William toddled forward with intense concentration, his chubby hands extended for balance. When he reached Graham’s waiting arms, both man and child dissolved into delighted laughter.
Elizabeth smiled at their play, her heart warm despite the familiar ache. Graham had become the father figure William needed, the steady presence that?—
The sound of hoofbeats interrupted her thoughts. It was a messenger bearing an express. Graham paid the messenger and brought the letter to Elizabeth. Excitement sheened on his forehead.
The letter was from Lady Eleanor.
My dear Elizabeth,
Circumstances have developed more rapidly than anticipated. Fitzwilliam’s physicians now strongly recommend a change of scenery to aid his continued recovery. After considerable debate, it has been decided that Bellfield Grange offers the ideal combination of fresh air, quiet surroundings, and distance from London’s prying eyes.
We shall arrive the last week of September, barring any delays. Georgiana and I will accompany Fitzwilliam, along with his valet. Lady Catherine remains vehemently opposed to this plan but has been overruled by the combined authority of the medical professionals and myself.
I must caution you that while Fitzwilliam has shown remarkablephysical improvement, his memory remains fragmented. He occasionally asks about a wife but seems confused by his own question. He has no recollection of Hertfordshire or the events at the Red Lion Inn. The physicians advise against any sudden revelations that might overwhelm his recovering mind. Furthermore, Fitzwilliam has been accosted on the streets by unknown women claiming to be his wife. Such encounters have only confused and distressed him further. In these situations, the best practice is for Fitzwilliam to regain his own memories so that he is sure they are truly his.
We shall discuss how best to proceed upon our arrival. Until then, take heart in knowing that this significant step would not be possible were it not for Fitzwilliam’s improved condition.
With warmest regards,
Eleanor Blackmore
Elizabeth read the letter aloud to Mary and the Honywoods, her voice steadying as she absorbed the implications. Fitzwilliam was coming to Bellfield Grange. In just over a fortnight, he would be here—breathing the same air, walking the same paths, perhaps even meeting his son for the first time.
“This is wonderful news,” Mary said cautiously. “Though Lady Eleanor’s warning about his memory is concerning.”
“He is improved enough to travel,” Elizabeth pointed out. “That alone is cause for celebration.”
Graham had remained silent, his expression unreadable as he continued to hold William on his shoulders. Now he spoke, his voice carefully neutral.
“Will you tell him immediately? About the marriage, I mean, and about William?”
Elizabeth considered the question, understanding its importance to Graham as well as to herself. “I don’t know. Lady Eleanor suggests caution, and the physicians must know best how to manage hisrecovery. I shall be guided by their advice, though it pains me to contemplate any deception, even one born of medical necessity.”
Graham nodded, his eyes reflecting a complexity of emotions he did not voice. “Well then,” he said after a moment, summoning a smile for William’s benefit, “it seems the young master will be meeting his father soon. We should ensure he presents himself to best advantage.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said softly, recognizing the personal cost of Graham’s gracious response. “For everything.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE DELAYED REUNION
“Perhaps he will arrive today,my little one.” Elizabeth hefted her son on her hip, lifting him toward a low-hanging Bramley apple. William swatted at it, his peals of laughter bringing a smile to her face. She kissed his chubby red cheek and grunted as she strained to bring him higher. At thirteen months, William was growing into quite a big boy.
“I’ve got him.” Graham swept the boy from her hands and neatly placed him at his favorite perch, atop his shoulders. “Another perfect one for Mrs. Honywood’s pie.”
Graham guided William’s tiny hand to the red globe and helped him pluck the apple from a high branch. His broad frame blocked the sun, and Elizabeth caught the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he deposited the fruit in her basket. “You’ll have to concede, Mrs. Darcy, that these northern apples put Hertfordshire’s to shame.”
“You won’t find me disdaining northern apples, sir,” Elizabeth replied pertly as she shifted the basket. “I grant you, they do appear to have been bred with less vanity and more substance than those that graced my mother’s table.”
“Definitely not as highbrowed as the Derbyshire variety,” Graham quipped, slicing off a wedge with a paring knife and offering it to William.
Her son sucked on the apple and threw it on the ground. His small mouth puckered as his brows drew together into a scowl that had Elizabeth giggling.
“Why, Master Darcy,” she teased. “Does that apple not meet with your fine standards? Stop furrowing those brows lest they become permanent.”
“And you, Elizabeth, sound just like my mother.” Graham exaggeratedly furrowed his brow which brought a comical expression to his sunny face.
Elizabeth’s gaze lingered on William’s tiny brow, furrowed with determined concentration as he patted Graham’s head and kicked his legs, urging the patient man to pick an even loftier apple.
