He turned back to find her retrieving a leather-bound volume from the small table near the entrance.
“I thought… that is, you might find this of interest during your journey,” she said, her voice wavering as if unsure of his acceptance.
Darcy accepted the volume with trembling hands, immediately recognizing the quality of the binding and the care with which it had been maintained. A small inscription at the bottom read,W. F. D.
“William Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Elizabeth explained. “It is a record of his first year—developments, milestones, notable events. I thought perhaps you might wish to become acquainted with the son you do not remember.”
The unexpected kindness of this gesture—offered in the midst of her justifiable anger—left Darcy grasping for a response. That she would have kept such a journal at all, much less share it with him now, revealed a generosity of spirit that made his own behavior seem even more shameful by comparison.
“I… thank you,” he managed, the words entirely inadequate to express his gratitude. “This is most… that is, I am deeply…”
“It was written for you,” Elizabeth said. “Of William’s first year. I began it shortly after his birth, thinking that someday… that perhaps…” She paused, clearly struggling to maintain her composure. “I thought his father should know of such things, even if circumstances prevented his presence.”
The quiet dignity with which she delivered this explanation—the acknowledgment that she had always intended him to know his son, had preserved every milestone and achievement in the hope of eventual reunion—nearly brought Darcy to his knees. Here was proof of the faith she had maintained even when he could not remember her existence, evidence of the love that had sustained her through months of uncertainty and exile.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice breaking on her name.
“It is merely a practical consideration,” she said quickly, stepping back to increase the distance between them. “Whether you remembered us or not, William deserved to have his father know him.”
But Darcy could see the truth in her eyes. She was giving him a piece of her heart wrapped in leather and ink, disguised as mere information but precious beyond any material consideration.
“I shall treasure it,” he promised, carefully placing the journal inside his coat. “As I do you.”
Her expression softened, eyes taking him in, much like they did… in the rain. Darcy blinked, wondering if she had always looked at him like that, like she, too, regarded him with… deep sentiment.
She reached for him, thought better of it and composed her features. “See that you return it safely. Along with yourself.”
This small concession—the acknowledgment that his safe return held some significance to her—gave Darcy a flicker of hope he scarcely dared nurture. “You have my word. I promise.”
She turned away, her eyes watery, while William babbled happily over her shoulder, too young to understand that his Da would be going on a long journey to claim his birthright and hopefully reclaim the love of his mother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MY DEAREST LOVE
“Mr. Darcy,”Graham appeared at Darcy’s elbow while he stared back at the farmhouse, hoping to catch a glimpse of his wife and son from the nursery window. “The carriage is ready, sir. We should depart soon if we hope to reach the first posting inn before nightfall.”
Darcy nodded, unable to trust his voice to remain steady. As he entered the carriage, he couldn’t help glancing back. Was it his imagination or did the curtain flicker partway? Clutching the precious journal against his heart, he raised a hand, feeling entirely foolish for entertaining the fantasy that she watched his departure.
Graham took the seat opposite him, a configuration that would have been unthinkable mere weeks ago. The traditional barriers between master and steward had been eroded by circumstance and shared purpose, leaving a relationship Darcy could not quite define but found oddly comforting in its directness.
As the carriage pulled away from Bellfield Grange, Darcy found his hand moving to the journal tucked within his coat. A tangible connection to William, to the months he had lost, to the life Elizabeth had built without him.
“She kept a record,” he said aloud, though the observation was directed more to himself than to Graham. “All this time, not knowing if I would ever recover my memory, she kept a record of William’s life for me.”
Graham’s expression grew wistful. “Mrs. Darcy is a remarkable woman. Her devotion to your son—to ensuring he would know his father and his heritage—has never wavered.”
The simple statement carried a weight Graham likely did not intend.Her devotion to your son.The steward’s feelings for Elizabeth were evident to anyone with eyes to see, yet here he was, accompanying Darcy to London rather than remaining at Bellfield where he might have consoled Elizabeth in Darcy’s absence.
“You care for them both,” Darcy observed. “Yet you choose to assist me rather than remain with them.”
“Miss Mary will be a capable steward for the grange,” he replied. “William is your son and heir. His future security depends upon recovering those documents. My personal feelings are irrelevant compared to that necessity.”
The frank acknowledgment of those “personal feelings” might once have provoked Darcy to jealousy or outrage. Now, he found he could only respect the man’s honesty—and his willingness to set aside his own desires for William’s welfare.
“I am in your debt,” Darcy said quietly.
Graham shook his head. “You owe me nothing, sir. My loyalty is to Bellfield and its people—which now includes your son and wife.”
