“I do not know how to care for her,” he confessed, the words escaping before he could prevent them. His voice cracked, revealing the frightened boy beneath his attempts at manly composure. “I can barely manage myself, much less a child who needs so much attention. She is accustomed to our father’s ways, and I am only…”
He trailed off. What was he, after all? A thirteen-year-old boy with some facility for numbers thrust into circumstances far beyond his ability.
Lady Anne set down her teacup with a gentle clink. “Mr Havisham and I have been discussing your circumstances at considerable length with Mr Wickham. We should like to propose that you both become our wards, if such an arrangement would be acceptable to you.”
Darcy stared at her, his mouth falling slightly open. Wards. Not servants, not objects of charity, but wards—with protections and rights, with a place in the world that carried respect.
“You would learn the steward’s duties from Mr Wickham, who will be elevated from his current position. You would reside with him and his son in the steward’s cottage where you lived with your father. He will continue to teach you as your father did. In time, you would possess a profession to rely upon, should you choose it. Little Georgiana would reside here in the house with a nursemaid and governess to see to her education. We will raise her to have the skill to become a governess or lady’s maid, should she so choose. You would see each other daily, naturally, and spend all holidays together as a family should. You would join us for church on Sundays and spend time with us also. You will have a tutor.”
She paused, allowing him time to absorb her words whilst she reached for a delicate macaroon, breaking it into small pieces.
“But pray, why? We are nothing to you,” he said quietly.
“I must confess,” Lady Anne continued “Mr Havisham and I have longed for children of our own, but we have not been so blessed despite several years of marriage. Having someone to care for will fill a hole of sorts.”
Relief flooded through Darcy so suddenly that his vision blurred and he had to blink rapidly to clear it. For the first time since his father’s death, the crushing weight upon his chest eased slightly, allowing him to draw a full breath. Through the tall windows, he could see the grounds he might learn to manage—the gardens and fields and tenant cottages that could becomehis responsibility rather than his burden. A future, uncertain perhaps, but no longer hopeless.
At last, with hands that no longer trembled quite so violently, he reached for one of the offered pastries—a delicate lemon biscuit that melted upon his tongue, tasting of butter and sunshine and possibilities he had thought lost forever.
“Thank you,” he managed. “I should be honoured to accept your generous offer, my lady. And I believe Georgiana will be as well, once she understands what it means.”
Lady Anne’s smile transformed her already pleasant face into something radiant. “Excellent. Then we shall consider it settled. You may move your belongings from the Wickham’s cottage back into the steward’s cottage when they are ready to move in. Georgiana’s nursery is already prepared. Mrs Reynolds has been quite excited at the prospect of having a little one to fuss over.”
The future stretched before him, uncertain yet filled with promise he had not dared to imagine. In this grand house where his mother had once scrubbed floors and his father had kept meticulous accounts, two orphaned children might discover not merely shelter, but the chance to build lives worthy of the love that had been taken from them.
Outside, the mist began to lift at last, revealing patches of clear sky beyond the roses where the garden waited patiently for the promise of spring.
Chapter One
Hertfordshire
September 1811
She does try so very hard, does she not?” Lady Jane Bennet observed, adjusting her afternoon parasol as they walked the tree-lined path from Longbourn towards Netherfield. The early autumn air carried the scent of ripening apples from the nearby orchards, and golden light filtered through the canopy above.
Elizabeth glanced back towards Longbourn’s modest Tudor facade, where Miss Caroline Bingley had just bid them farewell with elaborate curtseys and excessive praise for their afternoon walking dress. “Miss Bingley’s desperation to ingratiate herself with us grows more pronounced each day. I begin to fear she may injure herself with all that bowing and scraping.”
“Lizzy,” Jane chided gently, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “She is merely eager to fit in. Consider how daunting it must be—they are trying to become members of the gentry, after all. The gulf between us must seem vast to them.”
“The gulf exists, certainly, but Miss Bingley’s attempts to bridge it through flattery grow rather tiresome. Did you see how she praised my ribbon? As if a simple piece of silk were the height of fashion.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I almost felt sorry for her.”
“You are being unkind,” Jane replied, but her smile was fond. “Despite the social differences, I believe her attempts at friendship are sincere, if misguided in their execution.”
Elizabeth studied her sister’s face, noting the particular softness in Jane’s expression whenever the Bingleys were mentioned—or more specifically, whenever Mr Bingley was mentioned. “And what of her brother? I suppose you find his attempts at friendship equally sincere?”
Jane’s cheeks bloomed pink. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, come now.” Elizabeth linked their arms conspiratorially. “I have eyes, sister dear. Mr Bingley can scarcely look away from you for five minutes together. And you—well, you practically glow when he enters a room.”
“I do not glow,” Jane protested, her colour deepening further.
“You absolutely do. Like a candle in a dark window.” Elizabeth squeezed her arm. “And there is nothing wrong with it. He seems genuinely kind, which is more than can be said for most gentlemen of our acquaintance.”
Jane’s countenance grew thoughtful as they rounded the bend towards the village church. “He does seem different from the others. But I worry about the propriety of encouraging his admiration when Mama disapproves so strongly.”
Elizabeth kicked at a fallen leaf with the toe of her half boot. “Mama doesn’t want us associating with the Bingleys at all because they are of lower birth. As an earl’s daughters, we are meant to aim much higher—or so she reminds us daily. But I think when love strikes, it strikes regardless of birth or breeding. Besides, if Mr Bingley does purchase Longbourn from Papa ashe intends, he will be a gentleman of property. That should satisfy even Mama’s elevated standards.”
“He will still not be titled,” Jane pointed out.
