“I am so sorry,” she said softly. “Such treatment is unconscionable.”
“You are kind to say so, though I fear Mr Darcy’s disposition has only grown more disagreeable with time and unchecked authority.” Mr Wickham’s expression grew troubled. “Indeed, it grieves me to observe how his nature affects those under his care.”
Something in his tone made Elizabeth’s pulse quicken. “Those under his care?”
“The child, Miss Bennet. Young Ambrose.” Mr Wickham’s voice carried pure concern. “I happened to observe you in town yesterday with the boy, along with Miss Darcy and your sister. It struck me how the boy responded to your kindness—quite differently than I have observed in his guardian’s presence.”
Elizabeth felt a wave of heat rise in her cheeks. She had indeed realised their party was being observed closely, and something about Mr Wickham’s attention to their movements unsettled her despite his apparent good intentions.
“Ambrose is a delightful child,” she replied.
“Indeed, he is, which makes his circumstances all the more tragic.” Mr Wickham leaned closer, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Miss Bennet, I fear I must speak plainly, though it pains me to burden you with such knowledge. Mr Darcy is utterly unsuited to raising a young child. The boy’s care falls entirely to his sister, and with Miss Darcy soon departing for London society…”
He did not need to complete the thought. Elizabeth’s mind immediately conjured images of poor Ambrose left to the coldsupervision of Miss Francesca, deprived of the tenderness and affection she had witnessed him craving so desperately.
“But surely Mr Darcy would not neglect—”
“Would he not?” Mr Wickham’s interruption was gentle but firm. “Consider what you know of his nature, Miss Bennet. Have you observed warmth, compassion, and natural affection? The man who could deny a childhood companion his promised living, who carries himself with such insufferable pride—what care can such a person offer a child who requires love above all else?”
Elizabeth’s throat constricted as his words struck home. She recalled her own observations of Mr Darcy’s cold formality, his dismissive treatment of her concerns about being watched in town, and his apparent indifference to matters that did not directly serve his consequence.
“I have seen little evidence of warmth in his character,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Precisely. And when Miss Darcy departs—as she must, for her own future depends upon making a proper match in London—that sweet child will be left entirely to the devices of a man who views him as nothing more than an inconvenient obligation.”
The picture Mr Wickham painted was devastating in its plausibility. Elizabeth thought of Ambrose’s eager affection, his natural tendency for approval and kindness, his joy in simple pleasures. To imagine such a spirit crushed by neglect and indifference was almost unbearable.
The walk home passed in relative silence, though not for lack of effort on her family’s part. Lydia made several attempts to draw Elizabeth into discussions about Lieutenant Denny’s remarkable handsomeness, while Kitty sought her opinion onwhich officers might prove the most agreeable dancing partners at future assemblies.
“Lizzy, did you not think Mr Wickham exceedingly gentlemanlike?” Jane asked, linking arms with her sister. “His manners appeared most pleasing.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied absently, her thoughts still churning with his revelations.
Mrs Bennet, never one to miss an opportunity for matrimonial speculation, seized upon this opening. “Such a fine figure of a man! And an officer too—there is nothing like a uniform to set off a gentleman’s advantages. Elizabeth, you seemed quite taken with his conversation.”
“He spoke very sensibly,” Elizabeth managed, though her tone lacked its usual animation.
Mary, observing her sister’s distraction, made her own attempt at engagement. “I confess myself impressed by his serious demeanour. So many young men lack proper gravity of character.”
When Elizabeth merely nodded without elaboration, her family gradually resigned themselves to her obvious preoccupation. The remainder of their journey continued with only sporadic discussion, her sisters’ initial excitement about the evening gradually giving way to respectful silence as they recognised her need for solitude.
Mr Wickham’s revelations had shattered her perception of the Darcy household, replacing it with deep unease about Ambrose’s future welfare. If even half of what she had heard tonight was true, that sweet child faced a bleak prospect indeed. The thought of his bright enthusiasm dimmed by harshness and emotional isolation was almost too painful to contemplate.
Yet questions nagged at her consciousness as she prepared for bed. Why had Mr Wickham been watching their party so closely in town? What precisely did he hope to accomplish by sharing such intimate details with a virtual stranger? And why did his concern for Ambrose seem so particularly urgent when he had no apparent connection to the child beyond his past association with the Darcys?
As Elizabeth finally sought her pillow, one image haunted her thoughts: Ambrose’s trusting blue eyes, so full of hope and affection, and the devastating possibility that such innocence might be crushed by the very person sworn to protect it.
The questions would have to wait for morning, but sleep brought no relief from the weight of knowledge she now carried—or from the growing conviction that somehow, she would need to find a way to help that precious child, regardless of the personal cost.
Chapter Six
The next morning
“Miss Elizabeth!” Hill, the Bennet family’s housekeeper, called with unusual urgency as she hurried across Longbourn’s entrance hall, a folded note clutched in her weathered hands. “This came from Netherfield not ten minutes past. The boy who brought it said it was most pressing.”
Elizabeth’s stomach lurched as she recognised Georgiana’s hurried handwriting through the paper’s folds. No social correspondence required such haste, which could only mean trouble. Her worry grew further as she broke the seal and scanned the contents.
Dearest Elizabeth,Ambrose has taken ill in the night with fever and will not be consoled. He asks for you constantly and refuses all attempts at treatment. I fear to impose, but might you come if possible? Your presence may provide the comfort we cannot.
