Darcy’s arms came around her, solid and warm despite the tremors she could feel running through his frame. “We tell him the truth—that sometimes the world makes decisions we cannot understand or accept, but that our love for him remains unchanged.”
“He will think we are abandoning him. He will think we do not want him anymore.”
“No.” The fierceness in his voice surprised them both. “We tell him we are fighting for him. That this separation is temporary, not permanent. That he must be brave whilst we find a way to bring him home.”
The sound of small feet in the corridor announced Ambrose’s return from his afternoon walk with the governess. Elizabeth hastily wiped her eyes, but she knew the redness would betray her distress to those sharp young eyes that missed so little.
“Mama! Papa!” His joyful cry as he burst through the door was like a dagger to both their hearts. “Miss Francesca took me to feed the ducks in the square, and there was a little dog that wanted to chase them, and—” He stopped abruptly, his smilefading as he took in their expressions and the open trunk on his bed.
“Why are my things being packed?” he asked, his voice growing small and uncertain. “Are we going home to Pemberley?”
Elizabeth knelt to his level, her hands trembling as she reached for him. “Sweetheart, we need to talk to you about something very important.”
Ambrose stepped closer, his trust in them absolute despite the fear beginning to creep into his dark eyes. “What is it, Mama? You look sad.”
“Do you remember the man who came to Pemberley? The one who said he was your father?”
The boy’s face scrunched in confusion. “The bad man? But you said he went away.”
“He did go away, but now he has come back. And the chancellor… the chancellor has decided that you must go with him for a while.”
“No!” The word exploded from Ambrose with a force that made both adults flinch. “I don’t want to go with him! I want to stay with you and Papa! Please, Mama, don’t let them take me!”
He flung himself into Elizabeth’s arms with such desperation that she nearly toppled backwards. His small body shook with sobs that seemed too large for his slight frame, whilst his fingers clutched at her dress as though he could somehow anchor himself to safety through the strength of his grip.
“I’m sorry, my darling,” she whispered against his hair, her own tears falling freely now. “I’m so very sorry. But you must remember that Papa and I love you more than anything in thisworld. That will never change, no matter where you are or who you’re with.”
“Then why can’t I stay??”
Darcy dropped to his knees beside them, his large hands gentle as they stroked Ambrose’s curls.
“We are fighting for you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “We will never stop fighting for you. But sometimes, even when we fight our hardest, we must accept temporary defeats in order to win the final victory.”
Ambrose pulled back to look at them both, his face streaked with tears. “Will you come visit me?”
Elizabeth exchanged a helpless glance with Darcy. They had no idea what Wickham’s plans entailed, where he might take the boy, or whether he would permit any contact with his former guardians.
“We will try,” she said. “We will do everything in our power to see you again as soon as possible.”
“Promise?”
The simple word hung between them like a bridge they were terrified to cross. To promise might be to lie, yet how could they send this child into an uncertain future without offering some hope to cling to?
“I promise we will never stop trying,” Elizabeth said finally. “And I promise that we will love you always, no matter what happens.”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted their anguished farewells. Tobias’s voice carried through the panels with reluctant formality.
“Mr Wickham has arrived, sir. He is waiting in the entrance hall.”
The words fell like a death sentence. Time, which had seemed suspended in this bubble of private grief, suddenly rushed forward with merciless efficiency. There were no more delays, no more precious moments to steal—only the inexorable march toward separation.
Ambrose seemed to sense the finality of the moment. His tears ceased as though he had drawn upon some inner reserve of courage that humbled the adults surrounding him.
“Will you help me pack my soldiers?” he asked quietly. “I don’t want to forget how we arranged them for the battle of Waterloo.”
The request nearly shattered what remained of Elizabeth’s composure. Here was a child trying to maintain normalcy in the face of catastrophe, clinging to small rituals that connected him to happier times.
They worked together in silence, wrapping each precious toy, each familiar book, each small garment that held the essence of his brief childhood at Pemberley. Darcy placed the toy soldiers in their wooden box with the reverence of a general laying weapons to rest, whilst Elizabeth folded tiny shirts and stockings with hands that shook despite her efforts at steadiness.
