His thoughts drifted back. He could remember it with perfect clarity, as if it had happened yesterday. At two-and-twenty, he had been full of confidence and unburdened, still warmed by the arrogance of youth. For the first time, his father had given him leave to spend a full season in Town, unencumbered by obligations or responsibilities. His father had smiled, teasing that he ought to enjoy himself whilst he could, because estate management would consume him soon enough—but not for many years, if Mr Darcy senior had anything to say about it. They had dined together the night before his departure, just the two of them in the study with brandy and warmth between them. It had been a rare, treasured moment between father and son. They had laughed together, made plans, and shared a genuine embrace.
Georgiana had remained behind at Pemberley. She was just shy of ten at the time, still more child than young lady. As Darcy packed, she had clutched his arm, her wide eyes pleading with him to come back in time for her birthday. He had reassured her, saying August was not so far offand promising to return for the celebration with her and their father. That promise, like so many others since then, had only been partially fulfilled.
The season in London had been lively. Darcy had made the usual rounds—Almack’s, White’s, dinners with peers and political men. He had even begun to form a real attachment to a young lady of good family and agreeable manners, something he had not anticipated. For the first time, marriage did not seem like a mere obligation, but a possibility he could welcome.
Then, in early June, the express arrived. The heavy envelope bore a black border and his father’s seal pressed into dark wax. The paper trembled in his hands as he broke the seal, and when his eyes took in the words written in the careful, familiar hand of Mrs Reynolds, his knees gave way and he collapsed into the nearest chair.
His father was dead.Thrown from a horse… Killed instantly…The housekeeper had spared no detail but delivered them with utmost restraint. The local physician had said his neck broke instantly—he had not suffered.
Darcy barely remembered shouting for his horse. He remembered even less of the frantic hours that followed. He had left London with only the clothes on his back and a satchel slung across his shoulders. Even with planned mount changes along the post road, he had encountered delays—a flooded stream, a lame post horse, a summer storm rolling down from the Dales. Two days passed before he arrived home, exhausted and covered in road dust.
Mrs Reynolds met him at the steps. Her face was composed, but her eyes betrayed the effort it took to maintain that calm. She led him to the parlour, where his father’s body had been laid out. Mr Darcy had already been dressed, prepared for the funeral. His face bore no signs of pain, only a stillness that was too foreign to belong to the man Darcy had known—commanding, clever, warm in his own distant way.
Darcy stood over the still form and asked, without turning, where Georgiana was. Mrs Reynolds replied softly that she had not left her room and had scarcely eaten or spoken since the accident. Her maid stayed at her side constantly.
When he climbed the stairs and entered her chamber, he found Georgiana curled up on her bed like a wounded animal, her sobs muffled by her arms. She did not respond at first to his presence, but when he gently touched her shoulder, she turned and threw herself into his arms, wailing his name. He gathered her close and let her cry into his neck. She asked what they would do now, voice quivering with fear and loss.
Darcy settled himself on the edge of the bed, holding her close and speaking softly. The funeral would take place, he told her quietly. Their father would be interred in the family plot. They would move forwards with their mourning together. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her gown.
Mildred, one of the upstairs maids, had dyed two of her dresses already, she reported. She ran a hand down the fabric of her skirt, and Darcy recognised it. It had once been a lovely shade of pink, trimmed with cheerful blue ribbon. Now it was black, the colour of finality. Even her doll had been dressed in mourning.
So, this was grief,he thought—a thousand small deaths hiding in the folds of everyday things.
“I know, dearest,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Together, we will be strong.”
Darcy’s father had been buried with little ceremony. His uncle, Lord Matlock, remained in Town. He could not be spared until the end of the Parliament session. His wife remained with him, as did their heir, Viscount Bramley. Lieutenant Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, their second son, alone could be spared.
“I am sorry, Darcy.” Richard’s solid presence brought comfort to Georgiana and her brother. He remained with them as they arranged everything. The Darcy solicitors arrived from London three days after the interment with a list of people to be notified for the reading of the will.
Less than two weeks later, those named were assembled. Amongst them was Richard. Darcy’s cousin expressed surprise, stating he had no notion that his uncle would bequeath him anything. Another attendee was George Wickham, the son of Pemberley’s current steward and Darcy’s former friend. He sauntered into the room with a smug grin on his face.
Also gathered were various servants, all set to be pensioned off, and a few of George Darcy’s closest friends. Georgiana, too, was there, but she kept her face buried in her brother’s side, sitting quietly and as unobtrusively as possible.
The solicitors, Mr Smith and Mr Smithson, stood at the front of the room. A small table sat before them, whereon the will had been spread. “If I may have your attention, please,” Mr Smith, the senior partner, said. “We are gathered here in sorrow to read the last will and testament of Mr George Darcy. Mr Darcy was not only my employer, but a friend of many years.” Mr Smith adjusted his spectacles before picking up the stack of papers that lay on the table before him. Holding them in front of his face, he read aloud.
The solicitor folded the parchment once and looked up. “By the last will and testament of George Darcy, Esquire, of Pemberley, dated the fifteenth of February, eighteen-hundred and six, the entirety of the Darcy estates—Pemberley, its appurtenances, all subsidiary holdings, investments, and family interests—are devised to his son, Fitzwilliam Darcy, whom he names sole executor and residuary legatee. The family jewels traditionally reserved for the mistress of Pemberley are likewise entrusted to him, to be held for the use of his future wife.” Darcy inclined his head, his expressiongrave. “To Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam,” the solicitor continued, “the freehold estate of Linden Grange in Hertfordshire is granted outright, with the expectation—expressed, though not binding—that he may find it sufficient inducement to retire from service.”
He paused only briefly before proceeding. “To Miss Georgiana Darcy, the personal jewels of her late mother and a dowry of thirty thousand pounds are secured, the principal to remain invested until her marriage. Further, Mr. Darcy appoints the guardianship of his daughter jointly to her brother, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and his nephew, Lieutenant-Colonel Fitzwilliam, trusting to their combined judgment and affection for her welfare.” Richard let out a slow breath at that, while Darcy’s jaw tightened in quiet resolve. “Additional bequests are made to Mr. Wickham senior, his son George Wickham—conditional upon his taking holy orders within four years—and to the household staff, particulars to be read privately. ‘I depart this life,’” the solicitor read at last, “‘in confidence that those I love will act with honour, restraint, and mutual regard.’” He set the papers aside. “Thus concludes the will.”
At this point, the voice of the solicitor faded into the hush of the Pemberley study. The great inheritance had been spoken for, names called and legacies handed down. Outside, the wind stirred the tall oaks in the park, and within, there lingered only the weight of absence and the turning of one generation to the next.
“An estate!” Richard exclaimed as the others drifted from the room, including Mr David Wickham and the servants. Mrs Reynolds collected Georgiana, taking her upstairs for tea. Soon, only a few remained. “I can hardly fathom it. My own father declared he would not leave one of his estates to me—and he has at least two that are notconnected to the earldom.”
“Your father has long held the belief that material wealth belongs to the firstborn.” Darcy clapped his cousin on his back. “I am happy for you.” His words were trimmed with sorrow. The cousins exchanged a look of understanding. Pleasing as the news was, it was tinged forever with the death of the one who had given Richard such a gift.
“It was to be mine!” Wickham’s voice cracked through the calm like a knife.
Darcy bristled. He had not realised the reprobate had remained. He turned to his former friend with a frown. “And what, pray tell, put such a ridiculous notion into your head? Richard is my cousin. He shares my blood. Why would my father settle an estate worth three thousand a year on his godson?”
“Because Iamhis godson!” Wickham came forwards. “I was his particular favourite—you know it! Did you conspire against me, Darcy? Or was it you, Richard?” Wickham shook with rage, his fury barely contained.
“Sir.” Mr Smithson stepped forwards. “Mr Darcy’s will was updated six months ago. I can assure you, neither of these gentlemen influenced those decisions. In fact, Mr Darcy asked that I give you this letter if any…unsavoury behaviour occurred at the reading of his will. It will explain everything.” Mr Smithson handed a sealed letter to Wickham, who took it.
“I shall read this in privacy,” he growled, stalking from the room. The door swung closed behind him.
“There is another letter for you, Mr Darcy.” The solicitor handed a similar envelope to his new employer. “As for you, sir.” He nodded to Richard. “I was instructed to tell you that your uncle loves—loved—you as a son and did not wish to see you die in battle. As the war on the continent has grown worse, his concern for your life grew. Mr George Darcy intended to inform you about the estate when you reached your twenty-fifth birthday.”
“Next month.” Richard sighed. “Thank you, Uncle George.”
