The end of summer bled into a rich, golden autumn. At Pemberley, it was the season of harvest. The wheat fields were shorn to stubble, the orchards heavy with fruit, and the air was crisp with the promise of change. In the house, a different kind of harvest was being gathered—the fruits of love, patience, and resilience.
Alexander was now ten months old, a sturdy, inquisitive toddler whose world was expanding at a dizzying rate. He had taken his first, wobbly, independent steps, tumbling into his father’s waiting arms amidst cheers from his assembled family. He had a small, deliberate vocabulary that consisted of “Mama,” “Dada,” “ba” for ball, and a sound suspiciously like “no,” which he used with devastating effectiveness.
Elizabeth had found her equilibrium. The sense of a shrunken wor
