William deserves to know his father, and you, my dear, deserve to know the exceptional child we created together.
Whenever I despair of our… [cross outs], I will always thank the Good Lord that William was given to me to remind me of…
Darcy closed the journal, unable to continue reading through the blur of tears that threatened his composure. Elizabeth had maintained this chronicle, faithfully documenting William’s development for a husband who might never recover enough to appreciate it.
She had kept her faith in him, believed he would one day recognize her.
Not just recognize her, but love her the way he apparently had that night at the Red Lion Inn. He wanted to be that man, the Fitzwilliam Darcy who had regarded her as precious, who had madethe most momentous decision of his life when he opened his heart to her. Who’d apparently promised to love and cherish her, to protect her, to honor her… and then, he’d failed her.
Darcy squeezed his eyes shut, feigning sleep to keep the tears from leaking. He lowered the brim of his hat, hugging the journal—Elizabeth’s words, the words that would sustain him, the words that would give him hope that she would still call him,my dearest love.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE QUIET SISTER
Elizabeth placedthe last of the late Bramley apples into her basket, wincing as her fingers brushed against the rough edges of the wicker. Three days had passed since Darcy’s departure, three days of maintaining her dignity while William asked repeatedly for “Da-see” with increasing confusion and distress. Each time, she offered the same explanation—that Mr. Darcy had gone to London on business but would return soon—words that seemed to satisfy William even as they rang hollow to her heart.
The November morning air carried the sharp bite of approaching winter. The late varieties—hardy Northern Spy and Roxbury Russet—still clung to their branches with stubborn determination, their ruby and gold skins promising excellent keeping quality through the cold months ahead.
Mary looked up from the portable writing desk balanced on an overturned crate, where she had been recording the morning’s wool weights.
“The yields are better than expected,” Mary announced with satisfaction. “Mr. Pullen’s methods are quite sound. Though Iconfess I had not anticipated how complex sheep farm management could be.”
“Graham is nothing if not thorough,” Elizabeth agreed, setting down her basket and reaching for one of the lower branches. “I suspect his records could serve as a textbook for estate management, were anyone inclined to publish such a thing.”
“He seems a remarkably capable gentleman,” Mary observed with studied casualness, though Elizabeth caught the slight flush that accompanied the comment. “I find his approach to land stewardship quite effective.”
Elizabeth paused in her apple picking, her sister’s tone registering with the sort of alertness that years of living with four sisters had honed to perfection. “Indeed? You have been spending considerable time reviewing his methods.”
“Someone must understand the systems in place,” Mary replied with defensive primness. “Particularly with both Mr. Darcy and Graham absent. The sheep require consistent oversight, and the tenant farmers need guidance regarding winter preparations.”
“How very conscientious of you,” Elizabeth murmured, though her attention had been captured by something far more intriguing than agricultural methodology. When had Mary begun referring to their absent steward with such obvious regard? And when had she developed such detailed knowledge of farm operations that she could step seamlessly into Graham’s role?
“You speak as if you have given considerable thought to such matters.” Elizabeth abandoned her pursuit of apples in favor of studying her sister’s composed expression. “But you need not fret, even if Mr. Darcy fails to return, Mr. Pullen surely will. The man has a devotion to Bellfield Grange surpassed only by…”
Elizabeth cast around for a particularly witty phrase.
“Only by his devotion to you, my sister?” Mary chewed on the tip of her quill before placing it squarely over the ledger book.
Elizabeth felt heat rise to her cheeks at the accuracy of Mary’sobservation. “I would not characterize Graham’s regard in such personal terms.”
“Would you not?” Mary’s tone remained mild, but her gaze had grown uncomfortably direct. “Then perhaps you might explain why you encouraged such regard when it suited your convenience, only to withdraw it entirely upon Mr. Darcy’s return?”
“I never encouraged—” Elizabeth began, then stopped as she recognized the futility of denial. She had indeed allowed Graham’s devotion, had accepted his care and attention to William, had permitted him to hope.
“Of course you did,” Mary continued with characteristic directness. “And why should you not? A woman in your circumstances required protection and support. But did you consider the effect on others when you so abruptly redirected your son’s affections toward his… toward Mr. Darcy?”
“Mary,” Elizabeth began, then stopped, unsettled by the implications of her sister’s words.
“And now, William has been asking for ‘Da-see’ every morning since Mr. Darcy’s departure,” Mary continued. “His confusion is quite apparent. He stands at the window after breakfast, clearly expecting the man who has become central to his small world to appear.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened at the image her sister painted. She had been aware of William’s increased fretfulness, his tendency to search the rooms where Darcy had typically spent his time, but she had attempted to shield herself from the full impact of her son’s distress.
“Children are remarkably adaptable,” she said with forced lightness. “He will adjust to the change in routine.”
“Will he?” Mary’s question carried no accusation. “He seemed quite attached to Mr. Darcy. As did Mr. Darcy to him.”
“Yes, well,” Elizabeth began, then found herself unable to complete the thought without revealing more emotion than she was prepared to acknowledge. “Mr. Darcy will surely return.”
