Page 39 of Mr. Darcy's Bargain Bride
“No, merely restless.” She moved toward the fireplace, drawn by its comforting warmth. “I confess my dreams have been rather troubled of late.”
He rose immediately, his concern evident. “Come, sit by the fire. You look quite pale.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undid her carefully maintained composure. She sank gratefully into the chair he indicated, pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as tremors that had nothing to do with cold coursed through her frame.
“Would you care to speak of what troubles your rest?” he asked gently, settling in the chair opposite hers. “Sometimes sharing such burdens lessens their power over us.”
“I dreamed that we lost him,” she whispered, the words scraping raw in her throat. “That the court ruled against us and I had to watch Wickham take him away whilst I could do nothing to stop it.”
The anguish in her admission seemed to break something loose within him. Without hesitation, he moved to kneel beside her chair, taking her trembling hands in his steady ones.
“Listen to me,” he said with quiet intensity. “Whatever the outcome is, we shall face it together. I will not allow that man to harm Ambrose, no matter what any court may decree.”
“But if the law—”
“The law is not infallible, nor is it the final arbiter of what is right. I have resources, connections, and alternatives that Wickham cannot imagine. We will keep trying, no matter what the judgement is.”
The fierce protectiveness in his declaration comforted her greatly. His words revealed the depth of his commitment to keeping their family intact, yet they also underscored how precarious their situation had become.
His unwavering devotion to their small family finally allowed her taut nerves to begin relaxing. As they sat together before the dying embers, she felt her eyelids growing heavy despite her earlier distress. The horror of her nightmare gradually faded, replaced by the comforting reality of Darcy’s presence beside her.
She dozed fitfully in her chair until gentle hands lifted her with careful strength. Half-conscious, she nestled against his shoulder as he carried her back to her chamber, feeling safer in his arms than she had since their arrival in London.
***
Five days later
“Mrs Darcy, I must regrettably inform you that ladies are not permitted within the courtroom during proceedings,” Mr Thornfield explained with apologetic firmness as they stood before the imposing entrance to the Court of Chancery. The barrister’s weathered face carried the gravity of a man who had argued countless cases within these ancient walls, yet Elizabeth detected sympathy in his manner.
Her stomach clenched with disappointment, though she had half-expected such a restriction. “I see. Then I shall wait here whilst you and my husband present our case.”
“The proceedings may extend for several hours, madam. Perhaps you might prefer to return to your lodgings and await word there?”
“Absolutely not,” Elizabeth replied with swift determination. “I could not bear to sit idle whilst Ambrose’s future hangs in the balance. I shall remain here, however long it may take.”
Darcy’s hand settled briefly on her shoulder, his touch conveying both understanding and regret at having to leave her behind during such a crucial moment. “Are you quite certain, dear? Mr Thornfield speaks truly—the proceedings could prove lengthy and tedious.”
“I am certain. Go, both of you, and fight for our son with everything you possess.”
As the heavy oak doors closed behind the two men, Elizabeth was left alone in the echoing corridor with nothing but her fears for company. The ancient building seemed to press down upon her with its weight of centuries, its stone walls having witnessed countless family tragedies played out in the name of justice.
She began to pace the worn marble floors, her footsteps creating a rhythmic counterpoint to the distant sounds of legal proceedings filtering through various doorways. Occasionally, other petitioners or their representatives hurried past on their own urgent business, but none spared attention for the anxiously waiting woman whose entire world might be forever altered by the decision being rendered within that forbidding chamber.
The morning crawled by with agonising slowness. Elizabeth’s imagination conjured increasingly dire scenarios as the hours stretched endlessly before her. Was Wickham’s forgedcertificate proving more convincing than they had hoped? Had their barrister failed to present their evidence effectively? Were the Chancellor and his advisors even now concluding that a child belonged with his supposed biological father regardless of the circumstances?
She tried to distract herself by observing the architectural details of the building—the elaborate carved mouldings, the portraits of stern-faced judges from bygone eras, the Latin inscriptions whose meanings she could only partially decipher. Yet nothing could truly divert her attention from the knowledge that somewhere beyond those closed doors, strangers were deciding whether she would be allowed to keep the child who had become as precious to her as her own life.
When the courthouse clock struck noon, Elizabeth felt as though she had been waiting for days rather than mere hours. Her hands trembled as she smoothed her skirts for perhaps the hundredth time, whilst her mind churned with prayers and pleas that she dared not voice aloud.
The sound of doors opening made her heart leap with anticipation, but it proved to be only another case concluding, with parties she did not recognise emerging in various states of satisfaction or despair. She resumed her pacing with renewed anxiety, wondering how much longer she could endure such suspense.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she heard the familiar deep tones of her husband’s voice echoing from within the chamber where their fate was being decided. The words were indistinct, but something in his tone made her stomach clench with foreboding. When silence fell once more, she pressed closer to the door, straining to catch any hint of what verdict might be forthcoming.
The scraping of chairs and rustling of papers suggested proceedings were concluding at last. Elizabeth stepped back from the door, her heart hammering against her ribs as she awaited whatever news would emerge from those deliberations.
When the doors finally opened, Darcy appeared first, followed closely by Mr Thornfield whose expression told her everything she needed to know before a single word was spoken. Her husband’s face was drawn with defeat, his usual composure cracked to reveal the devastation beneath.
“Fitzwilliam?” she whispered, though she already knew the answer from his stricken expression.
