“Mine,” he said firmly, reaching for the soldiers.
“Yours indeed. Shall you show Mrs. Darcy how they stand?”
Thomas extracted the soldiers with careful fingers—more careful than Elizabeth would have expected from a child his age—and began arranging them on the coverlet. He did not scatter them randomly or crash them together in mock battle, as she might have expected. Instead, he lined them up in precise rows, adjusting each one until they stood at identical intervals, their painted faces all turned the same direction.
It was almost fastidious, as if each soldier were an entry in a ledger, carefully inscribed in its proper column.
“How very orderly,” Elizabeth said, genuinely surprised. “You arrange them like a proper quartermaster, Thomas.”
Darcy’s posture stiffened so slightly she might have missed it had she not been looking at him. His expression remained neutral, but something flickered behind his eyes.
Had she said something wrong? She had meant it as a compliment, but perhaps she had inadvertently criticized. Perhaps little boys were meant to crash their soldiers about, and she had exposed her ignorance of such matters.
“I confess I know nothing of how boys play,” she said lightly, hoping to smooth whatever wrinkle she had created. “I grew up with four sisters, and Lydia’s dolls were always lying about withhalf-removed dresses and tangled hair. Order was not among her virtues.”
Darcy’s shoulders relaxed. “Thomas has always preferred… precision.”
“Then he shall make an excellent estate manager someday.” Elizabeth watched Thomas nudge a soldier a fraction of an inch to the left, correcting some imperfection only he could perceive. “Or perhaps a military commander. Wellington would approve of such attention to detail.”
Thomas, satisfied with his arrangement, sat back to survey his work. Then he selected one soldier—larger than the others, with a splash of gold paint that suggested rank—and held it up for Elizabeth’s inspection.
“Sidney,” he announced.
Elizabeth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sidney.” Thomas waved the soldier emphatically.
“Ah.” Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I see. You have named your general after your snail.”
Thomas nodded solemnly, as though this required no explanation.
“An excellent choice. I imagine Sidney the snail would be most honored by the tribute.” Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, who was watching the exchange with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and resignation. “Though I wonder whether the general shares the snail’s fondness for lettuce?”
“No,” Thomas said, with the authority of one who had considered this question at length. “He eats… redcoats.”
“A cannibal general! How fearsome.” Elizabeth pressed a hand to her heart in mock horror. “I shall take care to stay on his good side.”
Thomas giggled—a rare, delightful sound—and thrust General Sidney toward her. “You hold.”
“I should be honored to hold General Sidney.” Elizabeth accepted the soldier and placed him with the horse in her arms. “I shall guard him with my life until his troops require his command.”
This apparently satisfied Thomas’s requirements, because he returned to his remaining soldiers and began what appeared to be a complex reorganization involving moving the entire regiment three inches to the left for reasons known only to himself.
Elizabeth watched him, something warm and complicated unfurling in her chest. This child—so serious, so precise, so particular—was nothing like his father. Wickham had been all charm and easy warmth, a man who could make every gentleman feel his dearest friend and every lady feel singularly noticed and appreciated.
His son, by contrast, was a brooding creature, requiring patience and a careful rationing of attention. Elizabeth had learned not to coax him when he was out of sorts, but to set a toy within reach and assume an air of studied indifference. She had even perfected the art of an exaggerated yawn, followed by a pointed closing of the eyes and a most unladylike snore.
He likely took after his mother. Lady Amelia must have been a woman of strong character to produce such a child.
“Speaking of Sidney,” she said aloud, “the actual Sidney. I hope he has been well fed in my absence. I should hate for him to waste away while I have been languishing with fever.”
“Hannah has been tending to him,” Darcy assured her. “With rather more dedication than I might have expected. She has named his enclosure ‘Sidney’s Palace’ and decorated it with what I believe are meant to be curtains.”
“Of course she has.” Elizabeth laughed. “Hannah names everything. I expect by month’s end she will have christened every spider in Pemberley and composed a genealogy for each.”
Thomas tugged at Elizabeth’s hand. “Lizba, want Sidney.”
“Ah, so General Sidney must survey his troops.” She relinquished the largest soldier. “Do they meet with his approval?”
