearly two years for your return. A few difficult moments cannot erase that devotion.”
Darcy nodded, grateful for the man’s insight. “Thank you, Graham. For everything.”
The door opened, and Darcy stepped down into the rain. Unlike his first arrival at Bellfield, the weather kept the household indoors. A footman hurried forward with an umbrella, and Darcy found himself irrationally disappointed not to see Elizabeth among the welcoming party.
Georgiana met him in the entrance hall, embracing him despite his damp coat. “Brother! Thank heaven you’ve returned safely. Your express said so little—we’ve been worried.”
He’d left his letter to Elizabeth unfinished, unable to express the depth of his pain at recalling what should have been the most memorable moments of his life. Instead, he’d dashed a hasty note to Georgiana assuring her of his safety.
“The roads were difficult,” Darcy explained, handing his sodden hat and gloves to the waiting servant. “But we made good time considering the weather.”
His sister’s eyes searched his face. “You look… changed.”
“I am changed,” he admitted. “Where is Elizabeth? And William?”
A curious expression crossed Georgiana’s features. “In the library. Elizabeth has been anxious for your return. She has news that—” She stopped herself. “Perhaps it’s better she tell you herself.”
Darcy’s heart jolted. “News? Is William well? Has something happened?”
“Nothing unfortunate,” Georgiana assured him quickly. “But not my story to tell. Go to her, Fitzwilliam. I believe she’s been waiting for you far longer than these past weeks.”
Steeling himself, Darcy handed his walking stick to Graham and made his way toward the library.
The corridors of Bellfield Grange, once strange and unwelcoming, now felt familiar—not from memory but from a sense of belonging he had lacked during his first stay.
Each step brought him closer to Elizabeth and the reckoning that awaited them.
He paused outside the library door, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. Then he knocked—a gentleman still, despite everything .
“Enter.” Elizabeth’s voice, slightly breathless, sent a jolt through his system.
Darcy opened the door and stepped inside.
The library was warmly lit, a fire crackling in the grate against the evening chill.
Elizabeth stood just a few paces from the door, as if she’d been pacing, waiting for him.
Their eyes met, and the wariness he’d expected was nowhere to be found—instead, her expression held a mixture of hope, anxiety, and something that made his breath catch.
She was as beautiful as ever, and a pink blush rose on her cheeks, transforming her into an angel.
William sat on a small blanket near the fire, wooden blocks scattered around him. At the sight of Darcy, the boy’s face lit with delight. “Da-Da!” he cried, scrambling to his feet and toddling toward him with outstretched arms.
“William, wait?—”
“Hello, young man.” Darcy’s voice was rough as he knelt before his son. “I see you’ve been building fine structures in my absence.”
“Da!” William agreed, patting Darcy’s face with small, warm hands. “Da-Da home!”
He looked up to find Elizabeth watching them, her eyes suspiciously bright. “Yes,” he said, holding his son close while keeping his gaze on his wife. “Da-Da is home.”
Elizabeth took a step toward them, then hesitated. “You’re earlier than we expected,” she said, her voice gentle. “Was the journey very terrible?”
“Worth every mud-clogged mile,” Darcy replied, rising with William in his arms. “Elizabeth, I?—”
At the exact moment, Elizabeth blurted, “Fitzwilliam, there’s something?—”
They both stopped, staring at each other. Then, to Darcy’s astonishment, Elizabeth’s lips curved into a smile that transformed her entire face.
“You first,” she offered, color rising in her cheeks.
“No, please,” Darcy countered, feeling an answering smile tug at his own lips. “Ladies take precedence, I believe.”
Elizabeth laughed—a sound he’d heard too rarely since his return to Bellfield. “How very proper of you, Mr. Darcy. I see your journey has not diminished your excellent manners.”
“Nor has your time at Bellfield diminished your talent for making sport of them,” he replied, surprised at how easily the teasing came.
William squirmed in his arms, patting Darcy’s cheek to reclaim his attention. “Da-Da, blocks!” he demanded, pointing to his abandoned construction.
“A moment, William,” Elizabeth said, approaching them both. “Your father has only just arrived. Perhaps?—”
Mary appeared in the doorway. “I thought I heard voices,” she said, her observant eyes taking in the scene. “Shall I take William for his gingerbread lesson with Mrs. Honywood? She’s been promising to show him how to make the little icing buttons.”
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, trying to read her preference. To his relief, she nodded.
“That would be most welcome,” Elizabeth said. “Though I fear Mrs. Honywood may regret offering once she sees the state of her kitchen afterward.”
“Da-Da come?” William asked, reluctant to be parted from his newly returned father.
Darcy pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead. “Soon, William. I must speak with your mother first.”
He handed the boy to Mary who tickled his belly, calling him a gingerbread man to his delighted giggles as they left the room.
When the door closed behind them, Darcy turned back to Elizabeth, half-afraid the brief warmth of their greeting might have cooled. Instead, he found her studying him with open longing.
“You look tired,” she said softly.
“I am,” he admitted. “But seeing you—seeing William—makes it worthwhile.”
Elizabeth took a step toward him, then another. “Your memory,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady. “You said in your express that there had been developments, but nothing specific.”
“Elizabeth.” Darcy closed the remaining distance between them, reaching for her hands. To his immense relief, she met him halfway, her fingers twining with his. “I remember everything. The storm. Our wedding.”
“Everything?”
“Every moment,” he confirmed, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of her wrists. “Every word. Every touch.”
“When?” she whispered.
“At the Red Lion,” Darcy said, unable to look away from her face, drinking in every flicker of emotion. “Something about returning to that place—perhaps the storm, or the room itself—broke whatever barrier remained.”
He was aware of a disturbing wetness trailing from his eyes, blurring the image of beautiful Elizabeth. He could see her standing alone and bereft, pleading with the innkeeper.
“I can see you there, storm soaked, your trunk in the mud… When I recognized you, I decided then and there… whatever it took. I had to protect you.”
“That’s who you are, Fitzwilliam. Honorable. You would have done it for any gentlewoman in distress.”
“Perhaps, but all I saw was you, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and I knew at that moment…” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers. “I knew you would be the one.”
“I believe your words were, Miss Bennet, what on earth are you doing here alone?” Elizabeth’s fine eyes shone with glittering tears. “I should have said, waiting for you, Mr. Darcy.”
He reached into his pocket with one hand, withdrawing the silver button. “I found this, wedged between the floorboards in that room,” he explained, showing it to her. “From my jacket—the one I wore that night. The one you saved in your trunk.”
Elizabeth stared at the button, then back at his face, wonder replacing anxiety in her expression. “You truly do remember,” she breathed.
“I do.” Darcy tightened his grip on her hands, desperate to convey the depth of what he felt. “Elizabeth, I cannot adequately express my remorse for everything you’ve endured alone. For not recognizing you, for treating you with cold suspicion, for failing to see what was directly before me.”