Left to Follow: Part I
Prologue
Her parents welcomed her home with open, if startled, arms. Her father — who had grown to like her husband in spite of himself — instantly asked, "I hope Mr Darcy is well?"
"Very well," she said dully. Her father's eyebrows raised; he could hardly believe the pale, shrinking creature before him was his daughter. Yet she had fled Pemberley, which she had loved from the first time she had seen it, fled her husband — who by all accounts she was fond of — and come here, begging refuge. The sight of his proud daughter begging had nearly reduced him to tears, not to mention the pale, eerily quiet bundle in her arms. She had stolen the heir to Pemberley into the bargain; her son as well as Darcy's, but there were few who would look at it that way. But she was his daughter, and he gladly welcomed her back into their home.
"Why have you come, child?" She had been the baby of the family, and he had never stopped thinking of her as his baby; perhaps because she had somehow always been the one at the centre of the family, the one who held everything together, because she was one whom everyone loved. He felt his heart breaking as he looked at her, eyes blank and face ashen. Her child could not be more than six weeks old, and he knew that parenthood was already such a bittersweet experience for her; she fiercely loved her son, but he had been born so early, and he was so frail. Even the most hopeful did not expect him to live more than a few years, and she herself had nearly died in the birth.
"I am sorry, papa," she said, dark eyes wide and dry. She had always been his favourite, although he knew enough never to intimate such a thing to his wife or indeed any of his children. "I did not know — it was so awful — I —" she stared down at her hands. "I think I shall be able to forgive him this, and go back; just not now. After everything that had happened; we had a dreadful quarrel before it happened, and I did not know he was still —" She looked up at him desperately. "You do not blame me?"
"Oh, no," he assured her instantly, briefly imagining the tortures he would like to subject his son-in-law to — although it briefly crossed his mind as peculiar that it should be Darcy, easily his favourite among his sons-in-law (although he had no objections to his eldest child's husband, except that he was rather spineless), who had committed this all too common transgression. Even Catherine's stodgy husband had seemed more likely. Darcy was proud, and honourable, and even kind; but he supposed all men could make mistakes. Suddenly, he intensely wished that he had more strenuously opposed the marriage; he had really made no more than a token objection, after her reassurances that she truly wished it. And it was by all accounts an excellent match.
His wife fussed over her, and their youngest grandson, had her rooms made ready, and called for a nurse. Their daughter had had the foresight, despite her distress, to bring a wet-nurse with her (a grim-faced martinent reminiscent of his fearsome childhood governess), and handed the now quietly crying child over to her. "I am sorry, Sarah, to bring you into this."
"It's fine, madam," Sarah said sternly, taking the child out of his daughter's arms. She looked decidedly reluctant to be parted from him, and Sarah added, "We must take care of the young master, ma'am. Wouldn't do to have him catching something, now would it?"
She smiled wanly. "No, of course not. You will take proper care of him?"
"Of course, ma'am." Sarah had been her maid as a young girl, and had gone to Derbyshire with her upon her marriage. There was no doubting her devotion, naturally, but he was still rather uneasy until she left the room.
"Have you heard from Catherine, papa?"
He smiled. "Yes, she has settled into married life very comfortably; more comfortably than her husband, I daresay. They have a little baby, not much older than your own." He frowned. "To think I do not know the name of my own grandson. What did you call him?"
"I thought to name him after you, papa," she said, with a sweet smile, "and Mr Darcy did not protest."
"Edward?" he asked thoughtfully. "My dear, I am more pleased, and flattered, than I can say."
She laughed, for the first time since her arrival an hour earlier. "No, not Edward," said Anne; "his name is Fitzwilliam."