With that ominous promise, he strode away towards the drive where a hired horse waited. The small group stood in stunned silence until the sound of hoofbeats faded into the distance.
Ambrose had begun crying again, clinging to Miss Bennet with desperate intensity. “I don’t want to go with that man, Lizzie. He frightened me. He said Mr Darcy was lying, but Mr Darcy never lies.”
Miss Bennet’s gaze met Darcy’s over the child’s head, and he saw his own anguish reflected in her eyes. How could they explain such adult complications to a five-year-old who had already endured so much upheaval?
“Come,” he said gently, reaching out to stroke Ambrose’s hair. “Let us return to the house. You’re safe now, and that is all that matters.”
The walk back seemed interminable. Miss Bingley met them at the door with profuse apologies for her inattention, but Darcy barely heard her words. His mind was reeling with the implications of Wickham’s claims and the legal nightmare that likely awaited them.
Once they had settled in the drawing room—the other guests having been quietly dismissed—Miss Bennet continued to hold Ambrose while Darcy paced before the fireplace. The child had grown calmer but remained unusually subdued, occasionally asking whispered questions that Miss Bennet answered with soothing murmurs.
“Tell me truthfully,” Miss Bennet said once Ambrose had dozed against her shoulder, “what manner of man is this Wickham? Can his claims hold legal weight?”
Darcy’s jaw clenched as he considered how much to reveal. “George Wickham is a scoundrel of the highest order. Charming, persuasive, and utterly without conscience. My father left him a living worth a thousand pounds, which he rejected in favour of an immediate payment of three thousand. Within two years,he had gambled away every penny and returned demanding the living he had previously spurned.”
“And you refused him?”
“Naturally. He had forfeited any right to my father’s beneficence through his own dissolute conduct.”
Her expression grew troubled. “Yet if he was indeed married to Ambrose’s mother…”
“Then God help us all,” Darcy finished grimly, “for that man is utterly unfit to raise a child. When his associate brought the child to me, she mentioned nothing of marriage. She told me there was none other, no family. That is why we took him in. And I do not believe his declaration that he did not know about him. He has always been a liar. His interest in Ambrose stems not from paternal affection but from spite—a desire to wound me through the one person I…” he stopped abruptly, unwilling to complete the thought.
But she seemed to understand regardless. Her arms tightened protectively around the sleeping child as she gazed up at him with newfound comprehension.
“He wishes to hurt you by taking away the person you love most.”
The simple statement hung between them, carrying implications that neither was quite prepared to examine too closely. At least she had at last let go of her assumption that he did not care for the boy sufficiently. Had Wickham perhaps told her lies which had led her to think so? She had known the name when first he spoke it, after all.
Darcy could only nod, his throat too tight for words, as he contemplated the very real possibility of losing the boy who had become the centre of his world.
Chapter Nine
A day later
Laughter drifted up from the garden, drawing Darcy to the drawing room window where he could observe the scene below. Miss Bennet knelt on a patch of cloth spread upon the soft grass, her pale blue muslin gown spread around her like flower petals, while Ambrose attempted to teach her some intricate game involving wooden blocks and a great deal of dramatic storytelling. Georgiana sat nearby with her needlework forgotten as she watched the proceedings with obvious delight.
“No, no, Lizzy!” Ambrose declared with the authority of a five-year-old expert. “The dragon must roar properly, or the knight won’t know to be brave. Listen—” He demonstrated with such enthusiasm that his voice cracked, sending all three into fresh peals of amusement.
Miss Francesca stood at her customary distance, her posture rigid in its usual manner. Yet even she could not entirely suppress the softening around her stern mouth as she noticed her charge’s excitement.
Darcy leaned against the window frame, surprised by the warmth that spread through his chest.
When had such unguarded joy become commonplace in his presence? Ambrose had always been a cheerful child, quick to smile and delight in simple pleasures, yet there was something different now in the quality of his laughter.
The boy’s happiness had often seemed carefully modulated under Miss Francesca’s watchful eye, his natural exuberance tempered by endless reminders of what constituted proper behaviour for a young gentleman. It was the same way Darcy himself had been raised, but perhaps the same methods could not be applied to every child.
Now Ambrose’s mirth rang out freely, unrestrained by concerns that his joy might be deemed too boisterous or unseemly. Miss Bennet had somehow permitted him to be wholly himself, regardless of the governess’s continued presence and occasional disapproval.
Miss Bennet was, without question, the most vexing woman of his acquaintance. She challenged Darcy’s opinions with alarming frequency, possessed an independence of mind that bordered on impertinence, and showed not the slightest deference to his superior station. Yet watching her now—her bonnet askew, her skirts speckled with grass, her entire being focused on bringing joy to a lonely child—he could not deny her singular appeal.
Intelligence sparkled in her dark eyes when she debated literary merit or social justice. Wit sharpened her responses when confronted with pompous assertions. Most remarkably, undisguised tenderness softened her entire countenance whenever Ambrose approached. She possessed that rarest of qualities: the ability to see past society’s prescribed roles to the individual within.
The gentleman who eventually secured her affections would indeed be fortunate. She would not be a wife content with morning visits and evening entertainments. She would challenge, inspire, occasionally infuriate—and love with a fierce protectiveness that would make her children the most blessed creatures in England.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of a footman bearing correspondence. The silver salver held several items, but one envelope commanded immediate attention by virtue of its ominous black wax seal. Darcy’s stomach clenched as he recognised his solicitor’s emergency marking.
“Sir,” the servant said, “this arrived by express rider. Mr Oswald indicated it required your immediate attention.”
