“A reasonable concern,” Elizabeth noted with a small smile. “One wouldn’t want to confuse the Fitzes with the Williamses.”
Their eyes met with meaning, and Darcy found himself strangely reluctant to look away. There was something in Elizabeth’s gaze—a warmth, an intelligence, a quiet humor—that drew him with a force he could neither explain nor resist.
The arrival of Mary and Georgiana spared him from this uncomfortable awareness, introducing a general conversation about Lady Eleanor’s abrupt departure and the upcoming harvest festivities. Darcy retreated into silence, observing the easy camaraderie.
“Will you be joining us for the corn dolly making this afternoon, Brother?” Georgiana asked, interrupting his reverie.
“Corn dolly making?” Darcy repeated blankly.
“For the harvest festival,” Mary explained, her typically serious expression softening. “It is traditional to fashion figures from the last sheaves of grain. They are said to contain the spirit of the harvest.”
“I cannot claim any particular skill in such endeavors,” Darcy demurred.
“Nor can I,” Elizabeth admitted with refreshing candor. “My attempts last year resembled nothing so much as a bundle of sticks having suffered a most unfortunate accident.”
Darcy found himself smiling despite his best intentions. “Then perhaps I might be permitted to observe this year, rather than inflict my own clumsy attempts on the tradition.”
“Nonsense,” Georgiana declared with unusual firmness. “Everyone participates. It’s tradition.”
“And one does not trifle with tradition at Bellfield Grange,” Elizabeth added, her eyes dancing with amusement.
Darcy found himself cornered. “Very well,” he conceded. “Though I warn you all in advance that my artistic abilities are limited to an unfortunately accurate rendering of a horse I once sketched at age twelve.”
“One talent is the perfect foundation for another,” Elizabeth replied. “I have no doubt your horsemanship will translate admirably to corn dollies.”
The absurdity of this statement, delivered with such apparent sincerity, startled a hearty laugh from Darcy. It felt strange—that unfamiliar sensation of amusement bubbling up from somewhere long dormant. When had he last laughed? He could not recall.
“I see the great Mr. Darcy is laughing,” Elizabeth said, smoothing her son’s dark curls. “A rare and noteworthy event.”
“I am not quite so somber as all that,” Darcy protested mildly.
“Aren’t you?” Georgiana challenged with sisterly frankness. “I believe this is the first time I’ve heard you laugh since your return to Bellfield.”
Put that way, Darcy could hardly dispute the observation. He had been preoccupied with his recovery, with his lost memories, with understanding the strange dynamics at Bellfield Grange. Laughter had seemed a frivolity he could ill afford.
Yet now, in the warm morning light of the breakfast room, surrounded by these women who seemed so at ease with one another, he felt something rigid within him begin to soften. Perhaps a little frivolity was not entirely without merit.
“Then I shall endeavor to provide more regular amusement,” he said dryly. “Though I warn you, my repertoire of jokes is limited primarily to Latin puns that were considered outdated even at Cambridge.”
“I shall look forward to them nonetheless,” Elizabeth replied, her eyes still bright with that unexpectedly captivating mirth.
“Da-see!” William called again, holding out his hand to beg for the slice of apple Darcy had on his fork.
“Brother!” Georgiana exclaimed, a smile brightening her face. “William is calling you Darcy. He likes you.”
“I fear your brother has quite won my son’s affections through shameless bribery with sweet apples,” Elizabeth remarked dryly.
The casual mention of William’s affection for him sent an inexplicable surge of satisfaction through Darcy’s veins. When had he last cared so deeply about a child’s good opinion? When had such innocent approval meant more to him than the calculated flattery of London society?
“Surely one apple cannot purchase such devoted attachment,” he replied, fighting to maintain appropriate distance even as every instinct urged him to lean closer to Elizabeth’s warmth.
“You underestimate the way William’s stomach is tied to his affections.”
“Then I shall have to appeal directly to the seat of his regard,” Darcy replied with unexpected playfulness, reaching over to gently tickle William’s small stomach. “I believe this is where all important decisions are made, is it not?”
William erupted into peals of delighted laughter, his tiny body squirming as he gasped between giggles. “Da-see! No, Da-see!” he protested without conviction, clearly enjoying the attention.
“I see I’ve discovered a diplomatic channel of great significance,” Darcy observed.
