“High praise indeed,” Elizabeth replied, unable to keep a hint of irony from her tone. “Especially from one who must have heard the finest performers in London.”
“The finest performers often lack the quality that makes your playing distinctive,” Darcy said, surprising her with his candor. “A certain authenticity of feeling.”
A particularly violent crash of thunder shook the windows. Lady Eleanor glanced toward the ceiling with concern.
“I do hope William wasn’t woken by that,” she said. “The poor child was so distressed earlier.”
“I should check on him,” Elizabeth said, grateful for the excuse to escape the intensity of Darcy’s regard.
“Allow me to accompany you,” Darcy said, the offer clearly surprising even himself. “That is… the corridors are dark, and with the storm…”
Elizabeth hesitated, torn between propriety and a dangerous desire to prolong their interaction. “That is most considerate, Mr. Darcy, but I am quite familiar with the way.”
“Nevertheless,” he insisted, with a glance toward his aunt that Elizabeth could not interpret. “I find myself concerned for the child’s welfare.”
Such an admission from Darcy—a man who had previously shown little interest in children generally—was remarkable enough that Elizabeth found herself accepting his escort. They left the drawing room together, the curious gazes of Lady Eleanor and Georgiana following their departure.
The corridor leading to the nursery was indeed dimly lit, the usual lamps reduced to conserve oil during the storm. They walked in silence, the occasional flash of lightning through the windows illuminating their path in brief, ghostly bursts.
“Your son,” Darcy said abruptly, breaking the silence. “He has an unusual middle name.”
Elizabeth’s step faltered slightly. “Fitzwilliam? Yes, I suppose it is somewhat uncommon.”
“It is my own name,” Darcy observed, his tone carefully neutral. “A rather distinctive coincidence.”
Here it was—the question she had been anticipating and dreading since his arrival at Bellfield Grange. Elizabeth considered her response carefully, weighing truth against caution.
“Not a coincidence,” she said finally. “A deliberate choice.”
Darcy stopped walking, turning to face her in the dim corridor. “May I ask why?”
“He is named for his father,” Elizabeth replied, maintaining eye contact despite the difficulty. “As is traditional.”
“I see.” Darcy’s expression darkened as if displeased. “And this… gentleman… where is he now?”
The question was breathtakingly improper, yet delivered with such genuine confusion that Elizabeth could not bring herself to take offense.
“He is not present in our lives,” she said carefully. “Due to circumstances beyond anyone’s control.”
“I apologize for the impertinence of my question,” Darcy said stiffly. “It was unconscionably rude.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth acknowledged, “but understandable, given your… connection… to the name.”
They had reached the nursery door. Elizabeth paused, her hand on the latch, suddenly reluctant to end their conversation despite its dangerous direction.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said hesitantly, “may I ask why you are so curious about my son?”
Darcy appeared startled by the direct question. “I…” he began, then stopped, clearly struggling to articulate his thoughts. “Forgive me. My injury has not left me with a surfeit of manners. I forget who I am, and I apologize.”
Elizabeth’s heart ached at his obvious confusion. How simple it would be to tell him everything—to explain that William was his son, that they were married, that his inordinate interest was the echo of a connection his mind had forgotten but his heart still recognized.
Yet she knew such a revelation might do more harm than good. The physicians had warned repeatedly against sudden shocks to his fragile recovery.
“Perhaps,” she said gently, “some things are remembered in ways that have nothing to do with the mind.”
Darcy looked at her sharply, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. For one breathless moment, Elizabeth thought he might kiss her—an impossibility, of course, yet in the dimly lit corridor, with the storm raging outside and memories of their past intimacy swirling between them, it seemed almost inevitable.
Instead, he stepped back, his expression closing once more into careful neutrality. “I should return to the drawing room,” he said. “Good night, Miss Bennet.”
