“You see, Graham?” she said lightly, adjusting the hem of her gown to keep it clear of the damp leaves. “Even apples cannot compete with the Darcy brow. William has inherited it in miniature, and one might say he oversees this orchard as sternly as his father ever did Pemberley.”
Lady Eleanor’s letter had given her hope, that Darcy was once again on his feet and able to converse, although the reports of women claiming to be his wife had clearly troubled him deeply. Elizabeth could well imagine how such encounters might have unsettled him—strange women approaching him on London streets, insisting upon connections he could not recall, perhaps even producing forged documents or invented stories. No wonder Lady Eleanor cautioned patience. A man already confused by his injury would naturally grow wary of any woman claiming a prior attachment. Elizabeth had spent countless hours dissecting every line for hidden meanings and hopeful signs, but deep inside, she harbored a simpler wish—that when he looked upon her face, something within him would stir and recognize her at a single glance.
“William has discriminating taste,” Graham observed, tossingmore apples into Elizabeth’s basket. “Yesterday he rejected Mrs. Honywood’s parsnips with great authority but showed considerable enthusiasm for her honey cakes.”
“Cay, Cay,” William gurgled, demanding a slice. He kicked his legs and bounced, forcing Graham to brace his back with one hand.
“Careful, young master,” Graham said, catching William’s wavering balance with a large hand. “Your mother will scold us both if you tumble into the sheep pens.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved despite herself. Graham’s devotion to William touched her more deeply than she dared confess. There was no artifice in him, no pity disguised as kindness—only the steady affection of a man who found joy in her son’s existence. A dangerous quality, that steadiness, for it tempted her weary heart with visions of safety.
“We should return to the house,” Elizabeth said, lifting her basket. “Mary will wonder what’s become of us, and these apples won’t peel themselves.”
They were about halfway back to the farmhouse when William squealed, pointing his chubby finger toward the lane. “Car! Car!”
Elizabeth turned as her heart leaped and she caught her breath. A polished carriage, utterly out of place on their humble road, was making its way toward Bellfield Grange. It was pulled by four matched greys and even at this distance, she could make out the distinctive Darcy crest emblazoned on its door.
The basket slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, apples tumbling across the grass.
“Mrs. Darcy?” Graham’s voice seemed to come from very far away.
“It’s Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth whispered, one hand pressed to her throat. “He’s finally come.”
After so many months of waiting, of hope deferred and prayers seemingly unanswered, the moment had arrived without warning. Lady Eleanor’s letter had mentioned late September, but Elizabethhad not expected them today—not when she was dressed for orchard work, her hair escaping its pins, her hands stained with dirt and apple juice.
“Shall I take William to the house?” Graham asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Elizabeth shook her head, unable to tear her eyes from the approaching carriage. “No. He should be here. They should meet.”
She smoothed her skirts with trembling hands, acutely aware of her worn day dress and muddy hems. There was no time to change, no opportunity to prepare herself for this moment she had imagined in a thousand different ways.
The sound of wheels on gravel grew louder, accompanied by the rhythmic clip of hooves and the occasional word from the coachman to his team. Mr. and Mrs. Honywood appeared from the direction of the dowager cottage, alerted by the commotion. Mr. Honywood straightened his waistcoat while his wife hastily smoothed her apron.
Mary rounded the corner of the garden, carrying a basket of root vegetables. Her gaze was anxious as she sought Elizabeth, tight with concern.
Elizabeth was already moving, running down the dusty path toward the drive. Almost two years of waiting, of hoping, of praying that their one-night marriage could finally commence.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the main house, and the door opened. Elizabeth broke into a sprint, trying to cover the distance. Her hair whipped in her face, loosed from all pins, and she held up her skirts as she leaped over stiles and bounded through the hedgerows.
“Darcy! Fitzwilliam,” she shouted, knowing she was inappropriate. But if he could see her, recognize her, and… she couldn’t complete the thought. He had to know her. She was real. His wife, the one he promised to love and cherish, and Darcy always kept his promises.
A tall figure emerged from the carriage. He was stiff from the long ride, but in no way diminished. She’d know her husband anywhere: the breadth of his shoulders, the proud set of his head, and his long arms and legs, although the cane was concerning.
“Fitzwilliam,” she breathed between huffs and puffs, still too far to be heard.
Graham loped alongside of her with William kicking like he was riding a stallion in the Epsom Derby.
“Elizabeth, you might perhaps—” Graham didn’t finish.
She slowed as she drew closer, drinking in the sight of him. He was thinner than she remembered, his face more angular, with new lines etched at the corners of his eyes. He balanced himself with a cane as he turned to assist the ladies. But it was him—alive, standing, recovering.
Lady Eleanor emerged first, accepting Darcy’s outstretched hand with a gentle smile. Georgiana followed, her face lighting up as she spotted Elizabeth approaching.
“Elizabeth, sister!” Georgiana waved, already picking up her skirts and coming toward them. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Graham stopped before reaching the visitors who were being greeted by the Honywoods as host and hostess, but William was too excited.
“Car!” he announced, pointing. “Da-da car!”
