The unexpected vulnerability in his admission caught Elizabeth off guard. Her frustration melted away, replaced by something approaching sympathy. Before she could respond with the gentleness his pain seemed to warrant, he had turned and walked back towards the house with measured steps.
Ambrose looked up from his pebbles, his small brow furrowed with worry. “Lizzy, why did Mr Darcy look so sad?”
Elizabeth knelt beside him, drawing him into her arms as her mind constricted with questions she could not answer. What opinions did Mr Darcy hold that made a marital alliance for the sake of the child in his care seem imprudent? What pain had taught him such careful restraint?
And why did the glimpse of something vulnerable beneath his rigid composure make her long to offer understanding rather than judgement?
Chapter Eight
The sound of china clinking against silver spoons filled Netherfield’s drawing room as servants arranged the final touches for Bingley’s impromptu tea party. Darcy stood near the mantelpiece, watching Ambrose dart between the assembled guests with renewed vigour, his recent illness now but a memory. The child’s laughter rang clear as he chased a butterfly that had somehow found its way indoors, his small boots pattering across the Persian carpet.
“Such a relief to see the boy so well,” Bingley remarked, approaching with a cup of tea. “I confess, I was quite concerned when he took ill.”
Darcy nodded, though his attention remained fixed upon Ambrose. “Indeed. He has recovered admirably.”
Yet even as he spoke the words, Elizabeth Bennet’s sentiment echoed in his memory:Why had he not got married so he could have some support in raising Ambrose?The question unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Was he truly providing all that the boy required? Miss Bennet had perceived something he had been too proud to acknowledge. Perhaps aspects of his personality had created an unwitting emotional distance.
Miss Francesca’s approach was undeniably strict. The woman possessed excellent credentials and had come highly recommended, yet Darcy could not recall ever seeing her embrace the little boy or offer the sort of tender comfort that seemed to come so naturally to Miss Bennet. When Ambrose had nightmares, it was Miss Francesca who administered firm lectures about courage and propriety, not gentle reassurancesand soothing words. On the other hand, Miss Bennet had been instrumental in the boy’s recovery, sitting by his bedside when fever rendered him restless and coaxing him to take his medicine with gentle persistence.
His gaze drifted across the room to where Miss Bennet sat conversing with her sister. She had changed from her walking dress into a gown of pale green muslin that complemented her dark hair beautifully. The sunlight streaming through the windows caught the auburn highlights in her curls, and when she laughed at something Jane Bennet said, her entire countenance seemed to glow with warmth.
What manner of mother might she prove to be? The thought arrived unbidden, and Darcy found himself considering it with surprising seriousness. She possessed both the intelligence to guide a child’s education and the warmth to nurture his spirit. She did not merely correct Ambrose’s behaviour; she understood it, responding with patience rather than stern reproof.
But such musings were folly. Miss Bennet was hardly the sort of woman his aunt would approve of, nor did she possess the connections and fortune that would make such an alliance advantageous. He was master of Pemberley, with duties and expectations that extended far beyond his personal inclinations.
And yet, as he observed her gentle smile when Ambrose approached to show her a flower he had plucked from the arrangement, Darcy could not entirely dismiss the image of her presiding over Pemberley’s breakfast table, or walking through its gardens with a child’s hand clasped in her own. She was a vivacious woman, unlike anyone he had ever seen, and Darcy could not deny that she possessed qualities far more valuable than a large dowry.
“You seem unusually contemplative today,” Bingley noted. “I trust Ambrose’s recovery has eased your worries?”
“Indeed. Though I confess the experience has given me cause for reflection.”
“Oh? In what regard?”
Darcy hesitated, reluctant to voice doubts that might be interpreted as weakness. “I begin to wonder whether a bachelor household is truly the ideal environment for a growing child.”
Bingley’s eyebrows rose with interest. “You speak as though you’re considering taking a wife.”
“I speak merely of theoretical considerations,” Darcy replied. “A child requires more than material provision and proper education. There are emotional needs that perhaps I have been too quick to dismiss as frivolous sentiment.”
His friend’s knowing smile suggested he was not deceived by such careful phrasing. “And I suppose these theoretical considerations have nothing whatsoever to do with a certain young lady who has demonstrated remarkable devotion to Ambrose’s welfare?”
Before Darcy could formulate a suitable denial, he noticed her sitting alone near the window, Jane Bennet having been drawn into conversation with Miss Hurst. Something in her posture—the slight droop of her shoulders, the way she gazed out at the gardens—suggested melancholy thoughts.
“Excuse me, Bingley,” he murmured, crossing the room with measured steps.
“Miss Bennet,” he said as he approached. “You appear lost in contemplation. I hope the afternoon’s events have not distressed you overmuch.”
She looked up with a start, then offered a guarded smile. “Mr Darcy. I was merely reflecting upon various matters. Nothing that need concern you.”
“Nevertheless, I should like to apologise for my earlier harsh words. You have shown Ambrose nothing but kindness, and I had no right to speak so curtly regarding your observations about his care.”
She studied his countenance with those speculating brown eyes that seemed to see far too much. “You need not apologise for protecting him from unrealistic expectations. I am aware my presence in your lives is temporary.”
Something in her tone—a note of resignation that sat ill with her usual spirited manner—prompted him to settle into the chair beside her. “Perhaps we might speak more civilly on the subject now that tempers have cooled.”
“Certainly, if you wish it.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The sounds of genteel conversation filled the space between them, punctuated by Ambrose’s delighted laughter as Miss Bingley showed him some trinket.
