“He cannot help his parentage, Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana continued, her voice growing stronger. “Papa always said that children should not bear the sins of their fathers.”
Darcy closed his eyes, remembering his father’s voice speaking those very words years ago when discussing Wickham’s wayward tendencies. George Darcy had possessed an abundance of compassion, perhaps too much where his godson was concerned. That generosity had ultimately been repaid with ingratitude and betrayal.
“The boy requires immediate care,” Mrs Younge pressed, sensing his wavering resolve. “I have done what I could, but my circumstances are… reduced. I lack the means to provide for a child’s needs.”
“What do you propose?” Darcy asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
“Take him in, sir. Raise him as your ward. He is innocent of his father’s failings and deserves a chance at respectability.”
The suggestion hung in the air like smoke from the fire, acrid and difficult to dispel. Darcy’s practical mind immediately conjured a dozen objections—the expense, the complications, the inevitable questions from society. Yet as he looked upon Georgiana’s hopeful face and the child’s trusting gaze, other considerations intruded.
His sister had been inconsolable after their father’s death, her grief manifesting in long silences and listless days. Perhaps caring for this helpless creature might provide the purpose she desperately needed. The child was blood relation to Wickham, but he was also connected to the Darcy family through bonds of history and obligation.
“The arrangement would be temporary,” Darcy said slowly, more to convince himself than the others. “Until suitable permanent placement can be secured.”
Mrs Younge’s relief was palpable. “Of course, sir. Most generous of you.”
“What is his name?” Georgiana asked, her attention fixed entirely on the child.
“Ambrose,” Mrs Younge replied. “Miss Phillips choose it herself before… before the end.”
Georgiana smiled, the first proper expression of joy Darcy had witnessed from her in months. “Hello, little Ambrose. You are safe now.”
The child gurgled in response, his tiny hand grasping at the ribbons of Georgiana’s morning dress. The sight stirred something unexpected in Darcy’s chest, a protective instinct he had not anticipated. This innocent creature bore no responsibility for Wickham’s failures, yet he would suffer for them unless someone intervened.
“Mrs Younge,” Darcy said, his decision crystallizing with each word. “You may inform anyone of interest that young Ambrose will remain at Pemberley for the foreseeable future. I shall arrange for a nursemaid and whatever additional staff his care requires.”
The woman’s gratitude was effusive, but Darcy barely heard her thanks. His attention was captured by the tableau before him—his sister, animated for the first time in months, cooing softly to the child she held with instinctive tenderness. Perhaps this unexpected responsibility would prove a blessing in disguise.
As Mrs Younge took her leave, promising to return with the child’s few possessions, Darcy approached his sister and her new charge. Ambrose had fallen asleep in Georgiana’s arms, his features relaxed in innocent slumber. Stripped of Wickham’s characteristic smirk and calculating expression, the resemblance was less pronounced, allowing Darcy to see the child for what he truly was—a helpless soul in need of protection.
“We shall need to convert the nursery,” Georgiana said quietly, her voice filled with purpose. “And hire a governess when he is older. Oh, Fitzwilliam, think of all the things we must teach him!”
Darcy nodded, though his thoughts had already turned to the practical considerations of raising another man’s child. The decision felt simultaneously reckless and inevitable, as though fate had conspired to place this responsibility upon his shoulders. Time would reveal whether his choice was wise or foolish, but for now, it was enough to see hope return to his sister’s eyes.
The rain had begun to ease, pale sunlight filtering through the study windows to illuminate the small face that would forever change the course of their lives.
Chapter One
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
September 1811
“My dear Mr Bennet,” Mrs Bennet announced with the breathless excitement she reserved for the most momentous occasions, “you will never guess what intelligence I have received from Lady Lucas this morning!”
Mr Bennet did not lift his eyes from the morning paper, though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested amusement rather than irritation. “I confess myself entirely at a loss, my dear. Perhaps you will enlighten us all.”
Elizabeth paused in her needlework, exchanging a knowing glance with Jane across the morning room. Their mother’s dramatic pronouncements rarely failed to provide entertainment, though the subjects varied little—marriages, fortunes, or new arrivals to the neighbourhood.
“Netherfield Park is to be occupied at last!” Mrs Bennet continued, settling her considerable form into her favourite armchair with a rustle of morning dress and petticoats. “A young gentleman from the north has taken it—Mr Bingley is his name. Five thousand a year and unmarried!”
Lydia clapped her hands together, abandoning her half-hearted attempt at embroidery. “Five thousand! Mama, you must contrive for us to meet him at once.”
“Indeed, Papa must call upon him immediately,” Kitty added, her voice rising with anticipation. “Think how delightful it would be if he should fall in love with one of us!”
Mary, ever the voice of propriety, cleared her throat. “Such speculation is hardly seemly before the gentleman has even settled into residence.”
“Pish!” Mrs Bennet waved a dismissive hand. “A single man of good fortune must be in want of a wife, and who better suited than one of my daughters? Though I confess,” she added with a sly glance towards Jane, “I have particular hopes for my sweetest Jane.”
