“It belongs to the Darcy heir,” Georgiana said firmly.
Elizabeth accepted the rattle, tears threatening again. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For believing me when so few do.”
“My brother would never have written of marriage if it were not real,” Georgiana said. “He takes such matters far too seriously for that.”
“I shall hold onto that.” Elizabeth let her sister kiss her before departing. “Godspeed on your journey.”
Georgiana departed the following morning, her face pale but determined as Graham handed her into the carriage. Elizabeth, still weak from childbirth, watched from her bedroom window, William asleep in her arms.
“She will speak for us,” she told her son. “And perhaps your father will hear her.”
Days melted into weeks, the rhythm of Elizabeth’s life now dictated by William’s needs. She was surprised to discover how naturally she adapted to motherhood, finding in it a purpose that filled the hollow spaces grief had carved within her.
Mary proved to be a capable aunt, eager to care for the infant with the same meticulous attention she had once applied to her improving books and piano exercises. Mrs. Honywood provided the practical wisdom, often regaling Elizabeth with stories of Lady Eleanor as an infant along with her own daughter who was born the same year. Apparently, Darcy’s grandmother had shunted Lady Eleanor to a pair of guardians according to an old superstition regarding twin births, and Lady Eleanor had grown up at the grange along with the five Honywood children.
William was given the old oak cradle that had seen generations of Honywoods. Graham, steady and dependable, was present exactly when needed: bringing extra firewood on chilly nights, ensuring the pantry remained well-stocked, even reading aloud from agricultural journals while Elizabeth nursed, his deep voice soothing both mother and child.
Georgiana’s first letter arrived three weeks after William’s birth.
Dearest Elizabeth,
I have arrived safely at Darcy House. Fitzwilliam remains gravely ill, though the pneumonia has begun to subside. The physicians speak of cautious optimism, but Lady Catherine speaks only of arrangements and legalities. She has taken up residence here and directs all aspects of his care with an iron hand.
I told him of William’s birth yesterday, during a brief period when he seemed somewhat alert. I cannot say with certainty that he understood, but I fancy his expression changed at the mention of a son. Lady Catherine was, of course, furious with me for mentioning such “absurd fabrications” in the sickroom, but I shall not be silenced on this matter.
The locket with a tuft of William’s hair sits on Fitzwilliam’s bedside table. I tell him daily that his son flourishes and grows strong, awaiting his recovery. Whether he hears or comprehends, I cannot say, but I believe it is right that he should know.
Give William my love. I miss you both terribly.
Your devoted sister,
Georgiana
Elizabeth pressed the letter to her heart, imagining Darcy listening to news of his son, perhaps fighting harder to return to them. It was a slender hope, but she clung to it nonetheless.
Autumn painted the Yorkshire countryside in brilliant hues of gold and crimson. William grew plumper, his expressions more defined—the Darcy frown appearing with increasing frequency, particularly when his meals were delayed or his nappy uncomfortable. Elizabeth found herself laughing at these small signs of his heritage, storing away each resemblance to share with Fitzwilliam should they ever be reunited.
She had started a journal for her husband so he would not miss any of William’s moments.
September 1812
William grows strong each day. His serious blue gaze tracks my every movement around the room, and hegrips my fingers with surprising strength. I fancy he has inherited your tenacious nature along with your serious fortitude.
October brought Georgiana’s second letter.
My dear Elizabeth,
There has been a development that I scarcely dare call promising, and yet it has given us all renewed hope. Fitzwilliam has awakened from his prolonged unconsciousness. He is not himself—indeed, he speaks little and seems confused about his circumstances—but the physicians assure us that this is not uncommon after such extensive injury.
He recognizes me, I believe, though he has yet to speak my name. He watches the movements in his room with a puzzled expression that breaks my heart. The great mind that once managed vast estates and recalled the minutest details of business transactions now struggles to follow simple conversations.
Lady Catherine speaks of moving him to Pemberley once he is strong enough to travel. She claims the familiar surroundings might aid his recovery, though I suspect her true motivation is to remove him from London gossip. There have been whispers, it seems, of more than one woman claiming to be his wife. Lady Catherine does what she can to silence them.
I have shown him the small sketch of William that Mary sent. He studied it for a long while but gave no indication of recognition. When I mentioned Hertfordshire, hoping to prompt some memory of you, he turned away as if the word itself caused pain.
I share these truths not to distress you, but because I believe you would wish to know the reality of his condition. The physicians say recovery from such injuries can take many forms—some patients regain all faculties while others remain permanently altered. We can only wait and pray.
With deepest affection,
