The words died on his lips as footsteps sounded on the stairs. Elizabeth descended with her usual grace, William balanced on her hip. She had dressed in a deep brown wool that complemented her coloring admirably, though the somber hue seemed to reflect the emotional winter that had settled between them.
“Mr. Darcy,” she acknowledged with a slight inclination of her head. “I trust you slept well?”
The polite, but cold inquiry wrenched his gut. Less than a week ago, she had called him Fitzwilliam and looked at him like he was her world. She’d allowed him to kiss her, to squire her over the dance floor, to hope. Now she addressed him with the same distant courtesy she might employ with a tradesman whose services were no longer required.
“Tolerably,” he replied, though the truth was that sleep had proven as elusive as Elizabeth’s forgiveness. “I hope we did not disturb your rest with our early preparations.”
“Not at all. William and I are customarily early risers.” She adjusted the child’s position against her hip. “I wanted to… that is, I thought it appropriate to see you off.”
The hesitation in her voice—the first crack in her composed façade since their confrontation—sent hope fluttering through his chest before reason crushed it withmerciless efficiency. She was present out of duty, not affection. No matter how she regarded him, she would see that her son would fare as well as he could.
“You are very kind,” he said, the inadequacy of the phrase making him wince internally. How did one express gratitude for such painful courtesy? How did one acknowledge the grace of a woman who maintained perfect manners while her husband departed to clean up the wreckage of his failures?
William, who had been examining his mother’s hair with the focused attention he brought to all interesting phenomena, suddenly noticed Darcy’s presence.
“Da-see!” he exclaimed, extending his arms in the imperious demand for attention that never failed to pierce his heart. “Up! Up!”
Elizabeth seemed to hesitate, and Darcy imagined that she might refuse him, maintaining the distance she needed by keeping William safely in her arms.
Instead, she stepped forward and carefully transferred the boy to his embrace. Her scent of lavender and soap bringing back what? Memories or imagination? He couldn’t discern.
The familiar weight of his son in his arms nearly undid what remained of Darcy’s composure. William settled against his shoulder with the trusting contentment of a child who had never known rejection, his small hands tangling in Darcy’s cravat with proprietary satisfaction.
“Good morning, young man.” His voice was rougher than he intended. “You are awake remarkably early today.”
“Go?” William inquired with the directness that characterized his approach to all important questions. “Da-see go?”
The innocent query struck Darcy silent. How did one explain to a fifteen-month-old child that his father was departing to hunt down a dangerous criminal who had stolen the documents that would secure the boy’s future? How did one convey that this mission was necessary to repair the damage caused by failures William was too young to understand?
“Da Da go?” His son clung to him as if not wanting to let go. Itfelt like a blade between Darcy’s ribs, a painful reminder of all he had missed and all he might yet lose. “Da Da, me go?”
“Not today, William,” he said gently. “I must travel alone this time.”
“No,” William protested, his lower lip beginning to tremble in a manner that suggested an imminent display of displeasure. “No! No! No!”
Elizabeth murmured something soothing to the boy, though her eyes remained fixed on Darcy with an expression of distance but also something else. “William does not yet understand the concept of separation.”
The implication was clear—the child, unlike his mother, had not yet learned that people leave and do not always return. Darcy felt the criticism keenly, though he could not dispute its justice.
Darcy pressed his lips to the boy’s forehead, breathing in the sweet scent of childhood that seemed to carry within it all the hopes and fears of parenthood. This child—his child—deserved better than the uncertainty that had marked his young life. He deserved his birthright, his place in the world, and most importantly, parents who could provide him with the love and security every child needed to thrive.
The sound of Graham clearing his throat from the doorway indicated that their departure could be delayed no longer. With profound reluctance, Darcy transferred William back to Elizabeth’s arms, noting how she immediately adjusted her hold to provide the comfort and security the boy needed.
“Be good for your mother,” Darcy instructed gravely, as if William were old enough to understand such complex moral concepts.
“I shall endeavor to manage him in your absence,” Elizabeth said with the first hint of warmth he had detected in her voice since his disastrous offer for her hand.
“Elizabeth,” her Christian name slipping from between his lips. “I wish to apologize again for?—”
“There is no need,” she interrupted gently but firmly, clearly unwilling to engage in any discussion that might lead to emotional territory neither of them was prepared to navigate.
He bowed formally, accepting the dismissal with as much dignity as he could muster. “Thank you for your consideration in seeing me off. I shall write to inform you of our progress.”
“That would be… appropriate,” she agreed.
Darcy turned toward the door, each step feeling like a small death. He had reached the threshold when Elizabeth’s voice stopped him.
“Mr. Darcy. A moment, if you please.” She shifted William to her other hip despite his continued protests. “I have something for you to take on your journey.”
