“He is quite generous with his treasures,” Darcy observed, carefully pocketing the feather. “Not all children share so readily.”
“He enjoys giving pleasure to others,” Elizabeth said, watching her son with quiet pride. “It seems to delight him when people appreciate his discoveries.”
“A commendable quality,” Darcy replied. “And one that will serve him well as he grows.”
They walked in companionable silence for a time, the path gradually ascending as they approached the eastern boundary of the estate. Elizabeth found herself stealing glances at Darcy’s profile, noting the gradual relaxation of his features as they moved further from the house and deeper into the quiet woodland.
Here, away from the constraints of formal society, he seemed more like the man she had briefly known at the Red Lion—thoughtful, observant, possessed of a dry humor that emerged in unexpected moments. The stiff formality that had characterized their interactionssince his arrival at Bellfield had softened into something more natural, more genuine.
It was dangerous to notice such things. Dangerous to allow herself to hope that this man, with his fractured memories and confused understanding of their connection, might somehow find his way back to the husband she had lost. Or perhaps more accurately, that they might find their way forward to something new.
“We approach our destination,” Darcy announced as the trees began to thin, revealing glimpses of open sky beyond. “Though I warn you, the final ascent is somewhat steep.”
He offered his arm, and Elizabeth took it, leaning rather closer than she should. But then, she wasn’t a fallen woman as he supposed. She was by rights, his wife.
The solid warmth of his arm beneath her hand sent a traitorous flutter through her chest. How simple it would be to surrender to the fantasy that nothing had changed, that they were merely a family enjoying an autumn outing. That Darcy remembered placing his ring upon her finger, remembered holding her through that storm-lashed night, remembered the promises they had made to each other.
Behind them, William’s delighted squeals punctuated the air as Mary and Georgiana swung him between them, each holding one of his small hands as they ascended the path. Their unlikely partnership in childcare—the serious, practical Mary and the gentle, artistic Georgiana—had produced an ease that transformed both young women in William’s presence. Even Mary’s typically solemn countenance had softened into genuine amusement at the boy’s antics.
“Take care not to launch him into flight,” Elizabeth called back, though her warning held more amusement than concern. “He already believes himself capable of scaling trees without assistance.”
“We shall keep him earthbound,” Mary assured her, though she made no move to cease the swinging that clearly delighted her nephew.
At the summit, the view expanded in a panorama of autumnal splendor. Rolling hills stretched to the horizon, patch-worked withfields in various stages of harvest. The village of Millby was visible in the distance, its church spire rising above the cluster of stone cottages. Closer at hand, Bellfield Grange nestled in its sheltering valley, smoke rising from the chimneys to mingle with the clear air.
“It is even more beautiful than I remembered,” Darcy said. “Some things, it seems, remain unchanged despite the passage of time.”
His eyes drifted from the landscape to meet Elizabeth’s, lingering there with an intensity that sent a tremor of awareness through her. Was he speaking only of the view? Or had some deeper meaning slipped past his conscious guard?
Elizabeth’s breath caught, and her heart performed a series of treacherous skips. She had spent weeks maintaining careful distance, guarding against precisely this sort of moment—when hope might override caution, when the connection between them seemed to transcend his fractured memory.
“Beauty has that quality,” she managed to reply, her voice steadier than she felt. “Of remaining true to itself regardless of who beholds it, or how many times.”
His gaze drank her in, as if he considered the permanence of truth, whether recollected or not. For a heartbeat, she imagined he saw her once again, as a maiden in Meryton, a country lass verbally jousting with him at Netherfield, and the woman he chose to protect at the Red Lion, the one he’d promised to cherish…
The spell was broken by William’s excited squeal, demanding a biscuit from Georgiana.
“Come,” Georgiana said, spreading the blanket Mrs. Honywood had provided. “Let us enjoy the refreshments at this picturesque viewpoint.”
Mary unpacked the basket, revealing an assortment of bread, cheese, apples, and small cakes. Soon, William’s hands were full as well as his chubby cheeks. Elizabeth wiped his hands and face fussily, with him squirming out of her grasp.
“I should not be concerned about the amount of dirt he enjoys.”Darcy winked, reminding Elizabeth of Lady Anne’s pronouncement on dirt related to fun.
“Then I suppose William will rival your ability on both measures.” She let her son go, keeping an eye on him as he scattered dry leaves with a stick.
The conversation flowed with unexpected ease, ranging from local history to music to literature. Elizabeth found herself drawn into a lively debate with Darcy about the merits of Wordsworth’s latest publication, surprised by the depth of his literary knowledge and the thoughtfulness of his opinions.
“You disagree with my assessment?” Darcy asked, his tone suggesting interest rather than offense at her contrary view.
“I believe Wordsworth captures something essential about the relationship between nature and human experience,” Elizabeth replied. “His simplicity is deliberate, not a failure of craft.”
“Yet one could argue that true mastery lies in expressing complex ideas with precision rather than simplicity,” Darcy countered.
“Unless the idea itself is best conveyed through simple language,” Elizabeth returned. “Some experiences are diminished by excessive ornamentation.”
Darcy considered this, his expression reflecting genuine engagement with her perspective. “A fair point. I concede that there are instances where simplicity serves the subject better than elaboration.”
“Mark this day in history,” Georgiana declared with sisterly amusement. “Fitzwilliam Darcy has conceded a literary argument.”
