AN HEIR AT THE DOOR
Seven months later,late August 1812, Bellfield Grange
Elizabeth pressed her hand against the small of her aching back. Her massively swollen belly made leaning over the wool sorting table difficult, but she had no desire of being idle while housed at the Fitzwilliam sisters’ sheep farm. So, here she was, in her ninth month of pregnancy, sorting wool in the humid August heat. The careful work of grading and bundling the fleeces would determine much of Bellfield Grange’s income for the coming year.
“Careful with that step, Mrs. Darcy,” Graham Pullen, the grange’s capable steward said, appearing at her elbow with the punctuality of a well-wound clock. “The morning dew has made everything slippery.”
Elizabeth accepted his steadying hand with a grateful smile. Graham had appointed himself her personal guardian these past months, appearing whenever she needed to navigate a stile, reach a high shelf, or simply required someone to carry whatever burden she had foolishly attempted to manage herself. His attentions were so consistent they had become as much a part of her daily routine as morning prayers.
“Thank you, Mr. Pullen,” she said, allowing him to help her down from the raised platform where she had been examining the finest fleeces. “Though I suspect you have more pressing duties than ensuring I don’t tumble into the sheep pens.”
“No duty more pressing than your welfare.” Graham’s kind brown eyes lingered on her face. “At least take the chair. Standing so long can’t be good for—” he hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly to her rounded belly before returning to her face with a flush of color across his cheekbones.
“For the impending heir of Pemberley?” Elizabeth supplied with a wry smile. “Or the impending scandal, depending on which version of my story one chooses to believe.”
“For you,” Graham said simply. “And the child.”
Elizabeth sighed and relented, allowing Graham to place a wooden chair by the sorting table. He had been unfailingly solicitous since her arrival last winter—the farm steward who had gradually become her most steadfast ally. Unlike the Honywoods, who treated her with kindness but careful neutrality, or Lady Eleanor, whose infrequent visits were marked by equal measures of support and caution, Graham Pullen had shown her nothing but unquestioning acceptance.
He was unfailingly kind, competent, and was indispensable to both the Honywoods, who resided in a small dowager cottage, and the operation of the sheep farm. He was also, though he had never declared it directly, completely besotted with her.
Elizabeth did her best not to encourage his feelings, but she could not deny that his assistance was needed, especially now that her belly felt too bloated to be a part of her body. The way his eyes followed her movements, how he appeared the moment she needed assistance, the flowers that mysteriously appeared on her windowsill each Sunday morning, and the careful way he walked her to the small church—all spoke of deeper feelings that neither of them acknowledged.
“The count from the summer shearing exceeds last year’s bynearly a quarter,” Graham said, pulling another fleece from the pile. “The Honywoods were right about those new breeding rams from the north.”
“Is that why you’ve been smiling at the account books each evening?” Elizabeth teased, glad for the change of subject. “And here I thought you were simply enjoying my sister Mary’s mathematical prowess.”
Graham’s cheeks colored again. “Miss Mary has been most helpful with the ledgers.”
“She finds great satisfaction in balanced columns and precise calculations,” Elizabeth said. “Far more than in the accomplishments my mother insisted would make her marriageable.”
“Your sister has many fine qualities,” Graham observed, his hands moving deftly through the wool. “As do you, Mrs. Darcy.”
The name—her name, her rightful name—hung in the air between them. Most of the household staff called her Miss Bennet, following Lady Eleanor’s directive. Only Graham and Mary consistently acknowledged her marriage. With Mary, it was sisterly loyalty, but with Graham, he showed himself honorable. He was, as Eleanor mentioned, a distant friend of Darcy’s from his Cambridge days, although his family was from the wool trade.
“Your loyalty is appreciated, Mr. Pullen,” Elizabeth said softly. “Especially when proof of my claims remains frustratingly elusive.”
“I need no proof beyond your word,” Graham replied, his voice equally quiet. “And the child you carry.”
Elizabeth’s hand drifted to her belly, where Darcy’s child moved restlessly. Graham’s eyes darkened, flickering at her movement before his jaw tightened and he averted his gaze.
“Lizzy!” Mary’s voice carried from outside the sorting shed. “Lizzy, where are you?”
Elizabeth turned toward the door as Mary burst in, clutching a letter sealed with black wax. Her sister’s normally composed features were tight.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked, rising from her chair and movingtoward Mary as quickly as her ungainly form would allow. Graham appeared at her elbow, ready to catch her should she stumble.
“An express from Lady Eleanor,” Mary said, holding out the letter with trembling fingers.
Elizabeth broke the seal with clumsy hands, her eyes flying across the elegant script. The words blurred, then sharpened with terrible clarity.
Pneumonia has set in… fevers and seizures… physicians fear he may never wake… Lady Catherine pressing to move him to Pemberley… to die with dignity among family…
“No, no, he can’t…” The letter slipped from Elizabeth’s fingers. Graham caught it before it reached the floor, but she barely noticed. “He cannot die. He still has a child… he has… me.”
“Lizzy—” Mary began, her voice gentle with sympathy.
“I must go to London.” Elizabeth swayed on her feet, Graham’s steadying hand at her elbow. “Immediately. Today.”
