Elizabeth looked momentarily startled, then pleased. The smile that curved her lips seemed to transform her entire countenance, illuminating her features with a glow that Darcy found himself unable to look away from.
“Brother, I should warn you.” Georgiana, seemingly emboldened by the laughter, spoke up. “Aunt Eleanor mentioned you are now the master of the harvest festival.”
“I see.” Darcy set down his teacup with deliberate precision, acutely aware that his knowledge of Bellfield’s traditions was frustratingly incomplete. “And what role am I expected to play in these proceedings?”
“Why, you’ll lead the opening dance, naturally,” Georgiana replied, her eyes bright with secrets he could not decipher. “It’s tradition for the master of the estate to open the festivities by dancing with the prettiest unmarried lady present.”
“But my leg.” Darcy didn’t dare glance at Elizabeth, who in his estimation held that particular distinction.
“Has healed enough that you didn’t need a cane to fetch Miss Elizabeth through the rain,” Georgiana said, beginning to sound as authoritative as Aunt Eleanor. “Brother, I’m confident you have already identified your properpartner.”
That afternoon, Darcy joined the tenant farmers and their families in the south field. Elizabeth was already there with her son who toddled among the assembled children with familiarity. She, too, seemed perfectly at ease despite her genteel upbringing.
Elizabeth had changed from her morning dress into something more practical—a gown of deep blue wool that would not show inevitable stains from their outdoor work. The color complemented her complexion admirably, while her hair, partially confined beneath a wide-brimmed straw bonnet, framed her face in a way that struck him as almost deliberately alluring.
The sight should not have affected Darcy as powerfully as it did. Yet watching Elizabeth’s unconscious grace with the tenants—her genuine interest in their conversation, her lack of condescension despite the social gulf that separated them—he felt something fundamental shift within his chest. Here was no artificial performance of benevolent superiority, but authentic engagement with people she clearly valued as individuals rather than social inferiors.
And William… the child’s easy acceptance among children who knew nothing of his irregular birth, his obvious confidence in his welcome wherever he chose to wander, suggested a security that spoke well of his mother’s careful nurturing. Whatever mistakes Elizabeth had made in her past, whatever weaknesses had led to her current circumstances, she had clearly succeeded in raising a son who possessed both affection and self-assurance.
He wanted this, Darcy realized with stunning clarity. This warmth, this sense of belonging, this demonstration of family unity that radiated from Elizabeth and her son like heat from a well-tended hearth. He wanted it with a desperation that terrified him precisely because it flew in the face of every principle that had governed his adult life.
“Mr. Darcy!” Mrs. Penrose called, her weathered face brightening as she noticed his arrival. “How good of you to join our preparations. Miss Elizabeth was just asking about the traditional patterns for corn dollies.”
Thus summoned, Darcy had little choice but to approach the gathering, nodding politely to the assembled tenants who responded with varying degrees of pleasure and surprise. Clearly, his presence at such activities was unusual enough to warrant both comment and speculation.
“I confess my knowledge of corn dollies is somewhat theoretical,” he admitted, accepting the space Elizabeth made for him on the woven blanket. “My education was regrettably lacking in agricultural artistry.”
“A grave oversight in any gentleman’s preparation for estate management,” Elizabeth replied. “How does one properly govern rural properties without intimate knowledge of harvest traditions?”
“Through careful delegation to those more competent than oneself,” Darcy replied with deliberate dryness. “A skill I have had ample opportunity to perfect through years of conscious incompetence.”
“Da-da up!” William called, toddling over with arms outstretched in an unmistakable demand for attention.
Darcy should have demurred politely. A gentleman of his standing did not typically serve as entertainment for children, particularly those whose parentage raised uncomfortable questions about propriety and social boundaries. Yet the absolute trust in William’s dark eyes, the complete certainty that his request would be granted without question or hesitation, made refusal impossible.
“It appears I’ve been recruited for more active participation,” he said, lifting the child, Elizabeth’s son, he reminded himself.
William settled against his shoulder with the contentment of one who had never doubted his welcome. His small hand gripped Darcy’s coat with possessive confidence while his dark curls tickled against Darcy’s neck in a sensation that was both foreign and achingly familiar.
“Such a blessing,” one of the tenant wives said, “to see a family so well-suited to each other. Your wife has such a natural way withthe tenants, Mr. Darcy, and young Master William is clearly thriving under both your influences.”
Darcy’s heart fluttered as he cast around for words that would not insult Elizabeth.
Instead, she spoke first, “You are very kind, Mrs. Hartwell, but?—”
“Mama! Da-see!” William interrupted, bouncing against Darcy’s shoulder with enthusiasm that effectively drowned out whatever explanation Elizabeth had been attempting. “Play! Play!”
The child’s babbled demands, delivered with such obvious delight in his current position, seemed to confirm Mrs. Hartwell’s assumption rather than contradict it. Several other women nodded approvingly at the scene, their expressions reflecting the particular satisfaction that attended witnessing domestic harmony.
“Such a dear boy,” murmured Mrs. Thompson, whose own grandchildren were scattered among the playing children. “And so clearly devoted to his papa. One can always tell when a child feels secure in a father’s love.”
Darcy felt heat rise in his face at the continued misidentification, yet found himself curiously reluctant to issue the correction that propriety demanded. To be mistaken for William’s father, for Elizabeth’s husband, stirred something deep in his chest that had nothing to do with social embarrassment and everything to do with a longing he barely dared acknowledge.
“Thank you,” he found himself saying, his voice rougher than intended. “William is indeed exceptional.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened at his failure to correct the assumption, though whether in surprise, dismay, or something more complex, he could not determine. The moment stretched between them, weighted with implications neither dared address directly.
“Come now,” Mrs. Penrose said briskly, “let’s show Mr. Darcy how proper corn dollies are fashioned. Can’t have the master of Bellfield ignorant of such essential skills.”
