Darcy pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead. “Soon, William. I must speak with your mother first.”
He handed the boy to Mary who tickled his belly, calling him a gingerbread man to his delighted giggles as they left the room.
When the door closed behind them, Darcy turned back to Elizabeth, half-afraid the brief warmth of their greeting might have cooled. Instead, he found her studying him with open longing.
“You look tired,” she said softly.
“I am,” he admitted. “But seeing you—seeing William—makes it worthwhile.”
Elizabeth took a step toward him, then another. “Your memory,”she said, her voice slightly unsteady. “You said in your express that there had been developments, but nothing specific.”
“Elizabeth.” Darcy closed the remaining distance between them, reaching for her hands. To his immense relief, she met him halfway, her fingers twining with his. “I remember everything. The storm. Our wedding.”
“Everything?”
“Every moment,” he confirmed, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of her wrists. “Every word. Every touch.”
“When?” she whispered.
“At the Red Lion,” Darcy said, unable to look away from her face, drinking in every flicker of emotion. “Something about returning to that place—perhaps the storm, or the room itself—broke whatever barrier remained.”
He was aware of a disturbing wetness trailing from his eyes, blurring the image of beautiful Elizabeth. He could see her standing alone and bereft, pleading with the innkeeper.
“I can see you there, storm soaked, your trunk in the mud… When I recognized you, I decided then and there… whatever it took. I had to protect you.”
“That’s who you are, Fitzwilliam. Honorable. You would have done it for any gentlewoman in distress.”
“Perhaps, but all I saw was you, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and I knew at that moment…” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers. “I knew you would be the one.”
“I believe your words were, Miss Bennet, what on earth are you doing here alone?” Elizabeth’s fine eyes shone with glittering tears. “I should have said, waiting for you, Mr. Darcy.”
He reached into his pocket with one hand, withdrawing the silver button. “I found this, wedged between the floorboards in that room,” he explained, showing it to her. “From my jacket—the one I wore that night. The one you saved in your trunk.”
Elizabeth stared at the button, then back at his face, wonderreplacing anxiety in her expression. “You truly do remember,” she breathed.
“I do.” Darcy tightened his grip on her hands, desperate to convey the depth of what he felt. “Elizabeth, I cannot adequately express my remorse for everything you’ve endured alone. For not recognizing you, for treating you with cold suspicion, for failing to see what was directly before me.”
“Hush,” Elizabeth interrupted, pulling one hand free to press her fingers gently against his lips. “You were injured. You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have felt it,” Darcy insisted against her fingers. “Something in me did recognize you—why else would I have been drawn to you from the moment I arrived at Bellfield? Why else would William have claimed me so immediately as his own?”
Elizabeth’s smile was tremulous. “He has always known you. Even before he could speak. He said ‘Da’ before he said any other word.”
Darcy swallowed hard against the emotion rising in his throat. “You mentioned that in the journal. They became my salvation during this journey. Every page, Elizabeth. You put yourself in your words. Every milestone you recorded, every observation about William’s character, every gentle hope that we might reunite as a family.”
“I needed you to know him,” Elizabeth said simply. “Even if you never remembered me, I wanted you to know your son. I wanted us to be a family.”
“Even when I angered you? Insulted you?” His heart clenched at the pain he’d caused her. “I am so sorry I didn’t recognize you or William. Somehow my heart knew. It knew you, Elizabeth. But my mind fought that recognition, explaining it away.”
“I’m the one who made that recognition as difficult as possible.” She shook her head slightly as if ashamed. “I should have guided you gently, helped you remember through shared stories and hints.Instead, I nursed my wounded pride and demanded you recall what had been stolen from you.”
“You were protecting yourself.” Darcy wanted so much to kiss those tears away. “Elizabeth, the fault is all mine. I failed to see through your circumstances, to your goodness, your kindness, and I should have known… You were so angry, you said you would never give your heart again.”
“I forgave you the moment your carriage disappeared from sight,” she said suddenly, the words tumbling out as if a dam had burst. “Standing in this very spot, watching you leave, I realized that my anger had become a prison of my own making. You were suffering as much as I, perhaps more, because you could not remember what you had lost.”
“But you gave me the journal. In it, you called me ‘my dearest love,’” Darcy said hoarsely, recalling the words that had pierced him most deeply. “In the privacy of those pages, when you had no reason to believe I would ever read them.”
“Because you were. You are. I never stopped loving you.”
