The autumn following Alexander’s third birthday was a season of particular beauty and introspection at Pemberley. The vibrant greens of summer had exploded into a final, glorious conflagration of red, orange, and gold. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and ripe apples, and the mornings were jewelled with intricate webs of dew.
Alexander was now a little boy, his baby fat giving way to the leaner lines of childhood. His conversations were more complex, his questions more probing. “Why do the leaves fall?” “Where do the birds go in winter?” “Will I be the master of Pemberley when you are old, Papa?”
The question, asked with utter innocence over breakfast, gave both Elizabeth and Darcy pause. The weight of the future, of the name ‘Darcy’ and all it entailed, was a concept t
