“My cousin was close to Wickham as a child,” said Fitzwilliam the evening of the execution when the gentlemen remained in the dining-room with brandy after dinner.
“It was not just an association for convenience?” asked the earl, drawing circles around the rim of his glass. “There were few boys Jameson’s age in the neighborhood.”
Fitzwilliam shrugged. “At first, perhaps it was. Yet I recall several times my cousin confessed his sorrow that Wickham had strayed. As they grew older and my cousin became wiser andmore observant, Wickham’s character flaws became apparent, and Jameson distanced himself.
“More is the pity, Wickham’s father was an excellent man, a man Uncle Morgan trusted with the estate’s management for many years. Now that Wickham has returned to their company, I cannot imagine they are happy with his conduct.”
The gentlemen joined the ladies in the sitting-room soon after, the mood in the dining-room not conducive to friendly banter. Darcy, knowing of Fitzwilliam’s connection to Anne, watched as he made his way to her side at once, seeming to feel the need for female companionship, and Bingley was not a step behind him. Thinking it was an excellent notion, Darcy approached his wife and sat next to her, taking her hand in his with no intention of letting it go. Elizabeth smiled and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Do you ever miss Netherfield?” asked Elizabeth, her voice quiet, almost drowsy, though with emotion, not fatigue.
“You mean the life we planned there?”
When she nodded, Darcy considered the question and squeezed her hand. “Sometimes, I suppose I do. It was a simpler life, without the expectations of high society and large portfolios to manage. I do not regret it, though I regret the conspiracy that led to a good man’s death.”
Elizabeth did not reply at once, seeming deep in thought. “I am not enamored with that world.”
Darcy offered a soft laugh, turning to kiss her head. “You understand my character enough to know that I am not either.”
“Then I propose we do not succumb to the lure of performing to strangers who mean nothing to us.”
“Not allow it to define us?”
“Always remember our origins.” Elizabeth smiled against his shoulder. “Some would call it hubris, for even my father’s position is a privilege few can boast. Yet I would not wish tobecome like so many others, to weigh everything by fortune, status, and connection.”
“Then we will not allow it to affect us. Pemberley is an excellent estate, one we both already love. But it is a home, not the symbol of our ambitions.”
“And Netherfield?”
“Netherfield is a part of our history. It is the place where we fell in love, where we spent the first nights of our union.”
Elizabeth drew away from his shoulder, her laughing eyes fixed on him, the witticism spilling from her mouth: “It may also be the place where we conceived our child.”
Darcy nodded, his emotions choking his response as he placed his hand on her still flat stomach. “Then I should love to see Darcys living there again one day. Perhaps it might become the inheritance of a second son.”
“I should like that very much, William.” Elizabeth put her hand over his and leaned her head against his shoulder again. “It will remain a legacy of our family, become a second branch like your grandfather started your line.”
Agreed, they sat in silence, on a calm island amid a sea of conversation and family unity around them. The evening deepened and night soon fell, but Darcy and Elizabeth both understood their lives were still in the morning of possibility and potential. The future had never seemed brighter.
IT WAS A COLD WINTERday when his mother, a woman he looked up to above all others, stepped from the room with a cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms. Her expression as she walked toward him was both happy and loving, the life she held was the essence of the love between Darcy and his wife. When she reached him, she put the bundle in his arms, and he saw the child for the first time.
“Here is your son, William.”
As Darcy looked down at the pink infant in his arms, love like he had never felt before welled up in his heart. The child was perfect in form and feature, rosy cheeks, tufts of Elizabeth’s dark hair on his head, and when he gazed at Darcy, yawned, and then fell into slumber, Darcy could see he had inherited Elizabeth’s lovely, soulful eyes. The wonder of it hit him so hard, he could not look away.
“He is beautiful,” he managed to say at length, aware he sounded like a dullard.
“Just like his parents,” said his mother. She stepped forward and embraced him, mindful of the sleeping child. “Elizabeth is well. She is sleeping now. The birth was not so hard as you feared.”
“That is a relief,” said Darcy, not without irony.
Everyone at the estate was aware of his nervousness in the weeks leading up to Elizabeth’s time. Fatalities for mothers and their children were not unknown, and though Darcy ensured the best doctors and midwives attended her, nothing in life was certain, nothing guaranteed. Thoughts of losing Elizabeth, of moving through life without his true love and partner, now appeared quaint relics of excessive worry, and through it all, Elizabeth had declared her confidence with rare courage and the indomitable will for which she was renowned.
“Announce the birth to the family,” urged his mother. “Maggie and I will stay with Elizabeth for the moment, though she sleeps peacefully. You may visit and bring your son back to her when everyone has fussed over him.”
“Thank you, Mother, I shall.”
With a nod and a touch on his cheek, his mother turned and reentered the birthing chamber where Elizabeth lay in repose. The desire to be in her company, to share the joy of her efforts and the expansion of their family, was strong, but Darcy knewnow was not the time. With a vow that he would not so much as leave her side in the ensuing days, he turned, cradling his child with the instinct granted to all parents, and made his way down the stairs. There, he met with Mrs. Reynolds, Pemberley’s longtime housekeeper and a woman on whom Darcy and Elizabeth had both come to rely.
