Georgiana nodded, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. “Lady Eleanor’s letter said I must come immediately if I wish to… to see him before…”
She could not complete the thought, and Elizabeth reached for her hand.
“You must tell him,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Tell him he has a son. Tell him William Fitzwilliam Darcy was born on the twenty-fourth of August. Even if he cannot respond, perhaps he will hear you.”
“I will,” Georgiana promised. “And I shall defend your claim to any who question it.”
The door opened, admitting Graham Pullen, his broad-shouldered frame seeming too large for the intimate space of the birthing room. He stood awkwardly at the threshold, hat in hand, his kind face alight with wonder.
“Mrs. Darcy,” he said, his Yorkshire accent more pronounced with emotion. “Miss Mary said you wished to see me.”
“I thought you might like to meet William,” Elizabeth said, adjusting the blanket to reveal more of the infant’s face.
“He is a fine lad,” he said softly. “Strong, by thelook of him.”
“Would you like to hold him?” Elizabeth asked impulsively.
Alarm flashed across Graham’s features. “Oh, I couldn’t—I haven’t the first idea how to?—”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Honywood interjected. “Every person should hold a babe at least once. Sit there, in that chair, and mind his head.”
Before Graham could marshal further objections, the baby was transferred to his arms. The man froze, clearly terrified of making a wrong movement, his weathered hands enormous against the tiny form they now cradled.
“There now,” Mrs. Honywood approved. “You’ll do well enough.”
Graham stared down at William with an expression of such tender awe that Elizabeth felt tears spring to her eyes. The baby stirred, opening his blue eyes to study this new face with grave attention.
“He has quite the stare,” Graham observed, his voice thick with emotion. “Reminds me of someone I knew at Cambridge. Fellow who could reduce grown men to stammering fools with a single look.”
Elizabeth’s heart clenched. “Yes, he has his father’s way of seeing straight through nonsense.”
“I shall pray for your husband’s recovery,” Graham said quietly. “And I shall pray for this little one to grow strong in his father’s image.”
The simple sincerity of his words broke something in Elizabeth. Tears she had been holding at bay spilled freely down her cheeks.
“Thank you.”
Graham carefully returned William to her arms, his movements more confident now. “You have a fine son, Mrs. Darcy. A son any father would be proud to claim.”
In those words, Elizabeth heard his acceptance—not just of her child, but of her marriage, whether he fully believed in its legitimacy or not. It was a gift she had not expected and valued all the more for its rarity.
“Georgiana leaves tomorrow for London,” Elizabeth said. “To be with her brother.”
Graham nodded gravely. “I shall arrange the carriage myself, and select our steadiest pair for the journey.”
“You are too kind,” Georgiana said.
“Not at all, Miss Darcy,” Graham replied. “It is what your brother would wish, were he able to express it.”
After Graham had gone, Mrs. Honywood approached with a cup of strengthening broth. “You should rest now. The young gentleman here will be wanting to nurse soon enough, and you’ll need your strength.”
But Elizabeth could not rest. How could she sleep when Darcy might be drawing his last breath? When their son might grow up never knowing his father’s voice or feeling his embrace?
But she sipped the broth as Mrs. Honywood cuddled her son. She would have to be strong. She was a mother now, and this perfect piece of Darcy was all she had right now, ensuring she would never be truly alone even if the worst came to pass.
“I have something for him,” Georgiana said suddenly, reaching into her pocket. She withdrew a small silver rattle, exquisitely crafted with the Darcy crest. “It was Fitzwilliam’s when he was a baby. Lady Eleanor gave it to me before I left London, in case… in case we should need it.”
“It’s beautiful,” Elizabeth said.
