I will have justice, and I will have my son.
George Wickham
Elizabeth’s hands trembled slightly as she folded the offensive missive. “The audacity of the man,” she breathed, her indignation on behalf of both Mr Darcy and Ambrose evident in her voice. “How dare he make such accusations when he abandoned all responsibility years ago?”
“His words matter little,” Mr Darcy said with forced calm, though she could see the tension in his bearing. “What concerns me is his growing boldness. This suggests he believes his legal position has strengthened.”
Miss Francesca, who had been listening with obvious distress, cleared her throat delicately. “Perhaps Master Ambrose should return to his lessons now?”
Elizabeth looked down at the boy, who had been following their conversation with the instinctive anxiety children feel when adults grow troubled. “Yes, that would be best. Come, sweetheart, show me where you practice your letters before you go to Miss Francesca.”
After seeing Ambrose settled with his governess, Elizabeth returned to find Mr Darcy pacing the library with restless energy. “What will you do?” she asked without preamble.
“I must consult with my solicitors immediately. This morning, if possible.” He paused in his pacing to meet her gaze. “Legal battles and custody disputes are not easy obstacles to wade through, but I believe we will succeed.”
“So do I,” Elizabeth replied with quiet dignity. “We are in this together, Mr Darcy, and together we shall see it through.”
Her resolute words seemed to bolster his own determination. “Then I shall ride to Sheffield immediately and return with whatever guidance my solicitors can provide. Can you manage with Ambrose should he grow distressed by my absence?”
“Certainly. Leave him to me.”
As Mr Darcy departed for his urgent consultations, Elizabeth dedicated herself to maintaining normalcy for Ambrose’s sake. She suggested a tour of the kitchens—a proposition that immediately brightened his countenance. The domestic heart of Pemberley proved to be a revelation of organised activity and delicious aromas.
Cook, a robust woman with flour-dusted hands and a kind face, welcomed them warmly into her domain. “Master Ambrose! And Mrs Darcy—such an honour to have you visit our kitchens, ma’am.”
“I hope we are not disturbing your work,” Elizabeth replied, noting the various preparations underway. “Ambrose spoke so enthusiastically about your domain that I confess my curiosity was thoroughly aroused.”
“Not at all, ma’am. ‘Tis always a pleasure to show off our kitchens to appreciative visitors.” Cook beamed as she gestured towards the impressive array of copper pots, well-seasoned wooden tables, and gleaming ranges. “Master Ambrose here has become quite the little helper, haven’t you, young sir?”
“I helped count the eggs this morning,” Ambrose announced proudly. “And yesterday I learned how to tell when the bread dough has risen properly.”
Cook nodded approvingly. “Aye, and very good you were at it too. Now then, I’ve just pulled some biscuits from the oven—still warm they are. Perhaps you and Mrs Darcy would care to sample them?”
The offered treats proved to be works of culinary art—golden, buttery, and still radiating heat from the oven. Elizabeth accepted hers gratefully, noting how Ambrose waited politely for her to take the first bite before indulging in his own.
“These are extraordinary,” she declared honestly. “I fear our cook at Longbourn would weep with envy at such perfection.”
Cook’s cheeks pinkened with pleasure. “You’re too kind, ma’am. Though I do take pride in my baking. Been making these particular biscuits for nigh on twenty years—they were a favourite of the late Mrs Darcy, God rest her soul.”
“Then I am doubly honoured to taste them,” Elizabeth replied softly, touched by this connection to Darcy’s mother. “I hope you will share the recipe with me someday, if it would not be presumptuous to ask.”
“Oh, ma’am, I should be delighted! Anything for the mistress of this wonderful household.”
***
When Mr Darcy returned as evening approached, his expression carried both relief and residual tension. “My uncle has agreed to expedite our case through his connections at the Court of Chancery,” he announced. “The hearing will take place in two weeks rather than the months such proceedings usually require.”
“And the outcome?” Elizabeth asked, though she dreaded the answer.
“My solicitors are confident that Wickham’s claims will not withstand scrutiny. They doubt very much that he was ever legally married to Ambrose’s mother, and without such proof, his paternal rights are questionable at best.”
The dinner that followed carried an air of cautious hope rather than the formal awkwardness of the previous evening. Ambrose, sensing that the adults’ earlier distress had eased, regained his natural cheerfulness, and entertained them with stories of his afternoon adventures with the kitchen cat. Elizabeth noticed that she and Mr Darcy, united in their common cause, now conversed with the ease of true partners rather than polite strangers.
“And then Whiskers climbed all the way to the top shelf in the pantry,” Ambrose continued, his fork temporarily forgotten as he gestured enthusiastically. “Cook was quite cross becausehe knocked over the flour jar, but I helped clean it up. Whiskers looked very guilty with white powder on his whiskers.”
“I imagine he did,” Mr Darcy replied with genuine amusement. “Did Cook forgive him his transgression?”
“She pretended to be stern, but I saw her slip him a piece of fish when she thought no one was looking. I think she likes having him in the kitchen, even if he does cause mischief.”
