Page 46 of Mr. Darcy's Bargain Bride
A thousand terrible possibilities flooded her mind. Had Wickham abandoned the child entirely? Had something dreadful occurred that necessitated such desperate action? Yet beneath her confusion and alarm ran a current of overwhelming relief. Whatever had transpired, their beloved boy was here, within these walls, safe from whatever horrors had driven Mrs Younge to such extraordinary measures.
“She would say only that the situation in Yorkshire had become intolerable, madam, and that she could no longer stand by whilst the child suffered. She awaits you in the entrance hall with Master Ambrose.”
Elizabeth’s legs trembled as she rose from their picnic blanket, her entire body shaking with the force of emotions she could barely contain. Joy warred with terror as she contemplated what intolerable might mean for a young child. If Mrs Younge—who had once been complicit in Wickham’s schemes—had been moved to intervene, how desperate must Ambrose’s circumstances have become?
“Come,” Darcy said urgently, his strong hand steadying her as they hurried toward the house. “Let us discover what has transpired to bring our son home to us.”
Our son. The words sang through her heart even as her mind raced with questions. Whatever the explanation, whatever the cost, Ambrose was here—and she would move heaven and earth before allowing him to be taken from them again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Elizabeth’s hands trembled as they hurried through Pemberley’s corridors towards the entrance hall, her mind spinning with equal measures of hope and dread. Behind them, their abandoned picnic remained scattered across the rose garden like remnants of a more innocent time, when their greatest concern had been sharing tender confessions beneath summer roses.
“Mama! Papa!” The beloved voice reached them before they rounded the final corner, and Elizabeth’s heart soared even as it clenched with protective fury. There, in the marble expanse of the entrance hall, stood their son—thinner than she remembered, his clothes travel-stained and ill-fitting, but alive and reaching towards them with desperate longing.
She dropped to her knees without thought for dignity, catching Ambrose as he flung himself into her arms with the force of a child who had feared never to see his parents again. The weight of him, so much lighter than when she last held him, sent alarm racing through her maternal instincts even as joy flooded her chest.
“My darling boy,” she whispered against his hair, her hands roaming over his small frame to catalogue each change, each sign of neglect. His once-bright eyes held shadows that had not been there before, whilst his face bore the pinched look of a child who had known too much uncertainty. “My sweet, precious boy. You’re home now. You’re safe.”
Darcy knelt beside them, his large hands gentle as they framed Ambrose’s face. “Welcome home, son,” he said quietly,though Elizabeth caught the tremor in his voice that spoke of emotions barely held in check.
Mrs Younge stood nearby, her usual composure entirely shattered. The woman who had once seemed so coldly calculating now appeared haggard with exhaustion and what looked remarkably like pure remorse. Her travelling dress was wrinkled beyond repair, her hair escaping its pins, and her eyes carried the haunted look of someone who had witnessed things that would not easily be forgotten.
“Mrs Younge,” Elizabeth managed, though she could not bring herself to release Ambrose even long enough for proper courtesies. “We are grateful beyond words that you have brought him back to us. But I confess we do not understand the circumstances that led to…”
“I could bear it no longer,” the older woman interrupted, her voice cracking with emotion. “What I witnessed… what that man put this innocent child through… I may have made grievous errors in judgement before, but I could not stand by and watch such cruelty continue.”
She began to pace the entrance hall with agitated steps, her words tumbling out in a torrent of guilt and indignation. “Mr Wickham proved entirely unfit for the responsibilities of fatherhood from the very first day. The novelty of having defeated you in court sustained his interest for perhaps a week, but once that satisfaction faded, he saw Ambrose only as an inconvenience.”
Elizabeth’s arms tightened protectively around their son, who seemed content to remain pressed against her shoulder as though afraid she might disappear if he loosened his grip. “What manner of neglect?” she asked, though she dreaded the answer.
“He was left for hours—sometimes entire days—in the care of unsuitable companions whilst Mr Wickham pursued his own entertainments in the local taverns.” Mrs Younge’s voice grew increasingly bitter as she continued her account. “The landlady’s daughter, barely fourteen herself and more interested in flirtation than childcare. A one-armed veteran whose fondness for gin rendered him incapable of proper supervision. Anyone who would accept a few coins to watch the boy whilst his supposed father indulged his appetites elsewhere.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened with barely suppressed fury. “And his physical welfare?”
“Deplorable. I saw him myself on multiple occasions wearing the same torn clothing for days on end, his face streaked with dirt that no one had bothered to wash. He was fed irregularly—sometimes not at all if his minders forgot or grew distracted by their own concerns.”
Elizabeth felt tears begin to stream down her face as she imagined their beloved child enduring such neglect. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered to Ambrose, whose arms had wound around her neck with desperate intensity. “I am so very sorry we could not prevent this.”
“But worse than the physical neglect was the emotional cruelty,” Mrs Younge continued, her voice breaking entirely. “I heard him crying for you both on countless occasions—great, heartbroken sobs that would have moved a stone to pity. When he dared ask Mr Wickham when he might see his mama and papa again, he was told harshly that you no longer wanted him, that you had given him away because he was too much trouble.”
“No!” The word exploded from Elizabeth with volcanic force. “How dare he tell such lies to a child who had done nothing but love and trust the adults in his care!”
Ambrose pulled back slightly to look into her face, his dark eyes swimming with confusion and hurt. “Is it true, Mama? Did you give me away because I was bad?”
“Never,” she said fiercely, framing his small face with trembling hands. “We have thought of you every single day since you were taken from us. We have moved heaven and earth trying to find a way to bring you home. You are not bad, my dear. You are the most precious thing in our lives.”
“We love you more than words can express,” Darcy added, his own voice rough with barely controlled emotion. “Nothing will ever change that, no matter what anyone may tell you.”
Mrs Younge wiped her eyes with a handkerchief that had seen better days. “I remained in Yorkshire, telling myself I was keeping watch over the situation, but in truth I was paralysed by guilt over my role in bringing this catastrophe about. When I could no longer ignore the evidence of my own eyes—when I saw this sweet child growing thinner and more withdrawn each day—I knew I had to act.”
“How did you manage to bring him away?” Elizabeth asked, though she was not certain she wished to know the details of what must have been a desperate undertaking.
“Mr Wickham had departed for another of his drinking sessions, leaving Ambrose with a tavern maid who was more interested in entertaining her young man than minding a child. I simply took him. Told the girl I had been sent to fetch him for a walk, gathered his few belongings, and hired a post-chaise for the journey south.”
“You abducted him,” Darcy said with something approaching admiration in his tone.
“I rescued him,” Mrs Younge corrected. “From a situation that was slowly destroying his spirit and endangering his health.Whatever legal consequences I may face, I regret nothing except that I waited so long to act.”
