When the trunk was finally closed and locked, Ambrose stood between them with the dignity of a small soldier preparing for battle. His face was pale but composed, his chin lifted in unconscious mimicry of Darcy’s own proud bearing.
Another knock, more insistent this time. They could delay no longer.
The descent to the entrance hall felt like walking to the gallows. Wickham waited with exaggerated patience, his expression arranged in a mask of paternal concern that fooled no one present. Yet Elizabeth noticed the satisfied gleam in his eyes as he took in their obvious anguish—the look of a man savouring his victory over old enemies.
“Ah, there’s my boy!” he exclaimed with false heartiness. “Come along now, Ambrose. We have a long journey ahead of us, and I’m eager to begin making up for all our lost time together.”
Ambrose shrank back against Elizabeth’s skirts, his earlier courage wavering in the face of this stranger who claimed such intimate rights over his person.
“Where are we going?” he asked in a small voice.
“To Yorkshire, my lad. I have lodgings there, and friends who are eager to meet you. You’ll find country life quite agreeable after all this London stuffiness.”
Elizabeth knelt beside Ambrose one final time, her hands framing his beloved face as she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Remember what we told you,” she whispered. “Remember that we love you, and be brave.”
Darcy’s farewell was harder to watch—this proud man reduced to kneeling before a child, his voice breaking as he pulled the boy into a fierce embrace.
“You are my son in every way that matters,” he said roughly. “Nothing and no one can change that. Be good, be strong, and remember that you have a home waiting for you whenever you can return to it.”
Ambrose clung to him for a moment longer before stepping back with heartbreaking resolve. “I’ll remember, Papa. I’ll remember everything.”
Wickham’s patience finally wore thin. “Come now, this farce has gone on quite long enough. The boy needs to adjust to his new circumstances, and prolonging these farewells serves no useful purpose.”
With false gentleness that made Elizabeth’s skin crawl, he placed a possessive hand on Ambrose’s shoulder and began steering him toward the door. The boy went willingly enough, but his eyes remained fixed on Elizabeth and Darcy with an intensity that suggested he was trying to memorise their faces.
At the threshold, he broke free of Wickham’s grasp and ran back to them one last time.
“I love you, Mama. I love you, Papa.”
The words hung in the air like a benediction as Wickham reclaimed him with firmer insistence. The front door closed behind them with a finality that echoed through the suddenly cavernous townhouse like a funeral bell.
Elizabeth collapsed against Darcy’s chest, her composure finally shattered completely. He held her as she sobbed, his own tears falling silent and unchecked into her hair. The emptiness around them seemed to mock their grief—rooms that had briefly rung with childish laughter now returned to their cold grandeur, toy soldiers packed away, fairy tale books closed.
***
In the awful silence that followed, Darcy made a vow that burned in his chest like a sacred flame. Whatever it cost, whatever laws he had to break, whatever enemies he had to make—he would bring Ambrose home. The boy belonged with them, and no court in England would keep his family separated permanently.
He had wealth, connections, and a determination forged in the fires of loss. Wickham had won this battle through legal trickery, but the war was far from over.
As Elizabeth’s sobs gradually subsided into exhausted silence, Darcy began planning their next move with the cold precision of a general preparing for a siege. Justice had failed them—very well, then he would seek victory through other means.
Their son was out there somewhere, probably crying himself to sleep in an unfamiliar bed, wondering why the people who claimed to love him had let him be taken away.
That wrong would be righted, whatever the cost.
Chapter Nineteen
“The peacocks seem quieter without him.” Elizabeth’s observation broke the melancholy silence that had settled over their breakfast table like morning fog. Three days had passed since their return from London, yet Pemberley felt fundamentally altered by Ambrose’s absence—as though the very walls mourned his departure.
Darcy glanced toward the windows where the ornamental birds usually provided entertainment with their preening displays. “Perhaps they sense the change. Animals often perceive what we attempt to hide from ourselves.”
The conversation died there, smothered by the weight of unspoken grief. Even the simplest observations carried reminders of the child who was no longer there to delight in such sights. His empty chair at the table seemed to mock their attempts at normalcy, whilst the silence where his cheerful chatter once filled their mornings felt oppressive.
Elizabeth pushed her eggs about her plate without appetite. Sleep had proven elusive since their return, her dreams haunted by images of Ambrose crying for them in some unfamiliar Yorkshire cottage. During wakeful hours, she caught herself listening for the sound of small feet on the stairs and the burst of excited questions that had once punctuated every meal.
Mrs Reynolds entered with her usual quiet efficiency, yet even she seemed subdued as she refilled their cups. The entire household had felt the boy’s departure keenly. Servants who had grown accustomed to his bright presence now moved through their duties with funeral solemnity.
“Perhaps you might care to walk with me through the rose garden after breakfast?” Darcy suggested with a doting gentleness. “The morning air might prove restorative.”
