Page 40 of Mr. Darcy's Bargain Bride
“We lost,” he said quietly, moving to her side with leaden steps. “The Chancellor ruled in Wickham’s favour.”
The words made her knees buckle with the force of their impact. Only Darcy’s steadying hand on her elbow prevented her from collapsing entirely.
“But how?” she gasped. “The evidence of his unfitness, the questions about the certificate’s authenticity—surely those matters carried weight with the court?”
Mr Thornfield cleared his throat diplomatically. “I fear the law in such matters is quite clear, Mrs Darcy. Regardless of character or circumstances, a legitimate father’s rights supersede those of any guardian, however devoted. The Chancellor acknowledged your husband’s admirable care of the child but stated that legal paternity must take precedence over emotional bonds.”
“What of the marriage certificate?” Elizabeth asked desperately. “Our investigators raised serious questions about its validity.”
“Wickham’s barrister presented documentation that satisfied the court’s requirements,” Darcy replied with bitter precision. “Whatever suspicions we may harbour about forgery, we could not provide absolute proof of fraud. In the absence of such evidence, the court accepted the certificate as legitimate.”
Elizabeth felt the world tilt dangerously around her. “And Ambrose? What did they say about his welfare? Surely the Chancellor must have considered what is best for the child?”
“The court ruled that a boy belongs with his natural father, regardless of other considerations,” Mr Thornfield explained with obvious reluctance. “His Lordship expressed confidence that Mr Wickham would rise to meet his paternal responsibilities now that he has been granted proper custody.”
The naive optimism of such a ruling made Elizabeth want to scream with frustration. How could learned men be so blind to Wickham’s true nature? How could they trust a child’s welfare to someone whose only interest lay in causing pain to his enemies?
“When must we…” she began, then found she could not finish the question.
“Ambrose is to be transferred to his father’s custody within forty-eight hours,” Darcy said, his voice hollow with defeat. “We are permitted to gather his belongings and say our farewells, but after that…”
He could not complete the sentence either. The reality of losing their beloved child was too devastating to put into words.
As they walked slowly back to their carriage, Elizabeth felt as though she were moving through a nightmare from which she could not wake. Somewhere in their London lodgings, Ambrose was playing with his toys or perhaps napping peacefully, unaware that his world was about to be shattered once again.
How would they explain to him that the man who had terrified him now held legal authority over his fate? How could they comfort a child while their own hearts were breaking with the knowledge of what they were powerless to prevent?
The future stretched before them dark with anguish, and Elizabeth wondered if she would ever again know happiness without the constant ache of missing the child they had failed to protect.
Chapter Eighteen
“We must gather his things,” Elizabeth’s voice emerged as barely more than a whisper. Yet, the words fell between them like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples of anguish through the silence that had descended over their carriage during the journey back from court.
Darcy said nothing, his jaw set in a rigid line that spoke of emotions held in check through sheer force of will. His hand remained clasped around hers with desperate intensity, as though he could somehow anchor their crumbling world through that simple contact. The familiar streets of London blurred past the windows, but Elizabeth saw none of it. Her vision was clouded by tears she refused to let fall until they were safely within the privacy of their own walls.
The townhouse that had seemed so grand upon their arrival now felt like a mausoleum as they climbed the front steps. The townhouse that had seemed so grand upon their arrival now felt like a mausoleum as they climbed the front steps. Tobias opened the door with his usual dignity, his experienced eyes immediately reading the defeat written across their faces.
“Sir, madam,” he said with careful formality, though Elizabeth caught the flash of concern that flickered across his features before professional composure reasserted itself.
“The court has ruled against us, Tobias,” Darcy said, removing his hat with movements that seemed to require tremendous effort. “Ambrose is to be transferred to his father’s custody within two days.”
The butler’s composure faltered almost imperceptibly—a slight tightening around his eyes, the briefest pause in his practised movements. “I am deeply sorry to hear that, sir. The entire household has been hoping for better news.”
They stood in the entrance hall for a moment, the weight of their loss pressing down upon them like a physical burden. Tobias waited with patient sympathy, understanding that such devastating news required time to fully comprehend.
“Sir,” he said finally, his voice gentler than usual, “when you are ready… would you prefer that I have the staff assist with gathering Master Ambrose’s belongings? His…clothes and personal effects will need to be properly packed for the journey.”
The careful delicacy with which he phrased the question nearly undid what remained of Elizabeth’s composure. Even Tobias, she realised, could not bring himself to speak plainly of reducing a child’s entire life—all his treasured possessions and familiar comforts—to luggage suitable for transport to an uncertain future.
“Yes,” Darcy managed, his voice hoarse. “And please ask Mrs Loxley to assist Mrs Darcy with the packing.”
Elizabeth shook her head with sudden vehemence, rejecting the idea of the London housekeeper helping her out. “No. I shall do it myself. He… he should have familiar hands touching his things one last time.”
The walk to Ambrose’s room felt endless, each step a torment that brought them closer to the moment when they would have to explain the inexplicable to an innocent child. The room still bore traces of the morning’s activities—toy soldiers arranged in battle formation on the carpet, a half-finished drawing of Pemberley’s peacocks on his small desk, a belovedbook of fairy tales left open to a story about brave knights and happy endings.
Elizabeth sank onto the narrow bed, pressing her face into the pillow that still held the faint scent of lavender water and childhood dreams. The tears she had been holding back finally broke free, great wracking sobs that seemed to tear something vital from her chest.
“How do we explain this to him?” she gasped between tears. “How do we make him understand that the law values blood over love, that strangers in wigs can decree his fate without ever knowing his heart?”
