“Nearly?” Darcy seized upon the qualification with precision.
“There are rare instances where extreme unfitness has resulted in alternative arrangements, but such cases typically involve criminal behaviour rather than mere neglect. The Court of Chancery are extremely reluctant to override biological parentage based solely on evidence of inadequate care.”
Elizabeth felt her hope begin to crumble. “Then what you are saying is that even with Mrs Young’s testimony, even with proof of Wickham’s cruelty, we cannot prevent him from reclaiming Ambrose?”
“I cannot offer false encouragement, Mrs Darcy. The law favours paternal rights almost without exception. Our best hope would be to negotiate some form of shared custody arrangement, perhaps with Pemberley serving as the child’s primary residence whilst Mr Wickham retains legal guardianship.”
The suggestion struck Elizabeth as almost worse than complete separation. To have Wickham hovering perpetually over their family life, with the power to disrupt their happiness at any moment, would be a form of torment beyond bearing.
Before anyone could respond to the solicitor’s grim assessment, Morrison appeared once more in the doorway, his face pale with obvious distress.
“Sir, urgent word has arrived from Lambton. Mr Wickham has just arrived at the inn, he is making enquiries about transportation to Pemberley. The innkeeper has delayed him, since word of who he is spread and they know who he is. However, the messenger believes he will make his way here anyhow in due course.”
The room fell into stunned silence as the implications sank in. Their brief respite was ending, and the confrontation they all dreaded was about to begin.
“How long?” Darcy asked with deadly calm.
“Even if he were to walk he would be here within an hour, unless he gets lost on the way.”
Elizabeth instinctively drew Ambrose closer, noting how the boy’s face had grown pale at the mention of Wickham’s approach. “You need not see him if you do not wish to,” she whispered, sickened by lack of certainty behind her own words. Wickham had the full backing of the law, which meant that he could take Ambrose back whenever he wanted. To have the boy taken from them a second time…the very notion was too much to bear.
“I want to stay with you and Papa,” Ambrose murmured, his hand clutching her skirt with desperate intensity.
Just as despair threatened to overwhelm them entirely, Morrison returned yet again, though this time his expression carried a note of hope rather than doom.
“Mr Hartwell has arrived, sir. He says he bears intelligence of the utmost importance regarding your legal situation.”
The thief-taker entered with the confident stride of a man bearing significant news. His weathered face showed signs of hard riding, but his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a hunter who had finally cornered his prey.
“Mr Darcy, I bring news that will change everything,” he announced without preamble. Moving close to Darcy’s chair, he leaned in and whispered something that made Elizabeth’s husband go very still, his eyes widening with what appeared to be stunned amazement.
“Are you certain of this intelligence?” Darcy asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
“As certain as sworn testimony and official documents can make it, sir. I have all the proof you require.”
Before Elizabeth could request an explanation of this cryptic exchange, Morrison’s voice carried from the entrance hall, announcing the arrival they had all been dreading.
“Sir, Mr Wickham has arrived and demands immediate audience with you regarding the return of his son.”
Elizabeth felt her heart stop as Ambrose pressed closer to her side, his small frame trembling with fear. This was the moment of reckoning they had all known must come.
But instead of the defeat she expected to see on her husband’s face, Darcy’s expression had transformed into something approaching grim satisfaction.
“Very well,” he said with calm authority. “Have Mr Wickham meet me in my study. Mr Hartwell will join us as well. I believe he has something quite illuminating to share with our unexpected guest.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Where is my son?” Wickham’s voice carried through Pemberley’s corridors with the force of barely contained fury, his boots striking the marble floors with aggressive purpose as Morrison escorted him towards Darcy’s study. “I demand to see the boy this instant!”
Elizabeth pressed closer to the study door from her position in the adjacent morning room, Ambrose trembling in her arms as the sound of his tormentor’s approach grew louder. Mrs Younge sat rigidly beside them, her face pale but resolute, whilst Mr Hartwell waited in the corner with the patient stillness of a predator preparing to strike.
“Mr Wickham,” Darcy’s voice carried the deadly calm that marked his most dangerous moods. “How unexpected to see you at Pemberley. I trust your journey from Yorkshire was not too taxing?”
“Spare me your false courtesies, Darcy. I know you have him—Mrs Younge’s disappearance along with the boy makes your complicity obvious. I demand Ambrose’s immediate return, or I shall have the constables here within the hour.”
Through the crack in the door, Elizabeth could see Wickham pacing Darcy’s study like a caged animal, his military bearing compromised by travel stains and the wild look of a man whose carefully laid plans had been disrupted.
“Indeed? And what makes you so certain the boy wishes to return to your care?”
