“This,” I mutter, gathering my skirts to navigate a particularly muddy patch, “is exactly why I should have insisted on a nice, sensible book for his birthday.”
“Where would be the adventure in that?” Graham asks, offering his arm to assist my passage over a fallen branch. “Besides, you must admit he shows considerable initiative for a two-year-old.”
“Initiative,” I repeat flatly. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Darcy has pulled ahead of our little procession, his longer stride allowing him to close the distance between himself and our errant son. “William,” he calls, his voice carrying the sort of paternal authority that even our strong-willed child recognizes. “Wait for Papa.”
This time, William actually stops, though whether from obedience or exhaustion remains unclear. Spot, apparently equally tired from her adventure, settles into the grass beside him.
“Found Spot,” William announces proudly as Darcy reaches them. “She scared. I help.”
“You did help,” Darcy agrees, scooping both boy and lamb into his arms. “But next time, we ask permission before leaving the house, yes?”
“Yes, Papa,” William agrees readily, though his tone suggests this agreement may not survive his next encounter with adventure.
As we make our way back to the house—Darcy carrying William, Graham carrying Spot, and the rest of us trailing behind like the world’s most dignified sheep-herding expedition—I findmyself reflecting on the strange paths that have led us to this moment.
Three years ago, I was a disgrace to my family, cast out for refusing a marriage I could not stomach. Two years ago, I was a woman raising her child in exile, clinging to hope that her husband might someday return. A year ago, I was fighting to prove a marriage the world wanted to forget.
Today, I am simply a wife and mother, watching my family gather around my son on his birthday, surrounded by people who chose to love us when love was neither easy nor convenient.
“Tired?” Darcy asks quietly, falling into step beside me as we approach the house.
“Content,” I reply, taking his offered arm. “Though I confess the morning’s excitement has reminded me that chasing toddlers becomes considerably more challenging when one is...” I pause, suddenly aware that our entire party is within earshot.
“When one is what?” Mary asks with the sort of sisterly persistence that suggests she has been waiting for precisely this opening.
I glance at Darcy, who nods encouragingly. We had planned to wait until autumn to share our news, but perhaps there is something fitting about announcing it here, surrounded by the family that helped us heal.
“When one is expecting another child.”
“Elizabeth!” Georgiana exclaims, clapping her hands together. “How wonderful! When?”
“January, we believe,” Darcy answers, his voice rich with quiet pride. “A winter baby.”
The congratulations and excited chatter that follow create a warm bubble of joy around our little procession. William, apparently sensing that something significant is happening, demands to be included in the conversation.
“What baby?” he asks with the directness that characterizes all his inquiries.
“You’re going to have a brother or sister,” I explain, settling ontothe garden bench where Mrs. Honywood has thoughtfully arranged refreshments. “Someone to play with and help you take care of Spot.”
“The baby will like lots of things,” Darcy replies diplomatically. “Including you, I suspect.”
“Baby in Mama?” William asks, patting my rounded stomach with surprising gentleness.
“Yes, darling. The baby is growing inside, like...” I search for an explanation a two-year-old might comprehend.
“Like Spot!” William declares triumphantly. “Mama has lamb!”
The general hilarity that follows is so excessive that even Lady Eleanor is obliged to dab at the corners of her eyes—a most un-aristocratic display, which naturally delights me. Georgiana vows to embroider a very small blanket for a very important lamb, while Mrs. Honywood proposes christening the creature with a thimbleful of warm milk.
In the lull that follows, Mary drifts to my side with that composed air that always precedes something heartfelt.
“I’m pleased for you, Lizzy,” she says quietly. “For both of you. Who would have thought when we arrived at Bellfield that we would find such happiness here?”
I glance toward the side of the garden where Graham watches Mary with undisguised admiration. “Indeed. Though I notice I’m not the only Bennet sister who has found contentment in Yorkshire.”
Mary’s blush is all the confirmation needed. “Graham is... everything I never knew I wanted. Kind and steady and genuinely interested in my opinions.”
