Nora. Though the girl was young and a maiden, her mother was the midwife. The girl had become a friend in the few short months that Amelia had lived in Lambton, the bond strengthened by their shared faith that was more freely expressed in the northern parts of the country.
A warm towel was pressed to her forehead. Someone whispered a prayer in Latin, just loud enough for her to hear.Ave Maria, gratia plena…
Her tears came without sound.
Faith. Home. Safety.
She cried out once more—and then a flood, a gasp, a high-pitched wail.
"A boy!" the midwife declared. "A strong one."
The child was placed on her chest—hot, slick, trembling with life.
Amelia clutched him close, sobbing now. “John,” she gasped out.For the saints: the Baptizer and the Beloved,she thought silently.
Nora squeezed her hand and whispered, “Well done.”
Amelia did not speak.
She simply crossed herself with shaking fingers and pressed her lips to her son’s forehead.
“Welcome home, my boy,” she murmured.
And then, as the tears spilled onto his head, she voiced aloud the words her mother had once whispered in secret:
Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto.
Chapter 5: 1779-1788
September 1779 — Lambton
It was the smell that struck George Darcy first.
Polished wood floors, warmed candle wax, and a faint hint of lemon oil—the scent of a room that had seen more dancing shoes than meaningful conversations. George adjustedthe fall of his coat sleeve and stepped forward into the noise and light of the Lambton assembly room.
Conversation hummed like a hive. Shoes scuffed against the floor in gentle syncopation. A string quartet sawed valiantly through a country dance at the far end of the room, and the din of local merriment rose in waves, broken only by the occasional shriek of laughter or the squeal of a chair dragging too quickly across polished oak.
He stood at the top of the short steps beside his father, surveying the room like a general inspecting a battlefield.
He had not wanted to come.
He had said as much that morning, when his father casually mentioned that he would be expected to attend the local assembly that evening. George had protested—gently, but with as much force as he dared. He was not ready. He had only just returned from the continent. His coat had not yet come back from the tailor. He had not danced in years. He had forgotten names. He had forgotten faces. He had no wish to be inspected like cattle and asked a dozen times if he would settle down now that he was five-and-twenty.
His father had smiled—one of those smiles that was both affectionate and immovable—and said only, “I suppose then you will have to practice pretending to enjoy yourself. It is a skill every man of property must master eventually.”
And so here he stood. Polished boots. Crisp cravat. The heir to Pemberley.
And just self-conscious enough to wish he were anywhere else.
“Darcy, my dear fellow!”
The master of ceremonies, a stout man with a flushed face and exuberant enthusiasm, greeted them both with a bow that nearly toppled him forward.
“Mr. Darcy. Mr. George.” He gestured toward the room with the air of a man presenting a particularly well-furnished inn. “The turnout this evening is excellent. The expectation of your presence has drawn the best company.”
George doubted that. But he bowed respectfully and kept his mouth shut.
“Come, come,” the man added. “Allow me to make a few introductions.”
