Page 74 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
If someone had told me three years ago that I would consider a Yorkshire sheep farm more precious than the grandest estate in Derbyshire, I would have questioned their sanity.
Yet here I stand in the morning room at Bellfield Grange, watching my husband present our son with a lamb for his second birthday, and I cannot imagine anywhere I would rather be.
“Gentle, William,” Darcy instructs as our dark-haired boy reaches for the woolly creature with all the restraint of a fox in a henhouse. “Remember what we practiced.”
“My lamb!” William declares with absolute authority. “Mine!”
The lamb, a particularly sweet-faced creature with a black spot over one eye, seems remarkably tolerant of William’s attention. Graham selected her specifically for her docile temperament, though I suspect even the most placid sheep might balk at the sort of devoted handling our son has in mind.
“What shall you name her?” I ask, settling carefully onto the window seat. These days, sudden movements tend to result in a series of reproachful kicks from the new Darcy heir currently taking up residence beneath my ribs.
William considers this with furrowed brow—a miniature version of his father’s thinking face that never fails to melt my heart. “Spot,” he announces definitively. “Spot lamb.”
“How refreshingly original,” I murmur, earning a reproving look from my husband that fails entirely to disguise his amusement.
“I believe Spot is a perfectly suitable name for a lamb,” Darcy counters with mock solemnity. “After all, she does have that distinctive marking.”
The door bursts open as Mary and Graham arrive, followed closely by Georgiana and Lady Eleanor, all bearing wrapped packages and expressions of fond indulgence that suggest our son has the entire household wrapped firmly around his tiny finger.
“Many happy returns, young master,” Graham says formally, though he ruffles William’s hair with obvious affection as he presents a miniature shepherd’s crook. “I trust you will take proper care of your new charge.”
“My lamb,” William repeats, as if this explains everything about proper animal husbandry.
I’m about to comment on this circular reasoning when William, apparently deciding that Spot requires a tour of the premises, makes a break for the unlatched garden door with his new friend.
“William Fitzwilliam Darcy!” I call, struggling to rise from the window seat with considerably less grace than I once possessed. “Come back this instant or no honey cakes.”
At first, it appears my strategy of maternal threats has worked. William looks back, but then Spot bleats plaintively from the direction of the sheep meadow, and William’s priorities become immediately clear.
“Spot scared!” he announces, setting off again with renewed purpose, swinging his shepherd’s crook. “I help Spot!”
“That child,” Lady Eleanor observes with obvious admiration, “has inherited the Darcy stubborn streak in full measure. ”
“Along with his mother’s tendency to act first and consider consequences later,” Darcy adds dryly, though his tone holds nothing but affection.
The chase leads us through the kitchen garden, past the apple orchard, and toward the sheep meadow where the adult sheep watch our progress with benign interest. William, apparently believing he is conducting Spot home to her proper family, chatters encouragingly to his charge as they amble over the increasingly challenging terrain.
“This,” I mutter, gathering my skirts to navigate a particularly muddy patch, “is exactly why I should have insisted on a nice, sensible book for his birthday.”
“Where would be the adventure in that?” Graham asks, offering his arm to assist my passage over a fallen branch. “Besides, you must admit he shows considerable initiative for a two-year-old.”
“Initiative,” I repeat flatly. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Darcy has pulled ahead of our little procession, his longer stride allowing him to close the distance between himself and our errant son. “William,” he calls, his voice carrying the sort of paternal authority that even our strong-willed child recognizes. “Wait for Papa.”
This time, William actually stops, though whether from obedience or exhaustion remains unclear. Spot, apparently equally tired from her adventure, settles into the grass beside him.
“Found Spot,” William announces proudly as Darcy reaches them. “She scared. I help.”
“You did help,” Darcy agrees, scooping both boy and lamb into his arms. “But next time, we ask permission before leaving the house, yes?”
“Yes, Papa,” William agrees readily, though his tone suggests this agreement may not survive his next encounter with adventure.
As we make our way back to the house—Darcy carrying William, Graham carrying Spot, and the rest of us trailing behind like the world’s most dignified sheep-herding expedition—I find myself reflecting on the strange paths that have led us to this moment.
Three years ago, I was a disgrace to my family, cast out for refusing a marriage I could not stomach. Two years ago, I was a woman raising her child in exile, clinging to hope that her husband might someday return. A year ago, I was fighting to prove a marriage the world wanted to forget.
Today, I am simply a wife and mother, watching my family gather around my son on his birthday, surrounded by people who chose to love us when love was neither easy nor convenient.
“Tired?” Darcy asks quietly, falling into step beside me as we approach the house.
“Content,” I reply, taking his offered arm. “Though I confess the morning’s excitement has reminded me that chasing toddlers becomes considerably more challenging when one is...” I pause, suddenly aware that our entire party is within earshot.
“When one is what?” Mary asks with the sort of sisterly persistence that suggests she has been waiting for precisely this opening.
I glance at Darcy, who nods encouragingly. We had planned to wait until autumn to share our news, but perhaps there is something fitting about announcing it here, surrounded by the family that helped us heal.
“When one is expecting another child.”
“Elizabeth!” Georgiana exclaims, clapping her hands together. “How wonderful! When?”
“January, we believe,” Darcy answers, his voice rich with quiet pride. “A winter baby.”
The congratulations and excited chatter that follow create a warm bubble of joy around our little procession. William, apparently sensing that something significant is happening, demands to be included in the conversation.
“What baby?” he asks with the directness that characterizes all his inquiries.
“You’re going to have a brother or sister,” I explain, settling onto the garden bench where Mrs. Honywood has thoughtfully arranged refreshments. “Someone to play with and help you take care of Spot.”
“The baby will like lots of things,” Darcy replies diplomatically. “Including you, I suspect.”
“Baby in Mama?” William asks, patting my rounded stomach with surprising gentleness.
“Yes, darling. The baby is growing inside, like...” I search for an explanation a two-year-old might comprehend.
“Like Spot!” William declares triumphantly. “Mama has lamb!”
The general hilarity that follows is so excessive that even Lady Eleanor is obliged to dab at the corners of her eyes—a most un-aristocratic display, which naturally delights me.
Georgiana vows to embroider a very small blanket for a very important lamb, while Mrs. Honywood proposes christening the creature with a thimbleful of warm milk.
In the lull that follows, Mary drifts to my side with that composed air that always precedes something heartfelt.
“I’m pleased for you, Lizzy,” she says quietly. “For both of you. Who would have thought when we arrived at Bellfield that we would find such happiness here?”
I glance toward the side of the garden where Graham watches Mary with undisguised admiration. “Indeed. Though I notice I’m not the only Bennet sister who has found contentment in Yorkshire.”
Mary’s blush is all the confirmation needed. “Graham is... everything I never knew I wanted. Kind and steady and genuinely interested in my opinions.”
“He’s a good man,” I agree. “And you deserve nothing less.”
She folds my hand in hers—no speeches, no sermons, only sisterly warmth—and I find that joy, like sorrow, becomes larger when shared.
“And you, dear sister,” she says, “have found love, not once, but twice.”
“With the same dear man.” I watch as William and his father corral Spot safely into her pen .
Father and son race back toward me, similar countenances alight with joy, while contented sheep graze in the meadow below.
“I confess,” Darcy says when he reaches me. “Bellfield has a remarkable talent for reclaiming stray creatures.”
“Yes, the same can be said for storm-lashed coaching inns, where you first rescued me.” I give him an impertinent smirk.
“I would choose storms and sheep a thousand times over,” Darcy says, balancing his heir on his hip, “if it meant finding my way to you and William. And to this one.” His hand rests briefly on my rounded belly.
I tip my face up to his, remembering my words before we wed. “I once warned you I brought no portion at all, no dowry, no connections, only myself. I lied.”
His brows furrow before they rise with understanding. “You, my dear, are treasure enough.”
“Then, sir, count yourself indecently rich; my dowry remains myself—now inconveniently multiplied by a small gentleman, a winter babe, and perpetual opinions I cannot help but share with you, my dear love.”
THE END